AGN -Chapter 279 Stock

Qin Huai and Qin Luo were hitching a ride in a car belonging to a passionate older brother from a neighboring village—someone Qin Huai didn’t even know. The man lived in the city and ran a rice noodle roll shop.

Originally, he was supposed to return to the city on the 5th or 6th day of the Lunar New Year to resume business. But because of the Qin family’s Four-Joy Tangyuan giveaway—and because the neighboring village was extremely close (so close it was only an eight-minute walk)—he ended up staying in the village just to eat tangyuan. Only on the morning of the 16th did he finally manage to secure the “qualification” to drive Qin Huai and Qin Luo to the city.

This competition had been intense.

That morning, for some unknown reason, many people from Qin Village and nearby villages suddenly wanted to drive into the city.

“Little Qin Chef, we can stop here, right?” the older brother parked the car in front of a well-known tea shop in the city.

“Yes, thank you Brother Liu. Let’s add each other on WeChat. Next time I return to the village I’ll let you know—come by my house and try some pastries.” Qin Huai smiled as he exchanged contact details with him, then led Luo Luo into the tea shop.

Qin Luo was still confused and asked innocently, “Brother, so Grandma Cao’s family runs a tea shop?”

“What tea shop? We’re going to someone’s house for a meal—you can’t go empty-handed. You need to bring something.”

“Why not bring fruit? We still have so much at home. Grandpa and Grandma can’t even finish it,” Qin Luo asked again.

“Fruit is too insincere. When visiting a master like Chef Cao for a meal, you bring tea,” Qin Huai said as he looked around the shop.

Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman. She barely glanced at the two young people who walked in and continued playing on her phone.

After circling the shop, Qin Huai realized that although he had drunk plenty of tea while working in the Huang Ji kitchen, he actually didn’t understand tea at all—and couldn’t identify it either.

The only thing he truly understood was hand-shaken lemon tea.

Professional matters should be left to professionals.

Without hesitation, he started a video call with Tan Weian.

The call was picked up almost instantly. Tan Weian was walking to work at Zhiwei Restaurant.

After hearing Qin Huai’s request, he asked about the general requirements and remotely helped him pick two cans of tea—and even bargained the price down.

Before hanging up, he told Qin Huai that if he needed tea in the future, he could contact him anytime. He had plenty of resources—from cheap tea sold by the liang, to tens of thousands per liang, all the way up to auction-grade tea. Reliable supply, guaranteed quality.

Qin Huai was delighted and said he would definitely contact him next time.

He also asked Tan Weian to help him buy two boxes of the tea that Zhiwei Restaurant staff often brewed for him back at Huang Ji.

He really needed it.

During the New Year, every sip of tea he drank just didn’t taste right. Something always felt off.

After buying the tea, Qin Huai and Qin Luo took a taxi to the residential complex where Cao Guixiang lived.

It was an old neighborhood, not near any shopping mall and not particularly prosperous, but it was a school district area with parks and a market nearby. Just stepping in gave a strong sense of everyday life.

The gate was barely guarded. The pedestrian entrance was open. The security guard sat lazily in the booth, playing on his phone—an enviable level of relaxation.

Following the address, they found Cao Guixiang’s building. Even the entrance door was open—either intentionally during the day or simply broken.

At her door, Qin Huai raised his hand to knock.

Before knocking, he asked Qin Luo, “Luo Luo, do you know what to do when we enter later?”

“I know. First greet Grandma Cao, then Grandpa Zhang. My greeting to Grandma Cao must be louder than to Grandpa Zhang—to show respect and importance.”

Qin Huai nodded in satisfaction and knocked.

The door opened.

It was Zhang Chu.

“Xiao Qin is here? This must be Luo Luo. I remember her—the little girl who argued with Zhang Zhiyun on the sixth day. Zhiyun isn’t home yet; his father went to pick him up from school. He’s been very excited since yesterday, constantly pestering his grandmother to cook his favorite dishes.”

“Hello, Grandpa Zhang!” Qin Luo greeted loudly and politely. If only her expression had been a smile instead of a confused but excited look, it would have been perfect—but that couldn’t really be blamed on her.

Because it smelled too good.

From the moment Qin Huai and Qin Luo stepped inside, an indescribable, soul-piercing, intoxicating aroma rushed into their noses and struck their minds directly.

Even Qin Luo couldn’t describe it. Even Qin Huai struggled.

It was clearly food aroma—but unlike anything they had ever smelled before.

It seemed somewhat like stock—rich chicken stock and pork stock.

