AGN -Chapter 398 The Heart of a Chef

As the steamer lid was lifted, thick clouds of steam surged out from the pot, scattering in all directions. Along with the steam came the rich aroma of the Sishi Rolls.

Yes—meaty aroma.

Anyone familiar with ham knows that whether it’s stir-fried or steamed, its fragrance is intensely rich. It has an extreme, savory freshness—so distinct you can clearly recognize it as cured, salty meat aroma.

The Sishi Rolls used high-quality ham. With Huang Ji’s supply chain, even if the young boss lacked business sharpness, there was no way inferior ham would be sourced. The ingredients were unquestionably top-tier.

So the moment the rolls came out of the steamer, their aroma was also top-tier.

The scent of diced ham, sesame oil, and scallions blended together into a perfect symbol of savory freshness. Just smelling it made one feel like they should be eating something substantial.

And Sishi Rolls were exactly that—a staple food.

Zheng Da efficiently lifted each roll out of the steamer, cut them in half, and plated them. Qin Huai and the others immediately gathered around to witness this historic moment.

There were cloud-like patterns—shaping was decent—but quality control was inconsistent.

Zheng Da’s actual performance proved something: even if the rolling technique went wrong, cloud patterns could still appear. It’s just that these “clouds” weren’t very cloud-like… and not particularly pretty. But they could still be recognized as cloud patterns. After all, aesthetics are subjective—maybe someone would even like this style.

Some of Zheng Da’s rolls showed a rather unique aesthetic sense, but most were normal—neither outstanding nor ugly, just passable.

This was also Qin Huai’s first time seeing a successfully formed cloud pattern, and he now had a rough idea of what Gu Li’s Ruyi Rolls might look like if they succeeded.

Everyone was marveling at Zheng Da’s Sishi Rolls.

Honestly, they were better than Qin Huai had expected. Zheng Da’s rolling technique had clearly shown many issues, and Qin Huai had even thought he might fail today. Yet the final result was unexpectedly decent, proving that Sishi Rolls had a high tolerance for error.

Huang Shengli also felt emotional, his face full of relief—clearly glad that his junior brother was no longer secretly making Sishi Rolls at home during holidays only to feed them to dogs.

Only Gong Liang didn’t show admiration or appreciation. His eyes were filled entirely with longing.

He had finally found a chance to sneak into the kitchen today—of course he intended to openly eat his fill.

As for the excuse he gave last night about being busy and sending an assistant to collect pastries… he had already completely forgotten it.

But Gong Liang didn’t ask, “Can I eat now?”

Even from a distance, he could tell Zheng Da’s mood was off. Everyone was waiting for Zheng Da’s reaction.

Zheng Da’s expression was complicated—very un-Zheng Da-like.

There was melancholy, nostalgia, a sense of loss, and a touch of youthful remembrance.

Qin Huai had never seen him like this before. Most of the time, Zheng Da was simple:

A simple lazy man.
A simple unambitious man.
A simple unmotivated man.
A simple man who liked giving red envelopes.
A simple man who liked spending money.
A simple man who once wanted to take Qin Huai as his disciple.

Perhaps because Zheng Da himself was so simple, he had once met Qin Huai only through a video call, briefly guided him in making locust flower buns, then immediately decided Qin Huai had talent and that video calls weren’t enough. So he personally traveled from Suzhou to Shangshi just to teach him in person.

If you think about it, it sounds unbelievable—but with Zheng Da, it somehow felt completely natural.

Even though he had long since left cooking to pursue business and achieved financial freedom, at his core he was still a pure chef. Still the Zheng chef from the old state-run restaurant—the one who once cried at home for days after being denied head chef position due to leadership bias toward pastry chefs, then angrily resigned.

Zheng Da stared blankly at the plate.

These were Sishi Rolls he made himself—identical technique, identical imperfections—but the filling had changed. The recipe had changed.

From fat cubes, pork belly cubes, lean pork cubes, and minced meat…

To fragrant diced ham.

Slowly, Zheng Da reached out and picked the ugliest, most flawed roll—the one with the worst “cloud pattern.”

He took a bite.

A big bite.

Like a starving teenager after a full day of work—able to devour a whole bun in two bites—he bit down hard. His cheeks bulged as he chewed rapidly.

“Ham dice… it really is ham dice… it really is ham…”

“Master, I was right… this filling was wrong… I finally know what the right filling is…”

“It’s ham… it really is ham…”

As he muttered, tears suddenly fell—two large drops at first, then like a flood breaking through a dam. He began crying uncontrollably while still chewing.

Everyone was stunned. Gu Li even took a step back in fear.

Even Zheng Siyuan looked at his father as if seeing him for the first time.

Qin Huai, although not fully understanding why Zheng Da reacted like his dream from last night, wasn’t surprised. He only felt a quiet sadness—and even a hint of happiness for Zheng Da.

Gong Liang exchanged a glance with Huang Shengli. Understanding the signal, he gently ushered Qin Huai and Zheng Siyuan away, giving Zheng Da space.

