AGN -Chapter 464 The Dim Sum Encyclopedia

Question: When conditions allow it, what is Qin Huai’s most commonly used method to complete tasks?
Answer: Speak his mind directly.

After Zhang Guanghang remained silent for five or six minutes and sent a reply saying that Chef Xia’s repertoire of white-stem dim sum wasn’t very extensive, and if Qin Huai and the others really wanted dim sum and didn’t mind, they could go to Fenyuan at around 2 p.m. to make it themselves, Qin Huai directly said to Zhao Cheng’an:

“Didn’t you just say this meal feels like it’s missing a staple food?”

“What staple food do you want? More precisely, what kind of dim sum?”

Zhao Cheng’an was stunned by the question. His brain wasn’t very clear at the moment, and most of what he had been saying earlier was basically nonsense.

Qin Huai’s question instantly brought his intelligence back online. After thinking for a moment, Zhao Cheng’an asked uncertainly, “Chef Xia doesn’t seem very good at making dim sum, right?”

Over the years, all of Fenyuan’s famous signature dishes had been standard or slightly unusual hot dishes—none of them were related to dim sum. From the guests eating there yesterday, it was obvious that people who came to Fenyuan didn’t really like staple foods; none of the other two tables had eaten any rice at all.

Staple food makes you full. Now that Fenyuan offered unlimited ordering, of course people would prioritize dishes over rice. If you couldn’t get signature dishes, eating winter melon, cabbage, or pumpkin was fine too. Who would bother with staple food at a time like this?

But Qin Huai and Zhao Cheng’an did.

Qin Huai did not answer.

After thinking for a moment, Zhao Cheng’an added, “Fenyuan’s dishes actually go really well with rice, but eating plain white rice always feels like a waste. If there were steamed buns, rice cakes, corn buns, or that yam cake you made this morning, I think they would go really well.”

“Although Chef Xia probably knows how to make those, he probably wouldn’t want to do it. It feels a bit like overkill.”

Qin Huai revealed a satisfied smile, which gave Zhao Cheng’an a bad feeling.

“I think so too. That’s why I asked Zhang Guanghang earlier whether we could go to Fenyuan tomorrow afternoon to make dim sum in advance. Chef Xia agreed.”

Zhao Cheng’an: ?

“Tomorrow at 2 p.m., the two of us will go to Fenyuan on time to make the dim sum for dinner. You can make whatever you want to eat.”

Zhao Cheng’an: ??

—

The next day at 1 p.m., worried about traffic causing them to be late, the Qin Huai duo set off an hour early again. But the entire journey was smooth, and they arrived at the entrance of Fenyuan at 1:32 p.m.

Holding a clay pot, Qin Huai looked at the familiar closed gate of Fenyuan and asked Zhao Cheng’an a soul-searching question: “Isn’t North Beijing supposed to have terrible traffic jams every day? Why is it that every time we come to Fenyuan, there’s never a traffic jam?”

Zhao Cheng’an looked blank. “I don’t know.”

Qin Huai began to wonder: could it be that “Fuyou” (Zhao Cheng’an) is some kind of rare auspicious beast, with a passive buff that prevents traffic jams? If so, he should bring Zhao Cheng’an out more often in the future.

The two of them once again wandered outside Fenyuan’s gate.

Qin Huai hesitated about whether to message Zhang Guanghang to tell them they had arrived early again.

Zhao Cheng’an thought they should go buy a sesame bun, not eat it now but save it for breakfast tomorrow.

Qin Huai thought it wasn’t necessary and said that if Zhao Cheng’an really wanted buns that badly, they could just bake them themselves in the afternoon. Bringing buns into Fenyuan might make people think they were there to cause trouble because they didn’t like Chef Xia’s cooking.

Just as they were about to continue debating the merits of sesame buns at the gate—

The door opened.

Zhang Guanghang, wearing the same chef uniform as yesterday, no longer cold but still expressionless, looked at them silently and said: “Come in.”

As usual, Zhang Guanghang led the way. Except yesterday he led them to the dining hall, today he led them into the kitchen.

Guests had become temporary workers.

And honestly, Fenyuan’s kitchen was quite large.

A private kitchen renovated from a Siheyuan courtyard had both modern cooking stations, stoves, ovens, and even old-fashioned rural brick stoves. There were worn wooden cabinets whose paint had long peeled off, and even firewood and bamboo baskets in the corners.

What Qin Huai found most modern, however, was the surveillance screen on the wall.

