AGN -Chapter 329 Everyone at Zhiweiju Was Shocked

“Master Qin, this is the soup-filled xiaolongbao I made.”

“Master Qin, this is a crystal dumpling.”

“Master Qin, lotus seed buns shaped like lotus flowers—please give them your critique.”

“Master Qin, shredded chicken rolls.”

“Master Qin, this is qing… qingtuan.”

“Master Qin, jujube paste and pine nut cake.”

“Master Qin, Ruyi rolls.”

“San Ding buns.”

Eight kinds of pastries were lined up neatly on the cooking table. The people of Zhiweiju stood around, some excited, some expectant, all waiting for Qin Huai to taste them. Each of them stood upright and serious—if you looked from afar, you might think the boss had come to inspect the kitchen.

Well… technically, the boss had come to inspect the kitchen.

Qin Huai looked at the bright, eager eyes of the crowd: …

What is this, filming a TV drama?

Do the master chefs at Zhiweiju live like this every day, surrounded and admired like stars?

This is… honestly kind of amazing.

His gaze finally fell on the last two pastries—Gu Li’s Ruyi rolls and Su Qian’s San Ding buns.

Qin Huai truly hadn’t expected Su Qian to choose San Ding buns. Earlier, while eating crab roe noodles, Tan Weian had casually mentioned that Su Qian’s specialty was baked pastries—especially flaky ones. The reason Master Zhou had taken him in as a registered disciple in the first place was because of his exceptional lamination skills.

In terms of specialty, Su Qian and Pei Xing were actually quite similar. Pei Xing also excelled at this category. Since Pei Xing was something of a “connected” insider, Tan Weian remembered him and specifically used him as a comparison when talking about Su Qian’s skills.

There was no comparison.

Whether it was talent, effort, or current skill level, Pei Xing couldn’t hold a candle to Su Qian. Su Qian was like an upgraded, enhanced Pro Max version of Pei Xing—while Pei Xing calling himself the “youth mini version” of Su Qian would already be an overreach of astronomical proportions.

Qin Huai had assumed Su Qian would showcase his strongest skills first. Even if time didn’t allow for something intricate and beautiful like lotus pastries, making a simple sugar flaky pastry to demonstrate his fundamentals would’ve been perfectly reasonable.

Qin Huai had even secretly asked Zheng Siyuan that if Su Qian made flaky pastries, Zheng should be the one to critique them—because Qin Huai simply wasn’t good at evaluating that category.

It was a complete blind spot for him, something that couldn’t easily be self-taught just by reading recipe books.

But instead, Su Qian made something he wasn’t best at—yet was one of Qin Huai’s specialties: San Ding buns.

At that moment, Qin Huai suddenly understood why Master Zhou liked Su Qian so much.

What a considerate registered disciple—anticipating the master’s concerns, thinking ahead on his behalf. Without needing even a hint, he could eliminate any potential inconvenience for his master before it even arose.

Even though Qin Huai had already given Su Qian a perfect score in his heart, he still first turned his attention to Gu Li’s Ruyi rolls.

Gu Li was someone Qin Huai had personally asked Tan Weian to bring along. The reason wasn’t just that Gu Li worked incredibly hard and was an excellent helper, but also because Qin Huai wanted to find opportunities to support him.

As Tan Weian put it, his junior brother was like a stubborn donkey.

Once he set his mind on something, he wouldn’t turn back—not even if he hit a wall, and certainly not after hitting it.

Even though Tan Weian had a “treasure bag” full of pastry recipes, Gu Li stubbornly chose to focus on the Ruyi roll—Master Tan’s signature dish—and kept grinding at it relentlessly.

Even though Zhiweiju was no longer the best place for his growth, and his senior brothers had already left to develop themselves in other restaurants, Gu Li stayed.

With his current skill level, even as a direct disciple, he could only work as an apprentice. Without hands-on guidance from a master, his progress was slow—far slower than if he had joined his senior brothers and trained independently elsewhere.

But Gu Li insisted on staying.

Tan Weian had once privately sighed, thinking that perhaps his junior brother stayed not just out of attachment to Zhiweiju, but also to accompany him.

Other disciples could leave, improve themselves, and eventually return in glory as master chefs—that was the normal path. Zhiweiju, after all, couldn’t accommodate everyone forever. One day, students had to graduate; only the very best could stay on as masters.

But Tan Weian couldn’t leave.

