Chapter 76 Soup

After confirming that the shop had the necessary ingredients, Qin Huai rushed over without delay and began preparing the soup.

Chicken soup is one of the most important components of chicken noodle soup.

Just from the name, it’s clear that chicken soup makes up about two-thirds of the dish.

Whether a bowl of chicken noodle soup tastes good or not depends largely on the soup as the foundation, while the noodles are the finishing touch. If the foundation isn’t solid, even the best noodles can only reach a limited level. But if the soup is exceptionally rich and delicious, a bowl of chicken noodle soup can push Qin Luo to surpass himself and eat five bowls in one sitting.

How to brew an excellent pot of chicken soup, however, requires careful technique.

When Zheng Da was still working in the cafeteria as a randomly appearing pastry chef, he once mentioned to Qin Huai that—even if Qin Huai didn’t want to formally acknowledge him as a master—he still hoped Qin Huai would systematically learn the fundamentals required of a pastry chef.

As a pastry chef, kneading dough is an essential basic skill.

Most pastry items are flour-based, and different pastries and cooking techniques require different characteristics of the dough. Understanding how to knead dough appropriately for different foods, achieving the right consistency, and even adjusting softness, elasticity, and stretchiness according to different preferences are all extremely important.

Besides kneading, preparing fillings is equally important.

The dough determines texture, while the filling determines flavor. Only by combining the two can truly delicious pastries be made. As long as both the dough and filling are properly handled, even if there are minor mistakes in steaming, boiling, or baking, the result usually won’t be too bad.

Thus, heat control isn’t unimportant—it’s just not the decisive factor.

Of course, if the heat control is bad enough, it can decisively ruin the dish.

As for knife skills, most pastry chefs are not particularly skilled in this area.

Zheng Da, however, was quite exceptional among pastry chefs. His strong knife skills were mainly due to solid fundamentals practiced since childhood. His master, Master Jing, was skilled in both cooking (hot dishes) and pastries, and trained apprentices in both areas, covering all fundamentals. Only when a student showed clear aptitude would he provide targeted training.

In this sense, Zheng Da was a classically trained pastry chef. He had an excellent teacher who understood how to teach. He practiced fundamentals from a young age, building a strong foundation. Not only was he solid in kneading dough and preparing fillings, but he also had excellent knife skills and good control of heat. In technique, he was a well-rounded “five-sided warrior.”

As for Qin Huai, Zheng Da’s evaluation of him was that he was extremely one-sided.

He basically had no knife skills.

This was normal—knife skills must be practiced; there’s no shortcut. Qin Huai had no master and relied entirely on talent and self-study for cooking. Most importantly, he didn’t need to cut vegetables at home.

When he was young at the children’s welfare home, Director Qin and the staff weren’t good at cooking, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t cut vegetables. Although the welfare home was poor, Director Qin was not cruel enough to make young children handle knives. Qin Huai basically never touched a knife there.

Later, when he was adopted by the Qin family, the breakfast shop had a clear division of labor. Tasks like cutting vegetables and chopping meat fillings—labor-intensive but low-skill work—were handled entirely by Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong.

So Qin Huai still didn’t handle knives there.

Later, after graduating from university and returning to help run the breakfast shop, his parents felt sorry for him, and Qin Huai himself wasn’t fond of waking up early. Every morning, Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong would prepare everything before he got up and started working.

In short, Qin Huai had never practiced knife skills in his entire life—those two words simply didn’t exist in his culinary vocabulary.

Heat control was slightly better than his knife skills. For example, when steaming buns or simmering fillings for “Five-Ingredient Buns,” he still had to pay some attention to heat.

Before activating the game system, Qin Huai had always believed his heat control was quite good.

When the system was first activated, he even felt that its evaluation of both his knife skills and heat control being “beginner level” was unfair. He accepted the knife skills rating—he truly couldn’t do them—but he disagreed with the heat control rating. He thought his heat control was fine. Look at his buns—they came out big and white.

It was only recently that he realized it wasn’t that his heat control was good—the system simply used “beginner” as the lowest rating, with no lower category.

As his cooking gradually went beyond the scope of a breakfast shop and increased in difficulty, requiring more skills, Qin Huai realized that his heat control really wasn’t sufficient.

Longevity noodles required chicken soup, and certain pastries required cooked minced meat. Whenever a dish involved multiple components and touched on his weaknesses, his shortcomings became very obvious.

This could be seen during lunch when Luo Jun was eating the buns—toward the end, he stopped eating the meat filling entirely and just ate the bun itself.

That was basically like eating a meat sandwich but only eating the bread.

Previously, Qin Huai could rely on instinct and talent to handle things easily. Now, he couldn’t.

Earlier, he could rely on strengths in a single area. Now, overall performance mattered—and his one-sided skills were starting to hold him back.

Realizing he had never truly “graduated,” Master Qin decided to go back and retrain—especially to improve his heat control.

As for knife skills…

Zheng Da had said that pastry chefs generally aren’t very good at knife skills—he himself was just particularly lacking. That could be practiced later.

Well-prepared fillings could still add a few points.

Out of a hundred.

With full enthusiasm, Master Qin began his first serious attempt at making high-quality chicken stock.

