AGN -Chapter 414 Zhao Cheng’an

At 9:12, Qin Huai stood by the cooking station with a plate in his left hand and chopsticks in his right. On the plate were 18 delicate soup dumplings, steaming hot—thin-skinned and translucent, each fold perfectly formed. They looked as if they had walked straight out of a painting drawn by an obsessive perfectionist.

These 18 xiaolongbao matched every person’s imagination of the perfect soup dumpling.

Translucent, but not completely so. The skin was so thin that even without strong lighting, under natural light alone, one could feel that light might pierce through it at any moment, revealing the broth and meat filling inside.

Their shape was exquisitely refined. Each pleat was carefully designed, and the entire dumpling had a smooth, flowing form. From top to bottom it formed an irregular yet perfect triangular shape. Just looking at it was enough to imagine how much soup was sealed inside. One bite would release warm, savory juice—perhaps with a faint hint of sweetness—bursting with rich meat flavor. That moment would be pure bliss.

And imagination matched reality perfectly.

Qin Huai had two ways of eating soup dumplings.

The normal way was to dip them directly in vinegar. He would gently lift a dumpling with chopsticks, roll it once in the vinegar dish so the skin absorbed a layer of sour aroma, then in a lightning-fast motion stuff the whole dumpling into his mouth and chew vigorously.

This was his most commonly used method.

The second method he learned from Qin Luo. Luo Luo was someone who loved vinegar so much that she dipped not only xiaolongbao, but even regular meat buns, radish buns, and green bean buns in vinegar—and not just a light dip.

Her favorite way to eat meat buns was to pour half a small bowl of vinegar, split the bun open, then press the soaked, oil-heavy side of the bun skin hard into the vinegar until it turned dark with vinegar, and then eat it in one bite together with the filling.

According to Qin Luo, the oilier the bun, the better it tasted this way. She especially enjoyed this method with buns made by Qin Congwen, since his technique was not very stable and often resulted in overly greasy fillings. Qin Huai’s buns, however, were not suitable for such an extreme method.

If the bun skin absorbed too much vinegar, all you would taste was vinegar and not the bun itself. Qin Huai preferred to still taste the original flavor—vinegar should not take over completely.

From this extreme eating style, Qin Huai developed his own way of eating xiaolongbao: first take a small bite to break the top, then pour a bit of vinegar inside, and swallow it in one go.

How much vinegar to pour—whether to fill it or just a little—depended entirely on how much the eater liked vinegar, and whether their hand shook.

At first, Qin Huai kept a respectful distance from Qin Luo’s extreme method. But once, after trying it at her strong insistence, he discovered it had its merits.

Especially with soup dumplings full of rich broth—adding a small amount of vinegar inside made the experience much better than simply dipping.

Qin Luo even summarized it: dipping vinegar is external application; pouring vinegar is internal use. External plus internal gives the best effect.

Qin Huai chose both.

He stood by the cooking station, both hands full, with no space on the plate for a small vinegar dish.

But that was fine. Everything could be placed at the corner of the workstation.

The corner of the station held more than just a small vinegar dish—it also had a small narrow-spout bottle for pouring vinegar into dumplings, a cup of warm tea at the right temperature, and a steaming bowl of “12-knot chicken soup noodles,” perfect for breakfast.

The noodles were forcibly given to Qin Huai by Master Hua. According to him, since he had tasted Qin Huai’s cooking yesterday, today it was Qin Huai’s turn to try his.

The corner of the workstation was packed with Qin Huai’s items—yet this workstation originally belonged to Su Qian.

Su Qian was currently kneading dough under Master Zhou’s watchful gaze, working with extreme caution and not daring to slack off at all. He was completely different from his state at Yunzhong Canteen.

There, Su Qian was the deputy team leader and the backbone of the entire group, handling everything with ease, including pastries. But here, he was Master Zhou’s officially designated closed-door disciple.

“Officially designated” in name, but not yet a formal disciple. So in reality, he was still the most pressured and overworked apprentice in Zhiwei Ju.

Around him were the stations of his future senior brothers—three direct disciples under Master Zhou.

Qin Huai had already been introduced to them earlier while eating his soup dumplings. Each of the three had distinct personalities.

The eldest disciple of Master Zhou was Wang Jiayi, several years older than Huang Jia, with a daughter about to enter middle school. Wang Jiayi was both a direct disciple and a senior chef at Zhiwei Ju, with treatment almost equal to that of head chefs. He even had two disciples of his own.

In terms of culinary skill, Wang Jiayi was already quite mature, only one step away from Master Zhou’s ideal of “graduation”—developing his own culinary style.

Talent-wise, he was moderate, but extremely hardworking—exactly the type Master Zhou liked. In a sense, he was like an upgraded version of Gu Li.

