AGN -Chapter 166 A Good Tongue

After Qin Huai finished the crab roe shengmai, he realized he might have underestimated this dim sum.

He silently ate two of the three crab roe shengmai he had taken, leaving the last one for Huang Anyao, who was running around asking people for help, and then said:

“Master Zheng, could you demonstrate it once more for me?”

“No problem!” Zheng Da was more than willing.

He wasn’t very good at explaining things to begin with. His outstanding technical skills combined with a lack of verbal expression made his already seemingly unremarkable production process appear even more ordinary. Qin Huai’s awareness—watching without asking questions—was something Zheng Da welcomed greatly. He immediately prepared the ingredients and began the demonstration.

Just like before, he peeled the live shrimp, removed the meat, and chopped it finely.

He extracted the crab meat.

Then he added Shaoxing wine, salt, and other seasonings, mixing everything evenly.

While Zheng Da was mixing the filling, Qin Huai asked:

“Master Zheng, how do you control the level of seasoning for this filling?”

Qin Huai knew Zheng Da would likely struggle to explain, because when he worked at the Qin family breakfast shop making pastries, Qin Congwen had asked him the same question—and he hadn’t been able to explain it either.

Qin Huai understood that seasoning fillings relied heavily on feeling. In traditional Chinese recipes, the amounts of seasonings are usually described vaguely—“a small spoon,” “a pinch,” “appropriate amount”—unlike modern online recipes that can specify down to the gram. These vague measures are essentially intuition.

In ordinary households, if a child suddenly decided to learn cooking and asked their parents how much salt to add to braised pork, the parents would likely say “half a small spoon.”

As for whether that means one-third of a spoon, one-quarter, or some precise measurement—it depends on personal judgment.

Cooking flavor is something you refine through trial and error.

Some people lack talent in this area and may need many attempts to grasp what “a pinch” really means. Others are naturally sensitive—after cooking once and tasting with their tongue, they can roughly tell whether a seasoning is too much or too little, and adjust next time. Over time, they develop their own stable flavor profile.

Teachers like Huang Shengli, who can clearly explain, analyze in detail, and pinpoint issues precisely, are actually rare.

Truly renowned masters are few these days.

Of course, teachers like Zheng Da—who couldn’t explain things at all—were even rarer.

Most normal masters may not explain things perfectly, but they can still convey something.

Previously, Qin Huai had said he actually understood Zheng Da’s teaching style, especially phrases like “you can feel it, right?”

He didn’t know whether a third party could feel it—but he truly could.

Zheng Da’s answer was exactly as Qin Huai expected.

“This… well… actually this is about… how to control the seasoning… seasoning is more like… let me put it this way… actually…”

It was clear Zheng Da wanted to give precise verbal guidance, but his ability was limited—this wasn’t his strong suit.

After hesitating for a long while, Zheng Da finally chose the method he was most comfortable with.

“You have to find the feeling.”

“When you first start, it’s normal not to get it right. This kind of fine seasoning can’t really be taught. You can only roughly understand a standard range. Once you do it yourself, steam the shengmai and taste it, then you’ll understand where the problems are.”

“Generally speaking, the simpler the ingredients and the fewer the seasonings, the harder it is to get the flavor right. If even one seasoning is slightly off, it will affect the final taste. At that point, the chef needs a very sensitive tongue.”

After giving his standard answer, Zheng Da still added some useful insights. Encouraged by his own words, he continued enthusiastically without waiting for Qin Huai’s response:

“Ah, actually Xiao Qin, you’ve missed out a bit.”

“You asked me earlier how my master taught me and my senior brother. I only mentioned part of it before. For a chef, the most important thing isn’t strength or even innate understanding—it’s the tongue.”

“If strength isn’t enough, you can train it. If understanding is lacking, you can make up for it through repetition. Understanding is hard to explain—fools can suddenly have an epiphany, and geniuses can hit inexplicable bottlenecks. But the tongue is truly crucial. Without a sensitive tasting ability, it’s very hard for a chef to improve further.”

“Don’t be fooled by how clumsy I am when explaining things. Sometimes it’s not that I can’t explain—it’s just that these things are inherently hard to explain.”

“Many things aren’t meant to be described—they’re meant to be tasted.”

“The reason my master accepted me and my senior brother as disciples was because we both had good tongues. You wouldn’t believe how he screened us. Ten plates of poached shrimp—one of them wasn’t actually plain, but had a tiny seasoning that ordinary people couldn’t detect.”

“We ate through them one by one, drinking water in between, and had to identify which one had the added seasoning to pass.”

“The second round involved dipping sauces for poached shrimp. Out of ten sauces, one had a slightly different formula from the other nine. Each could only be tasted twice. Those who identified it correctly would advance.”

“That was the screening threshold. You can’t imagine how intense it was. If it were today and a similar cooking competition were held, the first round would be tasting—those with poor tongues would be eliminated immediately. Then come knife skills, other fundamentals, and finally the overall winner would be decided. It would be thrilling!”

Zheng Da spoke excitedly, his topic drifting further off course, but Qin Huai listened with great interest.