The others also wisely stepped back. Even the most gossipy person, Dong Shi, kept his eyes on the cutting board and silently chopped vegetables.

At the kitchen entrance, once they were far enough away that Zheng Da couldn’t hear them, Zheng Siyuan finally asked in shock: “Uncle Master… what’s wrong with my dad?”

Huang Shengli sighed.

“I didn’t expect him to react this strongly. Little Tan and Little Gu probably won’t understand this—you can ask Xiao Jiu later.”

“Siyuan, what did your father tell you about Sishi Rolls?”

Zheng Siyuan thought for a moment.

“He said it was a pastry Master once made when Grandpa was still around. It wasn’t his strong suit, couldn’t sell for a high price, not simple but not too complex either, so he didn’t like making it.”

“But every New Year’s Eve, he and my mom still ate it. They were used to it, so he made it at home every year.”

“I always thought that was an excuse. I heard from Uncle Gong that when Grandpa just retired, my dad got scolded badly by customers for making bad Sishi Rolls. He had a psychological shadow, so he only made them at home secretly.”

Huang Shengli nodded helplessly.

“I used to think the same. But now it seems we underestimated him.”

Qin Huai sensed from Huang Shengli’s expression that there was another version of the story.

“What actually happened, Master Huang?”

Gong Liang also looked over, confused.

Huang Shengli continued: “Back then, Zheng Da was indeed criticized behind his back by neighbors for his Sishi Rolls. But it wasn’t as harsh as you think. At most, people just said casually that he wasn’t as good as his master, and sighed that the master retired too early.”

“The state-run restaurant back then was more like your community canteen, Xiao Qin. Regular customers were all long-time neighbors who knew each other well. I handled the savory dishes, Zheng Da handled pastries. I just cooked inside; he had to sell buns outside. In fact, during his apprenticeship, all buns, steamed buns, and shumai were sold by him alone.”

“In modern terms, both he and I grew up in front of those customers.”

“Do you think with that relationship, he would really be scolded that badly for making imperfect Sishi Rolls?”

Gong Liang nodded.

“No one would openly curse him. At worst, it was just gossip. Zheng Da probably took more criticism from me as a salesperson in a month than he ever did there.”

“But his personality is different. If someone really pointed at his nose and said his pastries were trash, he might not even get that angry—just unconvinced. But if people looked at him with disappointment, or just sighed and said nothing, he would be genuinely hurt.”

“I thought it was just nostalgia,” Huang Shengli said. “But it wasn’t.”

“When Master suddenly retired due to illness, Zheng Da took over. The first year, his Sishi Rolls were bad, but he didn’t care much.”

“But in the second year, something happened to Master.”

“An accident?”

“Yes. Master was cooking alone at home on a coal stove. The stove collapsed, and all the coal fell onto his good leg. He fainted from the pain. We only discovered it when I and Zheng Da returned from work.”

“He was rushed to hospital. Gong Liang was quick-witted and borrowed a car from the factory, saving his life. But his leg was ruined.”

“After that, his health and spirit declined sharply. He stopped going out. Even after we arranged a wheelchair, he refused to go downstairs.”

“We even swapped his home to a first-floor unit, but it didn’t help.”

“At the time, we thought it was just depression. We tried everything to cheer him up, even spending New Year’s together at Gong Liang’s house.”

Gong Liang nodded, remembering. “That year, didn’t Zheng Da mention something about the Sishi Roll filling being wrong?”

“Yes. He said it shouldn’t use fat cubes.”

“But it was just an excuse. He didn’t care that much then.”

“It was only the second New Year after that when he mentioned it again—but by then Master’s condition had worsened. His memory was fading.”

“I don’t remember exactly what Master said… something about there being a better recipe, but Zheng Da had to figure it out himself.”

“Did Zheng Da also say he would make better Sishi Rolls than Master by New Year’s Eve?”

“Yes,” Huang Shengli sighed. “He said it just to make Master happy.”

“But Master passed away that autumn. He never saw the next New Year.”

“We all knew Zheng Da still made Sishi Rolls every year, but no one exposed him… because of that promise.”

“I used to think he did it out of nostalgia,” Huang Shengli said softly. “But now I realize…”

“It wasn’t nostalgia.”

“He was remembering a promise.”

“He promised that one day, on New Year’s Eve, he would make Sishi Rolls better than Master’s.”

As he spoke, Huang Shengli’s eyes reddened.

Qin Huai looked quietly toward Zheng Da in the distance.

The man who once cried at twenty over injustice in the kitchen… now cried at fifty after finally fulfilling a promise delayed for thirty years.

Huang Shengli said softly:

“Siyuan. That’s your father.”

“You don’t need to think he wasted his talent or was unmotivated.”

“No matter whether he cooks or not…”

“He has the heart of a chef.”

He paused.

“Just a little lazy.”

Zheng Siyuan glanced at his father, expression calm—but that calm said everything.

“I understand, Uncle Master.”

“I won’t push him to cook anymore.”