It directly displayed ultra-clear views of the dining hall and private rooms. The only strange thing was that one small section of the screen was black.

Seeing Qin Huai’s gaze fall on it, Zhang Guanghang calmly explained, “That part is broken and hasn’t been repaired yet.”

“All ingredients in the kitchen are available. Steamers are over there. Fenyuan rarely makes dim sum, so some equipment may be missing. Just make do.”

He pointed to two cooking stations. “Chef Xia and I will come later to prepare dishes. Don’t touch the stoves.”

Qin Huai quickly said, “Chef Xia starting prep this early—he really works so hard every day!”

Zhao Cheng’an: ?

(No brother, at least give me a signal before you start flattery. I can’t keep up.)

Zhang Guanghang said nothing and left the kitchen.

The moment he left, Zhao Cheng’an rushed to the refrigerator and began enthusiastically inspecting ingredients, exclaiming:

“Such high-quality bird’s nest!”

“Such large dried abalone!”

“Such huge sea cucumber!”

“Wow, that wall of ham!”

If Qin Huai didn’t know that Zhao Cheng’an in this life hadn’t recovered his previous culinary skills, he would have thought Zhao Cheng’an had awakened his memories and was preparing to make a comeback in the industry at Fenyuan.

“Alright, stop looking and think about what you want to eat today,” Qin Huai said, though he himself was also scanning the kitchen. When he saw the familiar Eight Treasures Restaurant gift box on the shelf, everything that had confused him yesterday suddenly became clear.

“I’ll just go with what I said yesterday,” Zhao Cheng’an was still inspecting ingredients. “Something simple that goes with rice—steamed buns, rice cakes. Yesterday I really wanted to dip into the sauce of those dishes with buns, but there weren’t any.”

“Fine, then we’ll start with steamed buns,” Qin Huai nodded.

Zhao Cheng’an clearly wanted the easiest task to complete, and Qin Huai’s steamed bun skills were now at a stable A-minus level.

Chef Xia’s savory cooking was clearly S-level, so pairing A-minus buns with S-level dishes was a bit underwhelming—but still acceptable. After all, S-level dim sum chefs were extremely rare nowadays; even Chef Zhou couldn’t consistently reach S-level.

With the task in mind, Qin Huai focused on kneading dough seriously.

Zhao Cheng’an, after finishing his inspection of ingredients, returned to help—but his “help” was peeling yam and soaking glutinous rice. Pure side work.

“Qin Huai, do you think we count as having a buffet today? A self-made dim sum buffet,” Zhao Cheng’an said, even cracking a cold joke and laughing at himself.

Then he stopped laughing.

Xia Murui had arrived.

Neither Qin Huai nor Zhao Cheng’an had ever seen Xia Murui before.

As the only currently active Chinese chef in the top ten of the Master Chef List, Xia Murui was widely renowned, but in reality, he was quite mysterious.

People said he had a very bad temper, but very few chefs had actually been fortunate enough to be scolded by him. Especially in recent years, Xia Murui rarely went out. Ingredients were delivered daily by familiar suppliers. When Zhang Guanghang was present, he handled serving dishes; when he wasn’t, the job was done by part-time workers or Xia Murui’s housekeeper.

Most diners who came to Fenyuan were just like Qin Huai and Zhao Cheng’an the day before: even though the dining hall was only a few meters from the kitchen, and freshly cooked dishes could be served in just over ten seconds, they would never see the person who cooked the food.

Diners couldn’t see him, and neither could his peers.

This left Chef Xia in a very peculiar state over the years—his reputation for being fierce spread far and wide, yet very few people actually knew what his “fierceness” looked like. Everyone knew he had a bad temper, but no one knew exactly how bad it was. He was clearly one of the most famous masters of hot dishes in the country, yet most diners didn’t even know what he looked like, because there were no photos of Xia Murui online at all.

Even an old interview column about Xia Murui in Zhiwei magazine only featured photos of his dishes, never of him, because Chef Xia was famously averse to being photographed.

While casually kneading dough, Qin Huai pretended to glance up absentmindedly and stole a look at Xia Murui before quickly shifting his gaze away, continuing to knead seriously on the surface while actually observing from the corner of his eye.

Xia Murui was truly very old.

Even without knowing his exact age, just his appearance made it clear he was an elderly man.

His back was no longer straight. His skin was dark and loose, with age spots typical of the elderly on his hands and face. Though he still looked fairly sturdy and not frail, his slightly cloudy eyes, deep wrinkles, and crow’s feet all clearly revealed his age.