Qin Huai had made stock before. He had smelled plenty of it in the Huang Ji kitchen.

But nothing like this—so thick, so intense.

Almost unconsciously, both of them swallowed.

After several deep breaths, Qin Huai finally regained his composure and looked around the house.

The decor was simple and homely—mostly wooden furniture. The leather sofa was aged and slightly faded. The TV was small and clearly old, playing the news.

There were plush toys likely won from claw machines, old elementary school winter homework books under the coffee table, CDs and discs on the TV cabinet.

A family photo hung on the wall—taken about three or four years ago. Zhang Zhiyun and Cao Guixiang’s granddaughter, Chang Qingqing, stood in the center, smiling brightly, showing their teeth and looking carefree and silly.

Qin Huai handed over the tea. Zhang Chu barely looked at it before accepting, then told them to sit on the sofa while he made tea.

Before he even brought out cups, Cao Guixiang’s voice came from the kitchen:

“Is Xiao Qin here? Xiao Qin, can you come help me in the kitchen?”

“Yes!” Qin Huai immediately responded and pushed the kitchen door open.

The moment he entered, he was stunned again.

It smelled even better inside.

But smell wasn’t the main point—the dishes were.

The kitchen was slightly larger than average but not by much. Within that limited space, Cao Guixiang had used it to its fullest.

There were three stoves, each with a pot cooking something. On the counter were neatly arranged prepared ingredients in small bowls. Seasonings were organized on a rack, knives on a stand, plates stacked properly, and unprocessed vegetables placed in order.

Just by looking at the kitchen, one could tell the cook was extremely professional.

Cao Guixiang was chopping garlic. Seeing Qin Huai, she motioned for him to close the door.

“Xiao Qin, I made a lot of dishes today. Three stoves are a bit too much for one person. Later I’ll just have you pass me things when I ask.”

Wearing sleeves and an apron, her hair tied up, she looked like an ordinary housewife at first glance.

If Qin Huai hadn’t seen the warm stock sitting on the counter, she would have seemed even more ordinary.

But he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted nothing more than to rush over and taste it immediately.

Honestly, he even felt shamelessly tempted to ask her for a couple bowls of chicken stock to take back and cook longevity noodles—just to see if he could elevate them to A-grade.

Cao Guixiang noticed him staring and asked:

“Xiao Qin, do you know how to make stock?”

“Uh… sort of… a little,” Qin Huai said uncertainly.

It was hard to describe his skill level.

If he said he didn’t know how, that wouldn’t be true—he had made stock before, and Huang Shengli had even taught him online while he practiced daily.

But if he said he knew how… compared to the stock in this kitchen…

That thing probably shouldn’t even be called stock—it was just soup.

Cao Guixiang smiled, indicating she understood.

“Did the old branch secretary already tell you about me and your Grandpa Zhang?” she asked as she lifted the lid of the second pot, leaned in to smell it, then closed it again before turning off the heat under the third pot.

Qin Huai had no idea what dishes she was making. He only felt that everything looked impressive and smelled incredibly good—his eyes simply couldn’t take it all in.

“Yes, he said you and Grandpa Zhang were both sent-down educated youth from Beiping back then. Since you didn’t return to the city, you’ve stayed here all these years. He also mentioned that you used to work at a very famous restaurant in Beiping called Yong… Yong…”

“Yonghe Residence,” Cao Guixiang said.

She picked up a ladle from the stock pot and scooped out a small half-spoon of broth, handing it to Qin Huai.

“Try it. This is chicken stock.”

Qin Huai accepted it, flattered and slightly nervous, and carefully took a small sip.

Fresh.

Incredibly fresh.

The old hens of Qin Village—sorry. After being turned into such “ordinary” chicken soup, your lives this year were wasted.

“Can you tell what I added to the soup?” Cao Guixiang asked.

Qin Huai took another small lick. He had made stock before, and he had watched Huang Shengli and Huang Jia make stock. He knew exactly what ingredients should normally go into a chicken stock.

Since she asked, there must be something unusual inside.

“Dried scallops, ham, shiitake mushrooms, pork bones…”

He listed the obvious ones—things anyone could identify by taste or guess without much effort.

Then he hesitated and took another small sip, then another.

Finished.

There was only a half spoon.

He was so nervous he was almost sweating.

“And… maybe… pigeon?”

“What else?” Cao Guixiang continued.

Seeing that he was right, Qin Huai gained confidence.

