AGN -Chapter 186 The Birth of the “King of Competition”

“Are there any San Ding buns left?”

“Yoyo, how much longer until the next batch of San Ding buns is ready?”

“Have all the steamers been used already?”

“Xiao Huang, post the announcement again in the group order chat: we haven’t been accepting group orders since 45 minutes ago. Today, San Ding buns are selling like crazy, and there aren’t enough staff to handle deliveries. Also, emphasize that San Ding buns are only sold until 1:30 PM—no extensions, not a minute!”

“Hello, this is Huang Xi, head of Yunzhong Canteen. Oh, the ingredients have arrived? That’s perfect—you guys came just in time. I’ll have someone go pick them up right now.”

“Xiao Huang, Xiao Chu, go find two more people who can’t make buns to receive the delivery outside, then change into your kitchen uniforms and help process the ingredients. Has Xiao Liu returned yet? I remember she’s pretty good at making buns.”

“They said it’s just two subway stops away.”

“Alright, everyone, hard work today—let’s move! Don’t drop the ball on your part. Master Qin said anyone working a normal shift today gets double pay, and those returning from leave get triple. When Master Qin returns to Gusu in a few days, we’ll have a team-building day and go to the hot springs to relax.”

“……”

Thanks to Huang Xi’s organization, what could have been a chaotic, high-pressure situation at Yunzhong Canteen became a smoothly run operation. The lines for buns stretched from inside the canteen all the way out to the street, seemingly endless.

In the queue were elderly people with white hair, healthy-looking middle-aged men and women, the convenience store owner across the street, office workers who left half an hour early to grab buns, completely random passersby who had nothing to do but decided to join the line, and the always-busy delivery riders.

When the San Ding buns first exploded in orders, Qin Huai hadn’t expected that Huang Xi, inexperienced as she was, had only limited the purchase quantity for the first batch—after that, there were no restrictions.

This unlimited policy benefited the orthopedics, neurology, neurosurgery, obstetrics, cardiology, emergency, inpatient, and security staff at the hospital. Delivery riders came back fully loaded. Before finishing the current delivery, they already received the next batch of orders. At that point, Yunzhong Canteen reinstated the “five-per-person” limit.

The delivery riders handled it well, calling each customer to notify them. Customers were used to it (the previous Chenpi Tea had also been limited), cancelled, and reordered.

Then, Yunzhong Canteen’s delivery orders truly exploded.

By 11:30, at least half the line was full of delivery riders in yellow-and-blue uniforms.

But that was just the beginning of the real explosion in orders.

Most office workers in the nearby business towers wouldn’t get off until 12:00 or even 12:30. Lunch breaks depended on how generous the company was—some had one hour, others an hour and a half, and extreme cases only 40 minutes. These office workers were the primary lunch and dinner consumers of Yunzhong Canteen.

Without Huang Xi’s careful planning—organizing all kitchen assistants and floor staff who could help make buns to assist Qin Huai, calling back staff on leave with double pay, and contacting suppliers to rush a new batch of ingredients—the canteen would have been in complete chaos today.

And this was just what Qin Huai knew Huang Xi had done.

At the center of this storm, working frantically yet stress-free, Qin Huai thought: when he hired Huang Xi, he truly hit the jackpot!

After so long at Huang Ji, the best business lesson Qin Huai learned was: professional work should be done by professionals.

He was a chef—his job was to make the pastries.

Huang Xi, as head of Yunzhong Canteen, handled all the trivial matters and logistics perfectly.

It was the same at Huang Ji: chefs ran the kitchen, the head of floor staff managed the dining hall. The only one whose skills didn’t match their position was Huang Anyao—but that wasn’t entirely his fault. As the young owner who couldn’t cook, he had to participate in management to maintain face.

When Huang Anyao forced himself into management, the result was poor marketing plans, subpar supplier negotiations, and even the locust honey purchased was worse than Granny Ding’s.

Sometimes, Qin Huai truly felt Huang Anyao was not fit to be a young owner. He was better suited to be like Xu Cheng—living a life of leisure and writing food reviews after achieving financial freedom.

Huang Anyao couldn’t cook, but he knew how to enjoy food and could talk about it in depth.

Huang Xi was a competent head of staff, so Qin Huai felt completely confident delegating everything except pastry-making to her. Even with a crowded canteen inside and out, he calmly directed assistants in the kitchen, batch after batch of food being prepared.