In terms of personality, although Master Zhou didn’t elaborate much, Qin Huai could tell Wang Jiayi was the kind of plump, easygoing person who looked approachable—and likely even more approachable than he appeared.

Because when Qin Huai walked over with his soup dumplings and curiously observed the apprentices, Wang Jiayi glanced at the dumplings in his plate and immediately handed him a vinegar dish.

Yes, the small vinegar dish Qin Huai had was brought by Wang Jiayi. The movement was so smooth and habitual that it clearly came from daily routine.

No wonder Master Zhou liked Gu Li—he already had a disciple of that type. It was natural he would feel some fondness for Gu Li as well.

Master Zhou’s second disciple shared his surname and was a rare female chef named Zhou Yan. Although the proportion of female chefs in pastry work was higher than in hot kitchen work, women were still rare overall—especially top-tier female chefs, who were extremely scarce.

Among all the senior chefs Qin Huai had met at Zhiwei Ju yesterday, only two were women. That alone showed how valuable Zhou Yan was.

In terms of talent, Zhou Yan was above Wang Jiayi, but she was less driven and eight years younger. As a result, her current skill level lagged behind Wang Jiayi. She was considered a reserve senior chef, still a long way from graduation.

Compared to the first two, Master Zhou’s third disciple was much younger—only three years older than Su Qian—and named Zhao Cheng’an. When he first entered Zhiwei Ju, it had caused quite a sensation; he was considered something of a legendary figure. Tan Weian had even mentioned him to Qin Huai during gossip.

Unlike most apprentices who came to Zhiwei Ju to learn a craft, Zhao Cheng’an was sent here because he refused to study. His parents wanted to teach him a lesson. Coincidentally, they had connections to an acquaintance of Boss Su, so they pulled strings and sent him here as an apprentice to make him realize that studying was actually the easiest path.

But Zhao Cheng’an ended up turning the tables on them—teaching his parents a lesson instead, and making them realize that entering Zhiwei Ju as an apprentice could actually be considered a proper path in life.

Before coming to Zhiwei Ju, Zhao Cheng’an had no foundation at all. But he was only nine years old at the time.

Yes—nine. A third-grade elementary school kid who had already dropped out, sent here for two months during summer vacation just to suffer a bit.

A nine-year-old with zero experience could hardly be an apprentice. Not causing trouble would already be impressive. If not for his parents’ connections, he wouldn’t have been accepted at all.

At that time, Zhiwei Ju was in its golden expansion period. Boss Su didn’t have time to personally handle such a connection case, so he casually asked a kind-tempered master chef to take care of the child and let him experience some hardship.

As a result, Zhao Cheng’an suffered through that hardship and was utterly amazed by what he experienced.

Not only did he master all the basic skills with remarkable ease, but although he came from a fairly well-off family and could be considered a half–young master, he had been mischievous since childhood, disliked studying, and had often been beaten by his parents. Because of that, he was unusually resilient to both physical pain and pressure, had excellent physical strength, and a sharp sense of taste.

Most importantly, he had astonishing talent in white-case pastry work, a strong aesthetic sense, and genuinely enjoyed making desserts.

After two months of summer training, Boss Su personally visited Zhao Cheng’an’s parents, urging them to keep the child at Zhiwei Ju. He appealed emotionally and logically—even going so far as to say things like: since the child’s academic performance wasn’t great anyway, having a pastry specialty still counted as a skill; studying should still be done properly, but pastry-making could also be developed as a talent.

In the end, Zhao Cheng’an’s parents were completely persuaded by Boss Su and agreed to the plan: regular schooling on weekdays, practice on weekends, and intensive training during winter and summer vacations.

Because of his astonishing talent, Zhao Cheng’an was fiercely competed for by several master chefs. He eventually became a direct disciple of Master Zhou at the age of ten, becoming a nightmare for many apprentices and even some of the direct disciples at Zhiwei Ju.

As Tan Weian put it, if Zhao Cheng’an weren’t slightly lazy—less driven and not the type to overwork himself, and if his family weren’t well-off so he didn’t care much about work and even took a fixed half-month vacation every year to travel—he would have already surpassed Zheng Siyan, become the number one young white-case chef, and become a legend.

At the same time, because of this personality, Zhao Cheng’an, after turning twenty, was no longer as shockingly gifted as he once was. Of course, he did not become mediocre either—he settled into being a normal direct disciple at Zhiwei Ju.

According to Tan Weian, although Zhao Cheng’an had this personality, he was actually Master Zhou’s favorite disciple—not because of his talent, but because he had the sweetest tongue. He could come up with all kinds of excuses just to ask for leave to travel, and Master Zhou enjoyed hearing pleasant words.

From Master Zhou’s three disciples, it was clear that although he liked to mock people with sarcasm, he was actually very tolerant as a teacher.