Xia Murui indeed had a face that looked difficult to approach.

But he hadn’t always looked like this.

Qin Huai still remembered the appearance of “Xia Sheng” from Zhao Cheng’an’s memories. Although Xia Sheng also often wore a blank expression and gave off a “do not approach” aura, he didn’t feel vicious. Instead, he seemed like someone who simply had too much work and couldn’t be bothered to show expressions.

Back then, Xia Sheng’s eyes were clear and lively, larger than they were now. His features were sharp and full of energy—he wasn’t particularly handsome, but he radiated vitality.

He always stood straight, walked quickly like the wind, and moved with purpose. His hair was black but slightly dry, and the skin on his arms and hands showed no scars like those he now bore.

If Qin Huai hadn’t known this was the same person, it would have been hard to believe.

A person’s youth and old age can feel like two completely different lives.

Before seeing Xia Murui, Qin Huai had actually looked forward to this encounter between Xia Murui and Zhao Cheng’an. These two unrelated senior-apprentice brothers meeting again after more than half a century—it should have been an exciting moment no matter how you looked at it.

But when Xia Murui actually walked into the kitchen, Qin Huai realized the meeting was ordinary.

It was like passing strangers on the street—you never know if that stranger might have been someone from your past life. In this life, you can’t recognize those from previous ones, and those people from the past are no longer waiting in time for you.

Qin Huai couldn’t help but glance at Zhao Cheng’an. He knew what he was expecting, but Zhao Cheng’an clearly didn’t meet that expectation. He only looked at Xia Murui in mild surprise, like someone respectfully acknowledging a senior figure in the industry, then went back to his work.

Qin Huai glanced at Xia Murui again—and unexpectedly met his gaze.

Sharp.

Qin Huai: “……”

At times, he really wanted to slap himself for being unable to stop overthinking.

For the first time, Qin Huai didn’t know what expression or attitude to use toward a senior in the field.

Should he look away awkwardly? That would seem rude, like he was rejecting Chef Xia—what if the old man got angry and threw him out?

Should he hold eye contact? Xia Murui’s gaze was sharp and almost aggressive, as if he could see through everything. Qin Huai was already emotionally tangled; if he stared longer, what if he suddenly asked, What are you thinking? Do you know me?

Or should he pretend he didn’t mean to make eye contact and quickly return to work?

It felt a bit deliberate, but acceptable. Qin Huai chose plan C.

But Xia Murui didn’t give him the chance to execute plan C.

“Ling Guangzhao said your yam cake was learned from an old recipe tucked inside a book. Do you still have a photo of that recipe?” Xia Murui asked.

“No. I bought that book when I was in elementary school. I didn’t have a camera then, so I didn’t take a photo—I only copied it into a notebook,” Qin Huai replied.

“Then do you remember what the handwriting on that recipe looked like?” Xia Murui pressed.

Handwriting?

Qin Huai froze, then realized Xia Murui was trying to confirm who wrote that recipe.

He really wanted to say yes and describe the handwriting of Chen Sheng to prove it was his writing. Unfortunately, Qin Huai had never seen Zhao Cheng’an write before, so he had no idea what his handwriting looked like.

In a flash of inspiration, Qin Huai came up with a brilliant story.

“I vaguely remember. The writing was quite beautiful. I studied calligraphy when I was young, and I think it was even better than my teacher’s,” Qin Huai said.

Xia Murui frowned slightly.

“I don’t remember the exact form, but I do remember the strokes were especially elegant. I even tried to imitate them back then, but couldn’t.”

Xia Murui’s brows relaxed instantly. He murmured, “So it was written by Ping’an.”

A helpless smile appeared on his face—one Qin Huai found familiar.

“Chen Sheng yam cake… only he could think of that.”

Then Xia Murui turned to the dough Qin Huai was kneading and asked, “Who is your master?”

At that moment, Zhao Cheng’an immediately perked up, looking at Qin Huai with anticipation, clearly waiting for the answer he wanted to hear.

Qin Huai: “……”

He really had thought Zhao Cheng’an wasn’t a spirit or something strange—but sometimes, even if he was more normal in this life, he still acted a bit like a lunatic.

Qin Huai took a deep breath and enunciated clearly, word by word, the answer Zhao Cheng’an wanted: “Complete Guide to Dim Sum.”

Xia Murui: ?

Complete Guide to Dim Sum?

Wasn’t that the book Qin Huai bought for one yuan at a flea market when he was in elementary school?

Since when did someone have the surname “Dian”?