AGN -Chapter 268 New Year’s Eve Dinner in Full Swing

The Qin family’s happiness was only just beginning.

The longevity noodles were merely the appetizer.

Considering that not everyone was like Qin Luo—who could polish off a bowl of chicken noodle soup and still have room for a full meal—Qin Huai had made a special New Year’s Eve version of longevity noodles: the Youth Mini Edition, with very small portions.

For an average eater, one bowl of noodles and soup would only leave them about half full.

Grandpa Qin and Grandma Qin, being older and no longer having the appetites they once did, received an even more reduced version of the Youth Mini Edition.

And it wasn’t just the longevity noodles that had been downsized—the Four-Joy Tangyuan had also been made into a mini version.

Of course, no one noticed this tiny bit of corner-cutting. Qin Luo didn’t care, and Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong hadn’t even realized that the incredibly delicious noodles in front of them were the same chicken noodles Qin Huai had once made at Yunzhong Cafeteria. They simply assumed, like the Four-Joy Tangyuan, that it was another new specialty he had learned in Suzhou.

As for Qin Xiuli, Grandma Qin, and the others, they knew even less. They simply thought that this was how desserts and delicacies were served in big cities—small portions.

He Cheng was the slowest eater at the table.

Not because he had a small appetite. Like Qin Luo, He Cheng was a first-year high school student, and among the Qin family, he could eat the most—even slightly more than Qin Luo.

As for how Qin Huai knew that He Cheng could eat a little more than Qin Luo, it was because during last year’s New Year dinner, He Cheng had eaten half a bun more than her.

And that was only the first round. After eating at the Qin household, He Cheng still had to go to his grandfather’s house and politely eat a little there too. His appetite was not to be underestimated.

A growing teenage boy can eat his parents out of house and home. And He Cheng, being exactly that age, ate with the force of a storm—like a tiger pouncing on prey.

The only reason he was eating slowly was because he couldn’t bear to finish too quickly.

Poor kid.

For the entire first semester of high school, he had eaten either at home or in the school cafeteria. Although his high school was in the city, the food there wasn’t much better than what was served in the county. Occasionally, treating himself to two baskets of steamed dumplings from the Shaxian snack shop outside the school gate counted as a real improvement.

For the past six months, He Cheng had been longing day and night, waiting for the impossible—like waiting for the sun to rise from behind the mountains. At long last, his beloved cousin Qin Huai had finally returned home.

Earlier that morning, when they were eating fermented rice steamed buns, He Cheng had even been maliciously targeted by Qin Luo, who had deliberately given him the two smallest buns.

At the time, Qin Luo thought He Cheng was slacking off and not helping pour water for Qin Huai, so she had resorted to the cruelest possible punishment. From a whole basket of buns that looked identical—as if they had come off an assembly line—she had somehow managed to pick out the two smallest ones just for him.

He Cheng smacked his lips and realized he had already forgotten exactly what those fermented rice buns had tasted like.

He only remembered one thing:

They were delicious!

They smelled faintly of wine, but tasted nothing like alcohol. Sweet, soft, yet pleasantly chewy. Compared to them, the plain steamed buns sold at his school in the mornings deserved to be dragged out and flogged eight thousand times.

Those buns were huge and hard, dry and dense. After only a few bites, the crumbs would stick to your tongue, forcing you to wash them down with water.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely the school buns’ fault.

They did have one major advantage:

They were cheap.

One and a half yuan each—large, solid, and filling. If you didn’t know better, you might mistake them for flatbread. With He Cheng’s appetite, two and a half of those would leave even him rolling his eyes from fullness.

He Cheng sipped the chicken soup.

Grandma Qin was an expert at raising chickens. Every year, she kept at least a dozen. She would buy chicks in the spring and raise them until the New Year.

From New Year’s Eve until the Lantern Festival, the Qin family’s table would feature one young hen after another, each nobly sacrificing itself for the holiday feast. Grandma Qin raised them well; the meat was tender and flavorful, perfect for soups, braises, or white-cut chicken.

Even the eggs from her free-range chickens were more fragrant than anyone else’s.

Young hens went to the dinner table during the New Year; older hens stayed behind to lay eggs. This had been Grandma Qin’s practice for many years.

This year, however, for the sake of Qin Huai’s longevity noodles, even the household veterans had been sacrificed. All seven old hens had gone into the pot.

Grandma Qin had felt a little reluctant while slaughtering them and had briefly considered keeping one as a transitional layer. But then she thought of her precious grandson’s needs. In that case, the old hens would be dying for a worthy cause. So, gritting her teeth, she cooked them all.

Now, it seemed they had indeed died a worthy death.

He Cheng carefully finished the last sip of soup. Then, in a rather undignified move, he deliberately lifted the bowl to cover his face and secretly licked the rim.

It was just too good.

The chicken soup alone was already excellent. And now that it had been used to cook noodles, it had achieved that magical union of carbohydrates and fat.