After seeing how Zheng Da prepared superior stock, Qin Huai realized that what he had previously been making—pork broth and chicken soup—weren’t truly high stock at all.

In the morning, Qin Huai messaged Zheng Da for guidance on making stock. Zheng Da didn’t reply with detailed techniques—perhaps because it was too complex to explain over chat—but he did send over a recipe he had used recently.

Zheng Da had not avoided Qin Huai while making stock before; in fact, he had intended to show off his skills and impress Qin Huai into becoming his apprentice. The first time he made stock, Qin Huai had watched closely.

Zheng Da had even told him to try it himself a few times and ask questions if needed.

Qin Huai thought that was a good method—it was just a bit wasteful of old hens.

Fortunately, he was now running a cafeteria, not a breakfast shop. Making large amounts of stock could be used directly to serve chicken soup at lunch and dinner, so nothing would go to waste.

According to Zheng Da’s recipe, the stock should mainly use old hens—the older the better. Additional ingredients included lean pork, ham, duck feet, pork skin, and large pieces of pork backbone.

These ingredients required minimal chopping; they could be cleaned and added to the pot in large chunks.

Start with cold water, bring to a boil, and skim off the foam.

After preparing the ingredients, Qin Huai took photos and sent them to Zheng Da. Seeing that Qin Huai was seriously practicing, Zheng Da sent several voice messages reminding him of common issues when making stock.

Qin Huai was making stock for longevity noodles, so he was preparing clear broth. The heat control for clear broth requires high heat first, then low heat. After boiling, the heat must be quickly reduced to maintain a gentle simmer with small bubbles—professionally known as “chrysanthemum bubbles.”

Zheng Da told him that maintaining these delicate bubbles in a large pot requires precise heat control. Moreover, since clear broth often needs to simmer for over four hours, it’s impossible to keep opening the lid to check. The entire process is essentially a test of the chef’s ability to control heat.

Zheng Da didn’t expect Qin Huai to reach that level.

If Qin Huai could achieve that, he wouldn’t just be a future top pastry chef—he’d be skilled in both hot dishes and pastries, only lacking knife skills, essentially a future grandmaster.

And such high-level clear broth wasn’t even necessary for chicken noodle soup—it had broader uses, such as in dishes like “Boiling Water Cabbage” or “Chicken Tofu Pudding.” Adding a ladle of such broth to any dish would instantly elevate its flavor.

Zheng Da suggested Qin Huai start with small batches.

Use a small pot, shorten the cooking time, and if unsure about heat control, occasionally lift the lid to check.

Qin Huai took all of this advice to heart.

He followed it exactly.

And then—he promptly failed.

The result was a pot of stock that would lower the quality of longevity noodles if used, but would sell well as standalone chicken soup in the cafeteria—household-grade stock.

If rated, Qin Huai estimated it at D grade.

Using Zheng Da’s stock, he could produce up to C+ grade longevity noodles.

Using his own stock…

If it reached C-, that would already be something to celebrate.

It seemed Huihui had fallen another step further away from eating A-grade longevity noodles.

Holding the bowl of soup he personally made, Qin Huai video-called Zheng Da.

“It tastes like chicken soup—just a slightly richer version,” Qin Huai said, smacking his lips. “About the same as the chicken soup my mom used to make at home. She usually used old hens from the countryside—very fragrant.”

On the other end of the call, Zheng Da closed his eyes in pain.

“Master Zheng, is my soup really that bad?” Qin Huai asked, losing confidence.

“Average,” Zheng Da said. “What this soup reflects… is your current level. I just…”

“I was thinking—what if you actually had exceptional talent in hot dishes that just hadn’t been discovered yet? If you practiced on your own and I gave you a bit of guidance remotely, you might suddenly produce amazing results, and I could count as your mentor.”

Qin Huai: …

Master Zheng, are you writing a novel?

Dual mastery of hot dishes and pastries? Even novel protagonists don’t get that treatment—they usually specialize in just one area.

“So I still need to keep practicing?” Qin Huai asked, taking another sip. “Should I keep training like this?”

“Practicing alone without supervision is too slow,” Zheng Da replied. “Making high stock isn’t that simple. You can’t learn it in a month or two just by following online recipes like you did with pastries.”

He then poured a bit of cold water on him: “I’ve realized—I can’t really teach you as my apprentice.”

“If you were in Suzhou, it would be manageable. But remote teaching… I really can’t handle it.”

“Xiao Qin, I’ll introduce you to my senior brother on WeChat. He runs a well-known restaurant in Suzhou. His stock-making skills are better than mine. He specializes in Suzhou cuisine and Huaiyang cuisine—Huaiyang cuisine is especially known for its stocks.”

“He also has lots of experience training apprentices.”

“I’ll call him later. His back hasn’t been in great shape these past few years, and since the beginning of this year he hasn’t been cooking much. These days he just walks around the restaurant, teaches apprentices, and oversees things. He might even be more free than I am.”

“Thank you,” Qin Huai said, putting down his bowl. “What’s your senior brother’s name?”

“He’s surnamed Huang—Huang Shengli. You can just call him Master Huang.”

“Alright, thank you very much.”

Zheng Da ended the call.

After hanging up, Zheng Da let out a sorrowful sigh: “Ah, my good apprentice…”

“Sigh… looks like Huang Shengli got lucky.”