Master Chef Qin Huai worked calmly.

The assistants, however, were anything but calm.

Assistants Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong, seeing Qin Huai’s composed expression and skillful movements, felt a pang of sympathy.

Qin Congwen held a bowl, mixing filling furiously, sweat beads on his forehead. He looked at Zhao Rong, whose hands were nearly a blur from shaping buns, and said with concern: “How much hardship has Huai Huai endured this past month in Gusu!”

Zhao Rong eagerly agreed: “Our Qin family breakfast shop has never sold so many buns. Huai Huai used to work two hours and rest one. Luckily we didn’t send him to that place my brother suggested back then—he was just starting high school. He would have suffered so much there!”

Qin Congwen yawned, nodding repeatedly: “Yes, luckily not. The day Huai Huai returned, I could tell he had lost weight from exhaustion!”

“It’s all my fault, my skills aren’t good enough, I can’t help knead the dough!” Qin Congwen lamented, pounding his chest.

Meanwhile, An Youyou, standing beside Zhao Rong shaping buns, thought…

Had her memory failed her, or was Qin Huai wearing more clothes now that the weather was cooler? He seemed not thinner, but slightly plumper.

Also…

An Youyou rubbed her right hand, cramped from hours of bun-making, and looked at Zhao Rong, who had made more buns than her, then at Qin Congwen, now frantically mixing filling.

And Chen An and Li Hua, who had never stopped cutting dice.

Pei Xing, staring at the large pots and the cooking filling, eyes wide from constant attention.

Other assistants, unnamed, also benefited today—not only double pay but extra commissions. Judging by San Ding buns’ sales and unit price, even someone who failed math since first grade could imagine the commissions today.

Of course, as ordinary assistants, they wouldn’t get much.

But… what if they did?

Yunzhong Canteen never treated staff unfairly regarding commissions. Last month, An Youyou earned 8,000 yuan thanks to long working hours and ample commissions.

With financial incentives, everyone worked with maximum effort, as if giving 150% efficiency.

In this situation, An Youyou felt Qin Huai didn’t seem as busy or tired.

As a master chef, he only handled technical work; the heavy lifting and dirty jobs didn’t fall on him.

An Youyou’s eyes lit up.

Great! She wanted to become a master chef too!
Then she could exert minimal effort while earning maximum pay, eventually afford a Yunzhong apartment, stop riding an electric bike to work, and just walk!
Excited, An Youyou continued shaping buns.

Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong noticed her sudden enthusiasm: …

Had she had coffee? Next time, they’d remind her: breakfast staff shouldn’t drink coffee at this hour—getting up at 2 or 3 AM was already early, and coffee would be too much.

By 2:00, when sales completely ended, every employee in Yunzhong Canteen was nearly collapsing from exhaustion.

Huang Xi publicly announced that San Ding buns would not be sold after 1:30, but the kitchen didn’t stop at 1:30. Buns still needed steaming, equipment had to be cleaned, and food waste disposed of.

Even at Huang Ji, notorious for long service times, orders stop at 1 PM, and kitchen staff don’t leave until 1:30.

Pei Xing felt like he had returned to his apprentice days at Zhiwei Ju.

As a distant relative of the famous Huaiyang cuisine master Pei Shenghua, Pei Xing got in through connections and apprenticed under a good master.

Being a disciple of a renowned chef meant extreme competition, especially for those who entered through connections without natural talent.

Those naturally talented could work 12 hours a day; the less gifted had to work 13, 14, or even 15 hours.

The kitchen didn’t care about family connections—skills determined respect. Less skilled apprentices were mocked and had to work even harder to become the “king of competition.”

Pei Xing had grown tired of making pastries every day, 365 days a year, and eventually decided to return home for a higher-paying, easier, local job.

The pay and proximity were good, but “easy”…

Pei Xing admitted that on days without Qin Huai, it was indeed quiet.

But today, he felt like he had returned to the battlefield of his youth, reliving his grueling apprentice years. The master chefs here were just as he remembered: calm, precise, skilled.

Damn, Pei Xing felt he couldn’t suppress his competitive instincts.

Though exhausted, he wanted to run over to Qin Huai with a cup of tea and say: “Master Qin, take a break.”