Thinking about those springy noodles again, He Cheng swallowed hard. He set down the bowl, resisted the urge to lick it completely clean, and asked,

“Brother, is there any more noodles? I’d like another bowl!”

At the Qin family’s New Year’s Eve dinner table, if you hadn’t had enough, you could always ask for more.

There was no scrambling, no hidden battles, no schemes, no tactical maneuvers. None of the Thirty-Six Stratagems, Sun Tzu’s Art of War, or brute force had any place here.

The only thing that mattered was your appetite.

That was the beauty of wheat-based dishes: there was always enough.

You never had to worry about there not being enough to eat—only about not being able to finish it all.

“There are, but I wouldn’t recommend eating more right now. There are lots of other treats today. If you have another bowl now, you won’t have room for the rest. Try the Four-Joy Tangyuan first. Once you’ve sampled everything, if you’re still hungry, go help yourself to more noodles from the big iron pot in the room.”

Qin Huai was speaking from the heart.

This silly kid hadn’t even noticed that no one else had asked for seconds. Everyone else had already moved on to the Four-Joy Tangyuan, while he was still sitting there savoring the longevity noodles.

Qin Huai had long ago developed his own rating system for pastries and noodles. Even among B-grade dishes, there were differences.

And when cooking at home during the New Year, without skilled assistants at hand, many dishes inevitably had to be simplified.

The longevity noodles had been simplified quite a bit.

Their two essential elements were the noodles themselves and the broth. Back at Huang Ji, Zheng Siyuan had loved eating them in the mornings primarily because of the broth, which had always been personally prepared by Huang Jia.

Though he ranked near the bottom among famous chefs, Huang Jia was still a disciple worthy of inclusion in the Record of Master Chefs. His stock-making skills were beyond reproach.

That pot of broth alone was something many ordinary chefs could spend their entire lives trying—and failing—to replicate.

Grandma Qin’s chicken soup was very good, but it was still just ordinary chicken soup.

And with so many different dishes to prepare today, it had been impossible to perfect every single one. So today’s longevity noodles were, in truth:

[Longevity Noodles: C+ Grade]

If even C+ longevity noodles could make someone secretly lick the bowl, Qin Huai figured his cousin probably wouldn’t have enough room for a second bowl anyway.

Qin Huai looked down at the Four-Joy Tangyuan in his own bowl.

[Four-Joy Tangyuan: B Grade]

Their stable performance owed much to Aunt Wang’s exceptional meat-chopping skills.

As someone who spent at least 360 days a year hand-chopping beef for meatballs, Aunt Wang might not have had the highest overall knife skills, but when it came to mincing meat, she clearly had her own expertise. Qin Huai had noticed as much when he saw her working in the kitchen that afternoon.

Aunt Wang didn’t know what Four-Joy Tangyuan were.

But she knew exactly what kind of filling Qin Huai wanted.

Qin Huai took a bite of the pure meat-filled tangyuan.

Delicious.

The essence of a meat-filled tangyuan lies in the freshness of the meat, the quality of the mince, and restrained seasoning. It should taste clean, delicate, and elegant.

Though today’s meat-filled tangyuan was still rather plain and unremarkable—overshadowed by the other three sweet fillings, which were vibrant, eye-catching, and glamorous, like scene-stealing stars—it was nonetheless a perfectly competent meat tangyuan.

It was simply a 75-point tangyuan, while the other three sweet varieties scored around 80 to 85.

Qin Huai found today’s meat-filled tangyuan especially delicious because it had turned out better than he had expected.

Aunt Wang truly understood meat filling.

Qin Huai caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye that He Cheng had already started eating the tangyuan. On his very first scoop, He Cheng picked up a meat-filled one, but Qin Luo stopped him, telling him he should start with the sweet ones and eat the savory ones in the middle.

Although He Cheng had once been given a demerit for messing up tea preparation, his crime did not warrant such punishment—he still deserved to eat the tangyuan properly.

After swallowing a red bean-filled tangyuan, He Cheng was stunned.

After swallowing a sesame-sugar-filled tangyuan, he became even more stunned.

After swallowing a meat-filled tangyuan, he was no longer as stunned.

After the final assorted-fruit-filled tangyuan went down, He Cheng felt like crying.

He resented why, back then, it wasn’t his parents who had adopted Qin Huai. If that had been the case, he would be Qin Huai’s biological younger brother now.

After eating the longevity noodles and the “Four Joy” tangyuan, Grandma Qin felt full.

Glutinous rice-based desserts were a bit heavy on the stomach, and Grandma Qin said that at her age she couldn’t eat and drink like she used to. Online health advice said elderly people should focus on wellness and eat smaller, more frequent meals.

In the past two years, Grandma Qin had even given up late-night snacks—she no longer secretly got up in the middle of the night to reheat braised pork.

Yes, in earlier years, Grandma Qin had the habit of getting up at night to eat braised pork and preserved vegetable pork belly.