He was Master Tan’s grandson, the recognized true heir of his legacy. His recipe collection didn’t just come from his grandfather but from many other master chefs at Zhiweiju as well.

If he left to pursue his own path, it would seem like betraying his lineage.

So he thought his junior brother stayed because he himself had to stay—just as he always wanted to bring his junior brother along when going out for exchanges, his junior brother wanted to keep him company too.

Qin Huai and Zheng Siyuan, however, believed Tan Weian might be overthinking it.

Gu Li indeed didn’t like moving around, and he probably did want to accompany his senior brother—but that wasn’t the main reason.

Regardless of his reasons, one thing was undeniable: his hard work was evident to everyone.

Qin Huai deeply admired that effort, and he understood why Master Zhou both appreciated and felt regret for Gu Li.

After all, what teacher could refuse a student who might be clumsy but is incredibly hardworking? Diligence is a virtue—clumsiness isn’t a fault.

Back at Huang Ji, Qin Huai had observed everything Gu Li made and knew his level very well. So when the eight pastries were laid out, his eyes instinctively went to the Ruyi roll—and he couldn’t help comparing it to Gu Li’s previous attempts.

Seeing Qin Huai focus on the Ruyi roll first, everyone reacted differently.

Most apprentices felt a mix of disappointment and envy, with a hint of jealousy. They all knew masters didn’t have unlimited time—the first dish to be evaluated was usually the one that received the most attention and care.

But since Gu Li was a direct disciple, such treatment wasn’t surprising.

Qin Huai examined the Ruyi roll in front of him.

There was improvement—but not much.

The same old issues remained: solid fundamentals, but lacking in technique. A proper Ruyi roll, when cut open, should reveal cloud-like patterns. You couldn’t say Gu Li’s had none—but you also couldn’t say they truly did.

After inspecting its appearance, Qin Huai picked up a piece with his chopsticks and took a bite.

Ruyi rolls are deep-fried.

And fried pastries share a common trait—they taste best right out of the pot, when the temperature and doneness are just right, making them perfectly crispy.

A well-made Ruyi roll should have a golden, crispy exterior and soft meat inside. Its flavor isn’t heavy, but when dipped in pepper salt, it gains a unique charm.

The outer layer is an egg crepe, and frying it requires precise heat control—any mistake, and achieving that golden crispness becomes questionable.

Qin Huai’s refined palate and master-level seasoning sense told him one thing:

Gu Li had improved.

Gu Li’s control of heat was better than his.

Master Qin—who had been claiming for over half a year that he would diligently practice heat control, yet had leveled up everything except that skill—lowered his head humbly.

Ah, damn heat control!

Qin Huai took another bite.

Several Zhiweiju apprentices had already started exchanging glances, their eyes full of shock, clearly saying: Holy crap, Master Qin actually took two bites!

From this bite, Qin Huai tasted Gu Li’s weakness in seasoning.

Seasoning was the most talent-dependent aspect.

Gu Li didn’t have a particularly good palate—more precisely, his sense of taste was average, and his comprehension was poor. As a result, even when he could taste something, he couldn’t fully understand or integrate it.

For geniuses, barriers could be broken through effortlessly. But for Gu Li, he might wander outside the door for a long time without even knowing where to start breaking in.

A sliced Ruyi roll didn’t have much left. For the last bite, Qin Huai didn’t nibble slowly—he stuffed the rest into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and began speaking.

“Are you still practicing Ruyi rolls once every morning and golden-thread siu mai once every evening?” Qin Huai asked.

Gu Li nodded. “Yes. And if I have time at other moments, I try to focus on practicing these two pastries as well.”

After saying that, he glanced at Tan Weian and added, “Sometimes I also practice four-happiness tangyuan with my senior brother.”

Qin Huai: …

No need to cover for Tan Weian.

Because whenever Tan Weian practiced, he would definitely take photos of the finished product and send them to Qin Huai.

He really loved sending pictures—whether they were his own or forwarded from others.

“Your heat control is good,” Qin Huai began with praise, affirming Gu Li’s current level. “A few months ago, when you made Ruyi rolls, you often struggled with the oil temperature and timing when frying after coating with starch. It wasn’t that there were major problems, but each time it just didn’t feel like the best texture.”

“Now, have you started to get a feel for it?”

Gu Li nodded. “Yes. Before, when you said I hadn’t found the ‘feel,’ I didn’t understand what you meant. But on the eighth day of the New Year, while practicing, there was suddenly a moment when I think I understood.”