He had a first disciple with above-average talent but extreme diligence, a second disciple with solid and balanced talent, and a third disciple with outstanding talent but relatively lazy.

Even someone recognized as the current number one in white-case cuisine, Master Zhou still couldn’t find disciples who were both extremely talented and extremely hardworking, which showed how difficult it was to take apprentices. No wonder the master chefs of Zhiwei Ju often fought and argued fiercely over disciples.

All three of Master Zhou’s disciples had studied under him for many years and were now mostly independent, so Master Zhou’s current teaching focus had largely shifted to Su Qian.

At this point, someone might wonder: why did Tan Weian know Zhao Cheng’an so well? Were they close?

Yes.

Because the kind-hearted master chef chosen by Boss Su back then to take care of the children was Tan Weian’s grandfather.

When Zhao Cheng’an became a full staff member after his summer apprenticeship at Zhiwei Ju, Tan Weian was still a little kid, only occasionally practicing basic skills at home and not formally learning cooking yet. At that time, Tan Weian believed he would be the next Zhao Cheng’an—that with just a little effort, he would shock everyone at Zhiwei Ju.

Reality, however, gave him a loud slap in the face, telling him he was overthinking it. Although everyone might be “connected people,” and Tan Weian even had stronger connections, some people born into privilege were simply protagonists, while others were destined to be supporting characters.

This was also why Tan Weian, after meeting Qin Huai, could so calmly choose to slack off. Qin Huai was indeed more monstrous in talent, but Tan Weian had already grown used to it. He had grown up in the shadow of geniuses. Life was still long—who knew if he might meet someone even more terrifying than Qin Huai in the future?

Qin Huai stood beside Su Qian’s worktable, while his attention drifted across several stations.

Su Qian, Zhao Cheng’an, Zhou Yan, and Wang Jiayi were all kneading dough.

Kneading dough was the most basic and most important fundamental skill for white-case chefs.

Although all four were taught by the same master, Qin Huai noticed each of them had their own style.

Zhao Cheng’an, despite his lively personality, was the most steady and focused when kneading dough. As a textbook talent-type chef, his dough carried almost no personal style—flawless, stable, and difficult to criticize. The few minor “issues” one might notice often felt intentional, as if they were his own design. In short, extremely standard and steady.

The complete opposite was Wang Jiayi. As an upgraded version of Gu Li, his dough work was highly distinctive—his movements were exaggerated and bold, almost like a performance rather than kneading. Moreover, his skill level was actually above Qin Huai’s, and watching him knead dough was oddly enjoyable, even making one wonder how someone like this still hadn’t graduated from apprenticeship. Master Zhou’s standards were truly high.

Zhou Yan, the only female direct disciple of Master Zhou, had smaller, gentler movements while kneading. Everything was neat and efficient, with no unnecessary motion at all.

She had some personal style, but not much.

As for Su Qian—

He was the weakest among the four. So weak that Qin Huai could spot many flaws at a glance. Back when Su Qian was still at Zhiwei Ju, Qin Huai thought his skills were quite good, enough to crush most apprentices.

But now…

Without comparison, there is no harm. Compared to his three future senior brothers and sisters, Su Qian clearly still had a long way to go.

Qin Huai leisurely ate one soup dumpling after another, watching everything with great interest.

Master Zhou hadn’t told him what exactly to observe, and Qin Huai himself wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to learn—but whatever, just watching was enough.

If a passerby with no context happened to walk by, they would likely assume Qin Huai was the young heir of Zhiwei Ju—and shake their head, thinking the place was doomed.

The young heir was so carefree that he could casually eat breakfast while watching pastry chefs knead dough, looking completely clueless about what he was even observing. He probably wasn’t even capable of making pastries himself—just a spoiled rich kid.

Qin Huai swallowed the last soup dumpling and put down his plate, preparing to eat noodles.

Master Zhou smiled and asked, “Want something else? Old Hua’s chicken noodle soup is nothing special. If you’re not full, I can make another batch of egg tarts later—have a few more to fill yourself up.”

Zhao Cheng’an, who had been focused on kneading dough, couldn’t help but glance up. His expression clearly said: Is this still my master?

When I was a kid, I never got this treatment. Now this newcomer gets treated like a child?

Master, am I still your favorite third disciple?

Master Zhou didn’t even spare him a glance.

“Master Zhou, no need to trouble yourself. I’ll just eat whatever is fine.” Qin Huai smiled slightly, a bit embarrassed. “Everyone else is busy while I’m just eating… maybe I should also—”

“No need,” Master Zhou said firmly. “Qin Huai, you just watch today. Only watch.”

“Third disciple, stop slacking off. You’re spacing out again.”

Zhao Cheng’an: QAQ