Grandma Qin put down her bowl and picked up her chopsticks, planning to symbolically taste a couple of dishes she had cooked herself, and thus conclude the perfect New Year’s Eve dinner.

Seeing Grandma pick up her chopsticks, Qin Huai knew she was probably already full.

“Grandma,” Qin Huai reminded her, “you don’t really need to try the other desserts on the table. The chenpi tea can be saved for when you get thirsty playing mahjong at night, and the san ding bao can be eaten tomorrow morning. But you absolutely must try the guo’er tonight.”

“This is your grandson’s signature dish from Huang Ji. It’s been featured in magazines,” Qin Huai began to boast.

“Yes, yes, Grandma, didn’t I show you the photos? There’s such a long line outside Huang Ji—people start queuing before dawn every day just to eat my brother’s guo’er.”

Grandma Qin immediately felt that being “seven-tenths full” was not full at all; nine-tenths was just right.

She squinted at the table but didn’t recognize which one was guo’er. “Which one is it?”

“This one!” Qin Luo stood up immediately and handed her one, very thoughtfully picking the ugliest one. “Grandma, just break it open and eat it!”

“Yes, yes, try it,” Qin Huai echoed enthusiastically.

Qin Xiuli had noticed the guo’er long ago—it was the ugliest item on the otherwise beautiful table.

While finishing her last tangyuan, she whispered to He Hua, “I remember Qin Huai took art classes when he was little, right? That didn’t help much, did it?”

“Keep your voice down, don’t let Qin Huai hear you.”

Qin Huai didn’t hear their whispering, but he did hear Grandma Qin muttering.

“Old man, I remember Qin Huai studied painting when he was young, didn’t he? He was pretty good too. The director of the welfare home even showed me his drawings—they were all colorful. How did it turn into this…”

Qin Huai: “…”

Grandma, you shouldn’t criticize others too much—you’re not exactly great at aesthetics yourself.

“This is art,” Grandpa Qin said firmly. “Didn’t you see it on short videos? Abstract art!”

Grandma Qin didn’t understand, so after carefully examining the so-called abstract art, she decided she probably just didn’t get it. The colorful ones were still better-looking.

She forcefully broke the guo’er open, but didn’t do it neatly. Meat juice flowed out from the dough, and she hurriedly leaned in to sip it.

Instantly, her eyes widened.

As a dessert, guo’er had a very layered flavor.

Its outer skin was made of dough, slightly firm, giving it a unique texture—not unpleasant. The first bite, if you only tasted the outer layer, felt like a standard chewy white-flour pastry.

Peeling away that intentionally firmer shaping layer revealed different textures beneath.

The middle layer was soft, and the innermost layer was soft and soaked with broth.

Like bun skin—some people’s favorite part is the ring of dough closest to the meat filling in a big meat bun, saturated with juices, oily and fragrant, the true essence.

The innermost layer of guo’er was essentially an upgraded version of that.

It looked oily, but the carrot puree flavor neutralized the greasiness beautifully.

It was the sweet fragrance of meat juices, the joy of scraping broth with steamed bun and stuffing it into your mouth, the perfect blend of fat and carbs—the true essence of guo’er.

Normally, it was impossible to bite directly into the best part of guo’er in one go.

But Grandma Qin did exactly that.

And it was her first time eating it.

She had never understood why people were willing to queue for food. Queuing was boring, tiring, and made your back ache after standing too long.

When she was young, she hated queues, but she always had to stand in them anyway—queueing to hand in grain, queueing at the supply store before New Year, queueing for ox carts, queueing for buses, even queueing to buy train tickets.

Sometimes, when she scrolled videos online and saw people praising a restaurant because of hours-long queues, she found it absurd.

She wouldn’t even queue to get free eggs.

Were young people in big cities that idle? Didn’t they work? Was the food really that good?

Now, Grandma Qin understood.

A few hours? So what!

Old people have the most time!

Start queuing before dawn? Perfect—I wake up before dawn anyway, and I don’t work. I’m practically professionally suited for this. I can queue!

She ate enthusiastically, originally just trying to catch the dripping juice to avoid wasting it—but one bite led to another, and soon the entire piece was gone.

“Burp.”

Grandma Qin let out a very un-healthy-sounding burp.

She looked at the remaining half of the guo’er and handed it to Grandpa Qin. “You finish the rest.”

Grandpa Qin took it.

Originally, he had been eyeing a “dream realization sesame cake”—it looked golden, sprinkled with sesame seeds, and stuffed with meat. One bite would have been heavenly.

But his wife had already passed him the leftover guo’er. If he ate that, he wouldn’t have room for the sesame cake.

Oh well. She should’ve saved it for tomorrow. That’s how New Year’s Eve snacks usually work anyway.

He sighed and took a bite.

Then he forgot all about the sesame cake.

Cake? What cake? What even is cake? Is it important?

He took another heavy bite.

This ugly… dessert—this was what he loved.

What was it called again?

Guo’er?

From now on, the thing Qin Xiong loved most in his life was guo’er.