Chapter 36: Navigating Circles

Closing my eyes, I find myself in the boundless grasslands, with the endless blue sky stretching above, not a cloud in sight. A gentle breeze sweeps by, and I can’t help but lie down amidst the soft grass, my nose filled with the vibrant scent of life. Not far away, a cow ambles over and settles beside me, its large eyes radiating warmth and calm, as if we were old friends, quietly sharing the tranquil beauty of nature.

Grass carpets the plains for miles on end; the faint notes of a flute drift on the evening wind. After returning home replete at dusk, I do not even bother to take off my rain cloak, but lie beneath the bright moon.

“This is delicious!” Tang Hong’s face is alight with satisfaction as she exclaims, “No wonder the legendary noble cattle, said to drink beer and get massages every day, live up to their fame!”

“I’ve heard that the local black-haired cows are never bred, never made to work, they simply spend their days in leisure. They’re raised for three years, fed not on grass but barley and bean cakes, and given beer to drink, with specialists massaging them with sake—it’s simply…”

Zhuang Chen bursts into laughter. To him, the wagyu is first and foremost fragrant, with a robust, deep aroma. Chewed slowly, it’s tender yet retains a pleasant bite, with a hint of sweetness. After savoring it thoroughly and swallowing, the flavor still lingers between his teeth and cheeks.

He lifts the bowl of eel rice, looking forward to it as a chef even more than the wagyu. The beef relies on natural ingredients and requires little handling, but the eel rice is a true test of skill.

I grill the eel by instinct—it’s a battle over the brazier: the strength of the fire, the placement of the eel—these subtle points are the pursuit of a true artisan. So said Kanemoto Kenjiro.

The god of eel in Japan, as well as Jiro Ono, the sushi god, and Tetsuya Saotome, the tempura god—Zhuang Chen has watched documentaries about them. Rather than chefs, one might call them craftsmen.

The fresh, wild eel is split open from the back, grilled, then steamed, basted with a secret sauce and grilled again, flipped thirty-six times in the process.

The sizzle fills the air as the skin and flesh turn a shimmering golden color. Wisps of white smoke curl up from the eel, and the scent of golden fat dripping onto the charcoal is simply intoxicating.

Three years to learn to cut, eight years to learn to skewer, a lifetime to master the grill.

He first takes up the rice, soaked in eel sauce, its surface crisp and touched with a hint of caramel, without any gelatinous texture. The sauce is refreshing, neither too sweet nor cloying, and comes with a small pot of dashi on the side.

The rice is also noteworthy, perfectly cooked, chewy and full of flavor. Only the flattened eel loses its fluffiness, turning out crisp but lacking in tenderness.

Zhuang Chen shakes his head, a little disappointed. It pales in comparison to the astonishing Kobe beef. He resolves to visit Japan someday and taste the skills of those so-called three great masters for himself.

Meanwhile, Tang Hong is eating with abandon, demolishing the wagyu sashimi and eagerly digging into the eel rice, showing none of the restraint one expects from a beauty in the face of fine food.

Zhuang Chen sets down his chopsticks and picks up the soup beside him. His eyes light up—the spring bamboo shoots are white and delicate as jade, crisp, tender, and especially suited for stewing. Just before serving, seasonal mountain vegetables are tossed in, adding a refreshing note; each bite seems to capture the very taste of spring.

After more than a dozen courses, he’s only about seventy percent full—true to the spirit of kaiseki, renowned for its restraint. Finally, the kimono-clad waitress brings out several plates of desserts—fresh fruit and sweets to close the meal.

The glass bowls are trimmed with gold, and the utensils have been chilled in advance to keep the desserts cold. There’s a scoop of milk ice cream, a few chewy glutinous rice dumplings, some translucent white fungus flowers, all bathed in a sweet red bean soup.

“I love Japanese dairy most of all. The red bean soup is rich and smooth, with no gritty residue, just the right sweetness. The white fungus is crisp, the milk ice cream rich and creamy, and it melts slowly in the soup,” Tang Hong says as she relishes the final spoonful, still unsatisfied. “But my favorite is the glutinous rice dumplings—they’re so satisfyingly chewy, but there are just too few. I could eat so many more—ah…”

Catching her kitten-like, pleading gaze, Zhuang Chen waves his hand and orders two more servings to take away, telling her she can enjoy them at her leisure.

As they leave, Tang Hong glances at the bill and sighs, “My goodness—over thirty thousand, and we’re only half full!”

