AGN -Chapter 335 A Pleasant Surprise

Before starting to thicken the sauce, Qin Huai first needed to confirm whether thickening (gōu qiàn) was really what he had seen and imagined it to be.

From a technical standpoint, thickening is the process of using starch, which gelatinizes when mixed with water, giving it properties like water absorption, adhesion, and smoothness. Near the end of cooking, starch water is poured into the wok to make the sauce thicker and help it better cling to the ingredients, improving both appearance and taste.

There are also many types of starch used for thickening—commonly mung bean starch, wheat starch, potato starch, sweet potato starch, and cornstarch. Each has different characteristics suited to different dishes.

Of course, cornstarch and potato starch are the most widely used. In most dishes, potato starch is the go-to choice.

But crab roe sauce clearly isn’t “most dishes.”

It requires mung bean starch.

Mung bean starch has excellent transparency and stability, superior in many ways to other starches. However, it has poor water absorption. If the cook lacks skill, the sauce can easily clump after thickening, making it quite demanding on technique.

Cao Guixiang hadn’t specifically instructed Qin Huai on which starch to use, but the recipe Tan Weian provided clearly stated that crab roe sauce must be thickened with mung bean starch. Since Tan Weian’s great-grandfather was very likely the creator of the double crab bun, there had to be a reason for leaving this instruction behind.

Qin Huai had a solid theoretical understanding of thickening, something Huang Shengli had briefly covered during earlier lessons. But since Qin Huai was purely a pastry chef, and thickening is rarely used in pastry work, the topic hadn’t been explored in depth.

Before meeting Cao Guixiang, Qin Huai had never imagined that thickening could be so difficult—or that it could have such a major impact on a dish.

In essence, thickening is a very common cooking technique. It’s like Go: understanding the rules is easy, but mastering it is a different story entirely.

To put it simply, everyone knows Zhao Rong’s cooking level—just average home cooking, easily outclassed by a cheap stir-fry shop next door.

Zhao Rong knows how to thicken sauces.

But if you asked her whether she could toss a wok, she’d probably ask what that even meant. Does lifting the wok like in TV dramas count? Or just stirring randomly with a spatula?

After asking, she might confidently say she can toss a wok—after all, it’s just waving a spatula, right? She can at least guarantee the food won’t fly out.

At that point, the questioner would realize she actually can’t toss a wok.

From this, it’s easy to see why Qin Huai used to think thickening was simple—it really looks simple.

Just pour starch water into the wok and stir. Anyone with hands can do it.

But doing it well—that’s the challenge.

Qin Huai first asked Zang Liang if his understanding was correct, then mimed the motion in the air. Zang Liang confirmed that his movements were fine and that he had indeed observed Cao Guixiang’s technique closely—and learned it fairly well. He then pointed out several key details to watch for when thickening.

He explained clearly: when the crab roe sauce should receive the first addition of starch water, the difference between light thickening and regular thickening, and when to add the second round of starch water.

Zang Liang was actually quite good at explaining things—he’d probably make a great teacher in the future.

Qin Huai nodded, indicating he understood.

“Thickening itself isn’t hard. Even without guidance, an ordinary person can learn it at home by watching online tutorials and practicing a few times. But that’s just success at a basic level.”

“Different dishes have different requirements. Stir-fries, stews, braises—they all need different approaches to thickening. It may seem like just pouring starch water into a wok, but what kind of starch water, how you pour it, what motion you use, and where you pour it—these are all techniques.”

“In the end, it comes down to practice. Once you find the ‘feel,’ you’ll know how to do it. You all say my crab roe sauce isn’t right—maybe I just haven’t found that feeling yet. If I practice a few more times, I should get it.”

He sighed. “But what exactly is that feeling? Why does everything need a ‘feeling’? How do all of you know it, but I don’t?”

As he spoke, Zang Liang shifted from a theory-focused explanation to talking about “feeling” without even realizing it.

Meanwhile, Qin Huai—the unofficial master of the “feeling school”—comforted him: “It’s normal not to find it on your first try. If you make crab roe sauce a few more times like Zheng Siyuan, you’ll get it. He actually knows how to make double crab buns—next time, have him make some for you. They might not turn out perfect, but tasting them should help you find that feeling.”

While Qin Huai was still talking, Zheng Siyuan had already started making crab roe sauce.

The steps were identical—his proficiency was obvious.

Soon, it was time to thicken.

Zang Liang prepared the starch water for Qin Huai and handed it over. Then he stepped back to a spot where he could clearly see the wok and continued instructing as he watched.

“Look, the sauce is starting to bubble slightly now. It’s not time yet. In about ten seconds, that’ll be the best moment to reduce and thicken. Don’t be nervous—it’s your first time. Don’t just dump all the starch water in. You have to pour it in a drizzle—find that feeling.”