“You meant that when placing the Ruyi roll into the oil, without needing much observation, I can already tell whether the timing is right. And when flipping it, I can tell whether it’s too early or too late.”

“I don’t need to wait for the result—at the moment I act, my intuition tells me whether it’s right or wrong.”

“Is that the feeling you meant?”

Qin Huai nodded. “That’s exactly it. Good that you understand. I was worried I hadn’t explained it clearly. Recently, I’ve been telling Pei Xing that he hasn’t found the right ‘feel’ when kneading dough, and he still hasn’t figured it out. Since you understand, you should talk with him sometime—the one kneading dough at the far-left station. Exchange ideas with him.”

“Alright, Master Qin. Is there anything else about this Ruyi roll that I can improve right now?”

Pei Xing: ?

“You’ve found the feel for heat control, but not yet for seasoning. Texture is just the icing on the cake—the most important thing in pastries is still the flavor. Don’t you think your filling is too monotonous?”

“I’ve seen the recipe Tan Weian showed me. It’s a classic traditional pastry. If Master Tan could recreate it, then the recipe itself isn’t the problem—it must be in your execution of the details.”

“The filling uses many seasonings, but the flavor shouldn’t be overly sharp or pronounced. You need to repeatedly adjust, taste, and refine during preparation—that’s actually what you’re best at.”

“I haven’t eaten the original version, but in my opinion, your Shaoxing wine is used a bit too much. You shouldn’t increase a seasoning just to remove unwanted odors. As for the sesame oil, I’m not sure—but have you considered switching brands? The one you’re using might not suit Ruyi rolls.”

Gu Li said a bit awkwardly, “Master Qin, the brand of sesame oil I usually use isn’t available here, so…”

Qin Huai immediately understood and pointed outside at Huang Xi. “She’s the floor supervisor of our cafeteria—she handles most of the procurement. Later, you can add each other on WeChat. If you have any requirements for ingredients, seasonings, or tools, tell her and she’ll sort it out.”

After that, Qin Huai added a few more comparisons between Gu Li’s current and previous Ruyi rolls, then asked:

“You’re on the morning shift tomorrow, right?”

“Probably.”

“What pastry are you making in the morning?”

This question was crucial—it would directly determine what Qin Huai would have for breakfast tomorrow.

Back at Huang Ji, Qin Huai often made breakfast, but didn’t necessarily eat his own cooking. Besides his own pastries and Zheng Siyuan’s wontons, he also liked eating the pastries made by the Zhiweiju staff.

More variety, more delicious options—he loved it.

Gu Li instantly understood. “Golden-thread siu mai.”

“Excellent—that’s perfect for breakfast.” Qin Huai gave him an approving look, then moved on to the San Ding bun.

For San Ding buns, there was no need to take small bites and analyze slowly—Qin Huai knew this pastry too well. No matter who made it—even if it were Master Zhou—he could still comment on it.

Even praising it counted as commentary.

After finishing the entire bun, Qin Huai began a comprehensive evaluation—from the dough to the filling. Strengths, weaknesses, how to improve, what the improved version should be like, and small techniques for making San Ding buns—he covered everything.

He couldn’t stop himself. Absolutely couldn’t.

Qin Huai felt that he had never given such a satisfying critique of pastries in his life.

Before, he always hated how inarticulate he was. The more he tried to explain, the more he empathized with Zheng Da—wondering how anyone could describe things so clearly. Was “feeling” really that hard to understand? A feeling is just a feeling! How could you not get it?

But now, the more he spoke, the more he empathized with Huang Shengli—someone who could clearly list points one, two, three, four, instead of saying things like “it’s that feeling,” “you know the feeling,” “use finesse,” “not that kind of force, the other kind.”

Having words to describe those “feelings” was just incredible.

At first, Qin Huai hadn’t planned to say so much—but once he started, he simply couldn’t stop.

Because his explanation was so detailed it practically became a food review, not only were the ordinary apprentices stunned—even Su Qian was left speechless.

Su Qian: Damn, isn’t this the kind of treatment only direct disciples get?

Ordinary apprentices: Damn, so this is what it feels like to be a direct disciple!

Tan Weian (next to them): Since when did Qin Huai become so articulate? What has he secretly been practicing these past months?

Zheng Siyuan: As expected of Su Qian.

Pei Xing: Waaah… damn Su Qian! Competing with me at Zhiweiju, and now competing with me at the Yunzhong cafeteria too—why does Master Qin never talk to me like this?!

Li Hua: … I’m going to grind harder!