Chapter 55: Journey to the City of Magic

Zhuang Chen recalled a certain comedic routine: fried liver from Hui Xian Ju in the morning, stewed offal from Xiao Chang Chen at noon, and braised offal from Claypot House in the evening. Such a day, without doubt, would be delightfully extravagant!

Because Yu Qian was a regular, the dishes arrived swiftly. The claypot pork belly was served without skin, sliced thin as paper. The broth was noteworthy, made with homemade aged sauerkraut and simmered with shrimp to enhance the freshness and flavor. The taste wasn’t astonishing, just a refinement beyond the ordinary. Yu Qian took a hearty bite, satisfied, and explained, “Here, the meat is prepared two ways. One is simply boiled in water without roasting, called ‘white meat.’ The other is lightly roasted over charcoal before boiling, resulting in what’s called ‘scorched meat,’ or ‘scorched knuckle’ if it’s pork knuckle. The meat is then sliced thin, served cold, and without any seasoning.”

“The authentic Manchu way of eating sacrificial meat is ‘roast, scorch, boil.’ Roast refers to frying or braising; scorch refers to baking or grilling; then comes boiled meat. After the white meat is cooked, it’s further processed into signature dishes called ‘small roasts,’ presented on shallow six-inch plates, hence called ‘roast platters.’ Originally, there were only eight types: fried ribs, fried kidneys, fried fat rolls, fried tenderloin, fried intestines, fried liver tips, braised covers, and braised cheeks.”

“Later, the number increased to 24, 32, 48, 64 roast platters, and at its peak, there were 130 varieties. They could be served as entire tables, half tables, or corners, and each table could have up to 72 or 48 varieties, replaced as needed.”

“In the Eighth Period, presentation was everything; this spread was a typical Manchu banquet, ultimately forming the ‘white meat feast.’ Back then, Yuan Mei praised the roast, scorch, boil method: ‘This is a dish Northern people excel at, Southerners strive for but never master.’”

Zhuang Chen clinked his glass with Yu Qian’s, reflecting on what Chen Xiaoqing said: culinary pleasure comes in three forms—beyond the ingredients themselves, there’s the lore behind them, and the camaraderie of fellow enthusiasts.

No wonder the entrance bore a golden couplet, penned by Lord Bai of the Fucha family: “Famed in the capital for three centuries, its white meat aroma outshines all of North China.”

The second dish was a hearty braised “Family Reunion,” lavishly prepared with nine ingredients—abalone, sea cucumber, shrimp, dried scallop, fish slices, ginseng slices, and more, a true feast. Zhuang Chen tasted it and regretted the overly thick sauce. Though the nine flavors were present, the heavy starch masked them all, blurring the layers and squandering the fine ingredients.

The third dish arrived. Yu Qian picked up his chopsticks, eager: “Try this ‘Nine-Turn Intestines’—originally a Shandong specialty. Here, the sweetness is emphasized, fully releasing the aroma of the intestines, and it’s easy to chew.” Zhuang Chen sampled it, pleasantly surprised. This renowned dish was first created by the owner of Jiuhua Lin Restaurant. Pig intestines are blanched, deep-fried, then infused with more than ten seasonings and slow-cooked over a gentle flame.

The “nine turns” refers to nine rounds of refining: boiling, frying, simmering, and so on, with more than a dozen spices involved. The preparation is as laborious as nine rounds of alchemy, truly a masterpiece of craftsmanship. After a few pieces, if the richness became overwhelming, a bite of pickled mustard—spicy, sour, crisp, and slightly sweet—would clear the palate and invigorate the mind.

Yu Qian polished off half the plate of intestines, picking up the mustard and exclaiming happily, “This little treasure offers all five flavors—sour, sweet, crisp, spicy, fragrant. A sip of the original broth chills to the marrow, and the spicy mustard’s aroma pierces the nose—refreshing!”

After the main courses, only the intestines stood out. Zhuang Chen felt a hint of disappointment—his palate had grown increasingly discerning.

Finally, the staple foods arrived: Dream Biscuits and Pea Cake, both local specialties. Especially the “Three Non-Stick”—golden, plump, with a tempting egg fragrance that whetted the appetite. This dish should not be underestimated; it relies entirely on the chef’s skill. “Three Non-Stick” means it doesn’t stick to teeth, chopsticks, or the plate. Nowadays, few places can make it well, especially in controlling the cooking time.

If mishandled, the dish can be greasy or sugary, even grainy or uneven, always missing the mark. But the plate before them was like a full moon, perfectly curved, with egg yolk, sugar, and starch blended together and stir-fried for at least ten minutes. It must be made with mung bean starch, giving it a texture like jelly.

It melted softly in the mouth, with a rich egg flavor and extraordinary smoothness, as if a layer of freshness cloaked the tongue, leaving a lingering aroma—worthy of its reputation.

Yet, the best “Three Non-Stick” in the capital wasn’t here, but at Harmony House, another of the Eight Great Houses, one of only two still in existence.

The meal itself was average in taste but thoroughly satisfying—everyone left with full stomachs and contented hearts. After bidding farewell to Yu Qian, Zhuang Chen went home to feed his radiated pets. Among them, the tortoise was always the most obedient, leisurely and serene, embodying peaceful days.

Wang Kuan filled his social media with nightlife, inviting Zhuang Chen several times, but he never went. The supercar club once seemed mysterious—sports cars, beautiful women, nightlife.

Now it seemed commonplace—a bunch of idle heirs, lost in their own little fantasy circles, indulging in decadence and extravagance, but ultimately empty.

No news had come from Old Tan’s side these past few days; he was likely busy with projects. At least Old Tan had some professional background—investment wasn’t for everyone. One had to understand dozens of pages of bilingual data analysis.

Having seen the many facets of the investment circle, Zhuang Chen could only sigh: the greatest fear is that the true experts work even harder!

Top-tier magnates wished they could stretch a day into ten, constantly busy from the moment they opened their eyes, endless meetings, barely enough time to eat, always another wave of people waiting.

Eight cities in seven days, meeting all sorts of eccentric entrepreneurs. One problem solved in the last moment, no time to celebrate, and the next challenge already appears—more punctual than monsters in a game.

Such a life was never appealing. What’s the purpose of making money?

Isn’t it all for enjoying life?

You’re not Superman; you can’t fly just by putting on your underwear. Having a couple of flashy millions doesn’t mean you can save the world.

At this thought, Zhuang Chen chuckled to himself. When wealth reaches a certain level, one longs for everlasting fame. But consider this: what is truly remembered by future generations?

Li Bai, Du Fu, Bai Juyi... the Eight Masters of the Tang and Song... the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove—all literary giants.

Who remembers who was the richest in the Tang Dynasty?

Good food, after all, never disappoints. If one does not betray Buddha nor their beloved, money is only enjoyable once it’s spent. Food is the same—only when eaten is it a treasure.

Zhuang Chen stood up, stretched, and called Xia Long to book a first-class ticket to Shanghai for tomorrow. Bored of Beijing, he’d try somewhere new.

He searched online, looking for luxury homes in Shanghai, new tech investments, internet trends, artificial intelligence research...

Such matters he left to Weide. No matter how sophisticated, he only believed in one old principle:

Buying property is the most reliable!

Even if he left a few billion untouched, with an annual dividend of four billion, he could choose the most expensive penthouse in a top city, pair it with a luxury car, and the total cost would hardly reach a billion.

Switching locations every two weeks, indulging in food, drink, and play, he’d hit at most twenty places a year—what a tight schedule for such a grand life!