Before Zang Liang even finished speaking, Qin Huai moved.

He didn’t actually know the perfect timing—but as Zang Liang said, it was all about feeling. If you feel it’s the right moment, then it is.

As Zang Liang spoke his final words, Qin Huai stopped hearing him altogether.

He stared into the wok at the glossy crab roe sauce bubbling under high heat. When a small bubble swelled and burst with a soft pop, the feeling came.

Now.

Quick—pour the starch water.

Every time Cao Guixiang cooked and needed to thicken, Qin Huai had carefully observed her movements.

He knew what “drizzling” meant.

Fast, exaggerated, yet elegant.

Her movements were always large and seemingly flamboyant, yet carried an effortless casualness—like an old lady casually picking up a bowl, circling her hand once, and letting the starch water flow smoothly into the wok. In the blink of an eye, the dish would be perfectly thickened.

And truly—it was over in a blink.

Qin Huai mimicked her. He circled the bowl once over the wok, and the starch water cascaded down into the crab roe sauce.

It all happened almost instantly.

From sensing the moment, to acting, to finishing the pour—everything flowed in one continuous motion.

He had expected hesitation, doubt, mistakes—even failure.

But none of that happened. Once the feeling came, everything else followed naturally. He didn’t even have time to think about whether his movements looked exaggerated enough or whether his imitation was accurate. It just felt right.

Watching the starch water fall into the wok, Qin Huai suddenly felt something was missing. He turned, puzzled, to look at Zang Liang—who stood there dumbfounded, silently mouthing “holy shit.”

“Is thickening supposed to be… I feel like… did I…?”

His voice snapped Zang Liang out of his daze.

“Holy shit!”

“Stir it! After thickening, stir it!” Zang Liang shouted, nearly piercing the kitchen. “Why haven’t you stirred yet?!”

“Grab the spatula—stir, stir!”

Qin Huai hurriedly grabbed the spatula and began stirring chaotically, perfectly demonstrating what it looked like for a first-timer to remember step one but forget step two.

Although he was a bit slow with the stirring, it wasn’t a big issue—just a minor mishap. The sauce was still edible. This batch of crab roe sauce could just be given to Ou Yang—he could mix it with noodles or rice as he pleased.

Qin Huai felt his demonstration was quite good overall.

Sure, there was a small mistake—but more importantly, judging by the expressions of Zang Liang, Tan Weian, and Zheng Siyuan, his earlier movement had definitely been exaggerated enough.

He turned off the heat, and the crab roe sauce was done.

Zheng Siyuan didn’t even rush to handle the sauce. Instead, he stared at Qin Huai in disbelief, his tone filled with: I know this might make sense for you, but this is still way too unreasonable.

“You… found the feeling for thickening?”

Qin Huai nodded uncertainly. “I think I got a bit of it. How was it just now? Was the motion like I described—big and exaggerated, but not actually excessive?”

As he spoke, he repeated the pouring motion. “Anyway, it’s roughly like this—the same kind of state. I can’t really explain the details. If needed, I’ll ask Master Cao tomorrow.”

Zheng Siyuan kept staring at him. “How did you find that feeling?”

“What feeling?” Qin Huai asked, confused.

“When you were thickening just now.” Zheng Siyuan paused, searching for the right words. “You were very decisive… and very composed.”

“Just a second ago, you were still listening to Zang Liang. But the next second, you completely ignored him.”

“I could tell—your hands moved before your brain. Even though it was your first time thickening, and your movements weren’t skilled yet, a bit clumsy… if we’re being strict, there were definitely flaws. But your timing was excellent, and the way you poured—it was beautiful.”

“Your slurry really flowed down.”

Zheng Siyuan pursed his lips, searching for the right words again.

“Like a waterfall pouring down.”

“No… not exactly a waterfall. But very smooth, very tactile—like it just flowed naturally.”

“How did you know that was the moment to thicken? Zang Liang didn’t even remind you.”

“I actually think the timing he had in mind would’ve been one or two seconds later than what you chose.”

For a moment, Qin Huai didn’t know how to answer. When it came to making things up, he could speak smoothly and convincingly. But telling the truth required real expression skills—and for him, that was harder.

“It was just… I felt it.”

“Do you understand that kind of feeling?”

“When I was looking at the crab roe sauce in the wok, I just felt that at that exact second—it was time to thicken.”

“As for how to do it, I didn’t consciously think much. Maybe I just subconsciously copied Master Cao. After all, I’ve watched her thicken sauces many times—whenever she cooks a big dish, she almost always does it.”