Zhuang Chen is quite content. The Kobe beef sashimi was an unexpected delight, leaving a deep impression. The rest was decent—the main draw is the service and atmosphere, full of ritual and style.

He drops Tang Hong off at home—she now has two assistants, making overtime easier. The boxed desserts serve as small gifts to reward the two chattering young girls.

Back at his own place, he enjoys a hot shower and relaxes in the massage chair. His phone buzzes—it’s Su Yun. Her father has been discharged and will be returning to the capital in two days.

Zhuang Chen doesn’t respond. He’d only helped out of goodwill, as a matter of virtue. If the other party has integrity and pays him back gradually, he wouldn’t mind lending a hand again. If not, it doesn’t matter—as long as she’s not a swindler, they can simply go their separate ways.

“Beihu No.9?”

That morning, just after arriving at the club, the receptionist hands him an invitation and says respectfully, “Beihu No.9 is the most prestigious golf club in the capital. The owner is one of our senior members and organizes gatherings here regularly.”

“For the next three days, the course is reserved for senior members. The chairman will also attend. If you’re free, you’re welcome to join.”

Zhuang Chen has heard of this tradition—members of the Chang’an Club often host all sorts of gatherings: tea parties, fishing trips, wine tastings, all excuses to form little circles.

He pockets the invitation and plans to check it out in the afternoon. He’s never quite understood why the wealthy are so fond of golf, so now’s his chance to find out.

He drives straight to Beihu Canal on the Fifth Ring. Xia Long explains, “That area has been a military post since the Yuan Dynasty founded the capital. In the Ming, it became an imperial hunting ground, and in the Qing it was once again a garrison. It flourished for centuries. In recent years, it’s been an important greenbelt, with fertile land and abundant water, ensuring the well-being of the region.”

They soon arrive. After parking, they walk to the main gate—a gray portal inscribed in bold calligraphy with “Beihu No.9,” exuding a powerful, traditional style.

Inside, several complexes of varying size and scale are built in classic Chinese style, dominated by gray and white hues, simple yet grand. The blue brick, gray tiles, and whitewashed walls evoke the elegance of Jiangnan’s courtyard homes—classical and refined.

“Mr. Zhuang, my surname is Li. I’m your personal advisor. This way, please.”

He presents his invitation and is accompanied by his advisor, trailed by two caddies carrying standard clubs, as they tour the grounds.

“Nine is the highest number in traditional culture. Our clubhouse is surrounded by vast artificial lakes, symbolizing the world’s five lakes and four seas, echoing the infinite nature of the number nine…”

“Our turf is of the highest standard, rivaling any world-class course. From April’s spring to early November’s winter, we have the longest growing season in all four seasons…”

“The turf is thick, dense, and perfectly maintained. There’s no exposed earth or muddy puddles—once you step on it, you’ll understand what truly premium grass feels like…”

The caddie drives the shuttle while the advisor gives his tour. After one lap, Zhuang Chen can see why this is a top-tier club—the environment is excellent. Even if he doesn’t play, he can appreciate the professionalism and care invested here.

No wonder the annual membership is $250,000—worth every penny.

Back in the lounge, the advisor produces a gold card and hands it to Zhuang Chen. “Our owner is also a senior member of the club. This is a welcome gift—please do accept it.”

“There’s a private dinner tonight for distinguished guests like yourself. Our owner will personally host it and hopes you can attend.”

Unable to refuse, Zhuang Chen accepts—at worst, he’ll just pay for two extra years of membership. The air is good, so it’s worth coming just to breathe.

A private instructor is arranged for him, teaching him hand-in-hand starting from the basics of grip. To his surprise, it’s quite fun. Eighteen holes add up to several kilometers of walking, all on comfortable turf, breathing fresh air—it’s no wonder this place is favored for business deals.

Finding it enjoyable, Zhuang Chen buys two sets of sportswear, a set of high-end clubs, and renews his membership for another year. The dinner is a big affair—senior Chang’an Club members only, with the whole venue reserved for three days.

“Old Zheng, you’ve put on weight again—busy with something lately?”

“I hear you’re holding two plots out east—planning to get into the tourism real estate game?”

“Ah, the market’s bad lately. The banks are pressing for loans. I’ll wait till after the New Year to decide.”

“Is Sister Chen coming tonight? I called but there was no answer—off abroad again?”

Thirty or forty senior members are present, chatting in small groups. Zhuang Chen sits to one side, leisurely turning a walnut in his hand. He’s the youngest present and unknown in these circles—he really has no idea what to talk about with these men in their fifties and sixties.