“So what’s the standard for a good tongue?” Qin Huai asked curiously.

“There’s no standard,” Zheng Da replied. “A good tongue is simply a good tongue. Give him a dish—without any explanation, he can figure it out himself.”

“Nowadays there are more seasonings available. Decades ago, some people would intentionally hide secret recipes by grinding seasonings together. But that only works against average competitors. A skilled chef can identify the ingredients with a single taste, and after a few tries can even estimate the proportions quite accurately.”

“I remember my master once told us: the true secret isn’t in ingredient combinations—it’s in technique. That’s the real skill that others can’t steal.”

“So how is my tongue?” Qin Huai asked.

“Nothing to doubt about,” Zheng Da said bluntly.

“You definitely have a good tongue.”

…Is that so?

Qin Huai still had some doubts. According to the game system’s rating, his tasting ability was at an advanced level.

He knew advanced was already quite good—sufficient for most pastries, including some difficult ones—but it wasn’t the highest level.

Above advanced was master level, which required a full million experience points to upgrade. If further upgrades were allowed beyond that, it meant there were even higher levels.

By that logic, advanced didn’t seem all that advanced.

Seeing Qin Huai’s skepticism, Zheng Da smiled but said nothing.

Although Zheng Da didn’t interact with Qin Huai much, he believed he understood him fairly well and fully supported Huang Shengli’s idea of letting Qin Huai see the broader world—and letting the world see Qin Huai.

In Zheng Da’s view, Qin Huai, as a genius, was oddly lacking in self-awareness.

Zheng Da himself had grown up as a very self-aware genius. He had exceptional culinary talent and also performed well in business. Precisely because he knew he was a genius, he had pride. When his skills weren’t recognized at a state-run restaurant—where Huang Shengli was made head chef instead of him—he left in frustration to start his own business.

A normal genius would at least be used to being the center of attention and far ahead of peers.

Qin Huai was the opposite.

Despite being a genius—one of the rarest kinds—despite always being outstanding and admired, he seemed to lack self-awareness.

Some children are naturally sensitive and insecure, always expecting the worst due to their environment. Even with ability, they feel inadequate and hesitate before starting anything.

But Qin Huai wasn’t like that.

Huang Shengli didn’t understand it—but Zheng Da somewhat did.

He had once been like that himself. When he first worked at the state-run restaurant, he realized that no matter how much better he was than his peers, he could never reach his master’s level.

Back then, he felt panic, unease, anxiety, self-doubt—feeling ordinary despite his talent.

Zheng Da felt Qin Huai’s situation was different. Qin Huai always believed he was quite capable, but then encountered an insurmountable obstacle and struggled to accept it, leading to a temporary collapse in confidence.

Compared to Zheng Da’s past, Qin Huai’s mental state was actually much better. It was as if Qin Huai had already encountered a mountain he couldn’t climb before even realizing he was a genius. Over the years, unable to overcome it, he had grown accustomed to that barrier, forming an inaccurate perception of himself.

Zheng Da really wanted to ask Qin Huai: do you secretly have a master behind my back?

Who is it? Tell me his name—I’ll go challenge him myself. How did he teach you? This isn’t how you train a disciple! Isn’t that misleading students?

Don’t you know how to teach? If not, step aside—I’ll do it. I know how!

While letting his thoughts wander off-topic, Zheng Da continued making crab roe shengmai.

Meanwhile, Qin Huai ate the shengmai he had saved for Huang Anyao.

He was a bit hungry.

Qin Huai felt that observing the process while tasting the results was helpful for learning.

Besides, Huang Anyao, who had been constantly messaging to ask when the second batch would be ready, was clearly trying to catch the best timing.

After both batches were completed, the afternoon teaching session came to an end.

Qin Huai didn’t have time to try making it himself. To properly make crab roe shengmai, the entire preparation process must be done personally by the chef. Qin Huai wasn’t very experienced with shrimp-based fillings, and crab meat and roe were completely unfamiliar to him.

To become familiar with ingredients, one must interact with them more.

Among all of Zheng Da’s rambling, one key teaching point stood out repeatedly: for crab roe shengmai, the chef must personally handle all preparation.

The prep process wasn’t complicated—just extracting shrimp meat, crab meat, and crab roe.

Only by doing it yourself can you quickly build familiarity with the ingredients and better control the seasoning.

Qin Huai found Zheng Da’s words very reasonable.

He even felt that Zheng Da’s teaching style was quite effective.

A teacher’s skill level is one thing; whether they can teach is another. Whether the student can learn depends on their own ability.

Huang Shengli provides detailed instruction like a textbook; Zheng Da provides a “no-explanation” textbook. Both are learning materials—if the student is perceptive enough, they can learn from either.

“Thank you, Master Zheng. You’ve worked hard today. Please come earlier tomorrow afternoon as well. I’ll go back and consolidate what I’ve learned today. Tomorrow after lunch, I’ll start making crab roe shengmai. If anything goes wrong during the process, I’ll need your guidance.”