“And what you said about the starch water pouring like a waterfall… isn’t that normal? That’s how Master Cao always does it. Watching you guys, I thought maybe you just used different techniques. I felt like I only poured a little—Master Cao’s is way more beautiful than mine.”

Zheng Siyuan: …

Zang Liang: …

Tan Weian: …

“Want me to try again?” Qin Huai asked tentatively.

Zheng Siyuan thought for a moment, then nodded and continued working on the unfinished crab roe sauce.

Stir-frying.

In theory, thickening for stir-fried crab roe sauce and simmered crab roe sauce should be different. Zang Liang, being the most knowledgeable among them, should have pointed that out—but at this moment, he suddenly didn’t feel like speaking.

He really wanted to call his master—his respected teacher and uncle—and ask:

Master, I understand that seasoning requires “feeling”… but does thickening require it too?

If you find that feeling, can you really create such a beautiful thickening? Can you really make the slurry pour like a waterfall?

Master, why didn’t you ever tell me such an important technique before? If you had said so earlier, I would’ve tried to find the feeling for thickening along with heat control!

How is it possible that someone finds this feeling on their very first attempt? Sure, Qin Huai had plenty of flaws—even forgot to stir afterward—but his “feeling” was just so good…

Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap…

Just like that, Qin Huai began his second attempt at thickening.

He noticed that this time, the feeling wasn’t as strong as before.

As he stared at the crab roe sauce, he didn’t get that same urge as the first time—Now! Pour it!

But his timing was still decent—normal, not bad.

Most importantly, this time too, the starch water flowed down in a smooth cascade.

Watching from the side, Zang Liang had already started mimicking the motion in the air, holding an imaginary bowl. His wrist turned left, then right, his face full of confusion, as if asking:

How do you even create such a beautiful thickening?

How can the motion be so large, yet so effortless—done in a flash?

Wasn’t it said that thickening is easy to learn but hard to master?

How did Qin Huai skip the “learning” stage and jump straight to “advanced”?

The crab roe sauce was done.

The four of them silently tasted it.

To say Qin Huai’s thickening was perfect would be an exaggeration—there were still many flaws in the details. It could only be described as beautiful.

But at the same time, there were no real problems.

Zang Liang, who previously couldn’t understand why the others said his crab roe sauce tasted off, suddenly realized it after tasting this batch.

His tongue told him—this version of crab roe sauce really was more suitable as a bun filling.

He had so many things he wanted to say, so many “holy craps” he wanted to share with his friends—but in the end, all those words turned into silence. He could only squeeze out one sentence:

“How did you find that feeling?”

Zheng Siyuan had already asked that question earlier.

But Zang Liang still wanted to ask again.

He had eyes, a brain, and experience. As a professional chef, he knew Qin Huai wasn’t lying—this really was his first time thickening. After all, he had even forgotten to stir after pouring the starch water.

The first time, Qin Huai’s timing had been almost inspired—perfectly intuitive. But the second time, it was just average.

That proved Qin Huai had truly found that “feeling.” When the feeling was there, everything worked; when it wasn’t, it simply wasn’t.

But how was that even possible?

“I really can’t explain it,” Qin Huai said. “I can only repeat what I told Zheng Siyuan earlier.”

“I’ve always made pastries this way since I was young.”

“Many times, it’s not that I know how—it’s that I feel it should be done a certain way, so I just do it. And the final result usually turns out pretty good.”

“It was the same just now. I felt that was the moment, and I should thicken it the way Master Cao does. I didn’t imitate her perfectly—but I did it subconsciously.”

“That’s what I mean by ‘feeling.’”

Zang Liang didn’t understand—but he was deeply shocked.

He looked at Tan Weian, who had remained silent the entire time, patted his good friend, and whispered, “Is Qin Huai always like this? Why are you so calm?”

“Do you realize how amazing that thickening just now was? The way the slurry poured down—so beautiful. If I could do that, my master would wake up laughing in his dreams.”

Tan Weian curled his lips slightly. “Heh.”

“What kind of reaction is that?”

“The reaction of not understanding,” Tan Weian said calmly. “With my level of thickening skill, to be honest, I didn’t really understand what just happened.”

“And all that ‘feeling’ you guys were talking about—I’ve never understood it.”

“In middle school, my English teacher said if you don’t know the answer, just go with your feeling. I never got it right. I don’t even know what ‘feeling’ is.”

“Ever since Zheng Siyuan told me that Qin Huai succeeded on his first try making apple dough fritters at this level, I’ve felt that nothing can shock me anymore.”

“You people who can find ‘feeling’—go find it. Once you do, come back and tell me what it actually is.”

“I’m tired. I’m done. Let the world end.”