He didn’t even want to say “Little Master Qin”—that would be disrespectful to a master chef.

Pei Xing collapsed into a chair, sighing deeply.

Li Hua, slumped in another chair, thought: …? This tired? This competitive? Which master trained him?

Li Hua whispered to Chen An: “What kind of tea does Master Qin usually like? Pu’er, Longjing, Tieguanyin, or herbal tea? I remember he’s from Guangdong.”

Chen An: “…I’m not sure, but if herbal tea, he might prefer hand-pressed lemon tea.”

Li Hua: ???

The hand-pressed lemon tea-loving Master Qin approached the steamers, asking the assistants when the last batch of buns would be ready.

The last batch was a staff reward.

After a morning and lunch of work with barely any food, Qin Huai deliberately reserved the last batch so everyone could eat to their heart’s content.

Also, Chenpi Tea was boiling in a pot—drink as much as you want, or take some home.

And if San Ding buns and Chenpi Tea weren’t enough, there were about 40 servings of Gastrodia stewed pigeon. Qin Huai knew the taste was mediocre, but the nutritional and eye-care benefits were valuable.

Currently, he could only make Gastrodia stewed pigeon at D+ level, not even C-. Cooking skill limits the dish’s level. It was one of the least popular dishes at Huang Ji, usually selling only 40–50 portions daily, mostly for supporting Master Qin’s morale.

According to detailed analysis by regular patrons, Master Qin’s dish had adequate ingredients, was cheap, and always appeared on the menu—clearly a personal favorite, despite imperfect execution.

Gastrodia stewed pigeon was not just a dish—it was a hobby, a pursuit in culinary craft for Master Qin.

Although not tasty, it was good value.

Master Qin worked hard every day making pastries—what was wrong with having a hobby? It wasn’t expensive; ordering a portion supported his passion and cheered him up.

Insiders revealed that long-term patrons near Huang Ji had a group for ordering Gastrodia stewed pigeon with subsidies—subsidies high enough that ordering one dish cost the same as buying a pigeon at the market.

Joining required proof of continuous patronage for three years and ordering at least once a week.

Another anonymous chef revealed the group leader might be named Gong.

Putting aside this aside, Qin Huai felt his Gastrodia stewed pigeon still provided a “buff.”

The buff was abstract: soothing eye fatigue and refreshing the spirit—essentially improving rest quality.

Everyone knew it was a nutritious dish, but whether it “worked” was subjective.

Qin Huai approached the steamers: “Last batch of San… Ou Yang?! Why are you here?”

Ou Yang had been guarding the kitchen for three hours, crouched by the steamers with eight phone alarms set, fully alert to the cooking time.

“I came at 11. Didn’t you see me???” Ou Yang’s voice was pained.

“No.” Qin Huai answered honestly.

He was busy kneading dough and preparing fillings at the culinary station—no time to watch the steamers.

Steaming buns was the least skill-intensive step. Set the timer, and anyone could do it—Qin Huai hadn’t glanced at Ou Yang once.

“When did you arrive?” Qin Huai asked.

“At 11,” Ou Yang almost teared up. “I came when all the deliveries were happening. I wanted to see if I could get a couple buns to eat. Didn’t get any. Uncle Qin told me the kitchen was busy, so I came to help and never left.”

“I wanted to sneak a couple buns during steaming, but they were too hot. Also, for some reason, standing in the kitchen made me feel a sacred sense of duty. Every bun must be guarded; stealing is absolutely forbidden.”

Qin Huai was deeply moved: “Brother, never mind, I’ll make Elm Bark buns for you this afternoon.”

Ou Yang chuckled: “Can I skip Elm Bark buns?”

Qin Huai: ?
Who are you? You’re not Ou Yang; Ou Yang would never say that.

“I want Gou’ers,” Ou Yang said, smacking his lips. “After eating so many pastries yesterday, the ones you brought back were the best. Elm Bark buns are good, but I’ve had enough. I just want Gou’ers now.”

Hearing this, Qin Huai felt a bit gratified.

So touching—Ou Yang had unique tastes, but basic pastry aesthetics were intact. He could distinguish between A-grade and B-grade pastries.

“I understand, but you won’t get them these few days.”

Ou Yang: ?

“The filling for the Gou’ers wasn’t made by me. To get the same quality you had that day, you’d need to go to Gusu.”