“No trouble at all,” Zheng Da said cheerfully. “If you have anything you don’t understand, feel free to ask me anytime. If the living arrangements aren’t comfortable, let me know as well. If you need more furniture, don’t go through Gong Liang—just tell me directly. I’m the one renting this place, I’ll take care of it.”

Qin Huai clocked out happily. Although he hadn’t personally worked much that afternoon and had eaten six crab roe shengmai, he still felt it had been a hard day’s work.

After work, he went to a bone-setting clinic for his routine treatment, then returned home to rest.

While Qin Huai was getting adjusted at the clinic, Gong Liang only then learned that Zheng Da had made two batches of crab roe shengmai in the afternoon for Qin Huai’s teaching.

Gong Liang felt like the sky had fallen.

The longevity noodles in the morning had already made him complacent, thinking he had secured the “big win.” Unexpectedly, there was an even bigger one in the afternoon.

He had miscalculated!

Zheng Da was too cunning!

A feint, a diversion—playing tactics and strategy with him!

Aren’t we old friends? Wasn’t I an angel investor? Almost everyone in the Huang Ji kitchen got to eat, yet as an original shareholder, he didn’t!

He hadn’t eaten crab roe shengmai for a full year!

Zheng Da really wasn’t considerate—he clearly knew how much he loved it, yet didn’t call him when he rarely cooked.

Gong Liang considered messaging Qin Huai, hinting that he hadn’t had crab roe shengmai for a full year, and subtly emphasizing his “achievement” of eating it for a month straight under Master Jing, proving he was the most authoritative taster.

No one understood crab roe shengmai better than him.

No one!

If Qin Huai needed someone to sit outside the kitchen and provide tasting feedback—and incidentally sample Zheng Da’s cooking—Gong Liang would be the best candidate.

Even though he couldn’t speak or write.

But he could eat.

He could tell whether something tasted good or not in a single bite.

Gong Liang almost sent the message.

But after thinking it over, he restrained himself.

As a top salesperson, he knew the importance of stopping while ahead—different relationships call for different approaches. Their relationship wasn’t close enough for persistent pestering.

Xiao Qin had already been very kind, even letting him sit at the kitchen entrance to eat longevity noodles. He couldn’t ruin that goodwill with impatience.

So he endured.

Gong Liang figured that, based on his understanding of Zheng Da, after making so many crab roe shengmai today, he probably wouldn’t make any tomorrow.

Missing out this time was due to underestimating the situation. Next time, he would definitely sit right at the kitchen door!

Then, the next afternoon, Gong Liang received news that Qin Huai made a batch of crab roe shengmai—and Zheng Da made another batch.

According to insiders, Qin Huai’s batch had some failures. This was normal—if Qin Huai had succeeded perfectly on his first attempt, Gong Liang would seriously consider buying the apartment next door and moving in.

But Zheng Da’s batch turned out normal.

Everyone who tried it said it was excellent.

This news made Gong Liang restless.

Why wasn’t Zheng Da following the usual pattern?

No matter who you are, please stay on Zheng Da a little longer—just make crab roe shengmai for a couple more days, okay?

On the third day, after finishing lunch at Huang Ji, Gong Liang didn’t leave. Once most customers had gone, he pulled up a small stool and sat himself at the kitchen entrance.

Everyone at Huang Ji: …

So this day had finally come.

Sitting at the kitchen door with a stool wasn’t enough—you had to be inside the kitchen.

That day, Qin Huai cooked first, followed by Zheng Da.

After yesterday’s failure, Qin Huai had gained a deeper understanding of the difficulty of seasoning crab roe shengmai.

Yesterday’s attempt wasn’t just a failure.

It was a complete disaster.

To put it simply, if Qin Luo had tasted it, he would have jumped up and shouted, “Who made this?! This isn’t my brother’s craftsmanship! Who is tarnishing his reputation? Step forward—I’ll fight you!”

Thankfully, it wasn’t served at Yunzhong Canteen, or it would have been utterly embarrassing.

Qin Huai finally understood why most chefs preferred the more complicated second method of making crab roe shengmai rather than the first.

It was just too difficult.

The failure had been brutal.

That kind of shengmai… wasn’t even fit for human consumption.

When Qin Huai tasted his own creation yesterday, he even had the thought of “maybe adding some pepper would help.”

Although that would be cutting corners and masking the natural flavors of shrimp and crab, at least it wouldn’t taste that bad.

Spices really are a great invention.

Qin Huai also deeply realized why Zheng Da said he had a good tongue.

Indeed, a good tongue.

One bite revealed at least ten minor issues and eight major ones.

That wasn’t eating shengmai—it was eating problems.

Eating a “wrong-answer notebook.”

Qin Huai quietly glanced at the target sitting outside the kitchen.

Why was Gong Liang here?

Why did he show up at such a critical moment?

If today’s shengmai turned out as badly as yesterday, would Gong Liang’s favorability drop to zero after one bite?

The fall of Xiao Qin Master.

Qin Huai took a deep breath.

Today, he had to give it his all.

Set a small goal.

This time, only six minor issues and five major issues, okay?