“Maybe there’s also dried longan, but I’m not sure what flavor it would produce in soup. That part is just a guess. I once heard Chef Huang say that some chicken stocks include dried longan.”

“Why did you guess longan?” she asked.

“Because I’ve drunk a lot of Chef Huang’s chicken stock. Yours tastes a bit different—much richer and more layered. Definitely more ingredients were added, so I guessed it might be dried longan.”

Cao Guixiang nodded with a smile.

“Not bad. Close enough. You’re quite clever, Xiao Qin—even though your knife skills and heat control aren’t good, and your basic knowledge isn’t very broad.”

Qin Huai simply took it as praise. Whatever Chef Cao said was praise.

“My master was a successor of Tan Family Cuisine,” Cao Guixiang suddenly began introducing herself.

“Many of its signature dishes rely heavily on stock, so the first thing you learn in Tan cuisine is how to make broth.”

“Making stock is actually also training your heat control.”

“If you want to cook well, having a good pot of stock alone is not enough. Knife skills are also very important. Knife work isn’t just about chopping food into small pieces or making it look nice—shredding meat, mincing it, slicing, dicing.”

“Knife skills are about making ingredients fit the dish, helping them absorb flavors better and be properly cooked.”

“So knife work is a fundamental skill. Every chef starts with it. You must learn how to cut before you can learn how to cook.”

“Both white-case and red-case chefs must train knife skills. The process of practicing knife work is actually the process of understanding ingredients. Know yourself and know your ingredients, and you will never lose. If a chef doesn’t understand their ingredients, how can they possibly cook them well?”

Qin Huai nodded deeply.

In truth, he had never thought knife skills were that important—especially in pastry work.

But after Cao Guixiang casually chopped some meat filling into something that elevated Four-Joy Tangyuan to A-grade, he finally understood: it wasn’t that knife skills weren’t important. It was that he had simply never seen truly important knife skills before.

Cao continued:

“You have a very good palate. Even without systematic training, without solid fundamentals, and without growing up under formal mentorship, you can still rely on taste, experience, and intuition to guess most of the ingredients in that stock.”

“If you had been born forty years earlier, and were caught stealing food at Yonghe Residence like I once was, my master would have chased you all the way to your home and taken you as his closed-door disciple.”

“If I were thirty years younger, I would shamelessly introduce myself, boast about the history of Tan cuisine, and take you as my student.”

“But now you don’t really need a master anymore. And I, an old retired woman, don’t have the time or energy to take disciples.”

“However, I can at least help you in what I’m best at.”

“Your knife skills are truly terrible. Bad enough to resemble a kitchen apprentice who just started washing dishes. In fact, even apprentices might be better than you. Back then at Yonghe Residence, many apprentices had been cutting vegetables since childhood.”

“Did your Chef Huang and Chef Zheng not try to train your knife skills at all?”

Qin Huai quickly defended them: “It might be because I had too many things to learn. They didn’t have time to teach me knife work yet.”

“I heard you’re running a community canteen in Shan City now. You probably don’t have much time to stay here and practice fundamentals.”

“But you are already a mature chef—you don’t need to start from scratch like an apprentice.”

“Your Chef Huang used to teach you online classes, right?”

Qin Huai nodded.

“Yes. I had online lessons first, then went to Suzhou for offline exchange learning.”

“Then we’ll do the opposite here,” Cao said. “You’ll study with me for a few days before going back to online lessons.”

“I’ll have Old Zhang make six chopping boards for you. You’ll cut through all six of them—once you’ve done that, your knife skills will be considered complete.”

Qin Huai was completely stunned.

Cao’s enthusiasm was so direct that he didn’t know what to say. He could only stare blankly and let out a confused:

“Ah?”

Out of sight, Cao Guixiang turned away and silently scolded herself twice in frustration.

‘Cao Guixiang, Cao Guixiang… didn’t you rehearse this last night? How did you forget everything the moment you opened your mouth? What were you even saying just now?’

‘Won’t Xiao Qin think you’re an odd old woman with a broken brain?’

She grimaced in regret for two seconds, then suddenly came up with a brilliant way to fix it.

She walked to the innermost corner of the kitchen.

In front of her was a pot of braised shark fin noodles—never opened, slowly simmered since early morning, at least nine hours of low heat.

She lifted the lid.

A rich aroma exploded outward.

Cao Guixiang smiled warmly at Qin Huai, just like the way her own master once looked at her when he wanted to take her as a disciple, and said the exact same line:

“Tan Family Cuisine is very delicious.”

“Interested in learning it?”