Chapter 68: Linking the Frauds

After polishing off the first few plates, a deep sense of satisfaction settled in. Even Zhuang Chen couldn’t help but smile—fifty hairy crabs later, the feeling was exhilarating!

The secret yellow mud snails and special side dishes were the locals’ favorite accompaniments to wine. The drunken mud snails, steeped in a blend of twenty-year-old rice wine and white spirits, tempted the palate with their alluring aroma. Biting into the snails, soaked with fragrant wine, one could still feel the delightful crunch—though served in a tiny dish, their flavor was no less bold than that of the crabs.

The final course was noodles tossed with crab oil—special hand-pulled noodles that stayed springy and never clumped, generously coated with golden crab oil. Paired with a house-made spicy sauce, the crab oil simmered down with chilies and tiny crabs, so each bite offered both the sweet freshness of crab and the lively heat of spice—a flawless match.

To finish, a sip of the exclusive crab vinegar: since crab is considered a “cold” food, old ginger steeped in vinegar both warms the body and enhances the flavor. It was said this recipe came from an old crab farmer at Yangcheng Lake. Dipping crab in vinegar during the meal, and sipping the vinegar afterward, was believed to balance yin and yang, replenishing the body’s energy.

Whether it was noodles or premium rice from Wuchang, both were unlimited and free. Zhuang Chen couldn’t resist finishing off two bowls of crab oil noodles. He exhaled contentedly, utterly satisfied.

He called over a waitress and asked, “The chef’s craft is impressive. Would it be possible to know his name?”

“Our boss is Wu Xia!” the young woman replied with pride. “He’s not yet thirty—don’t be fooled by his youth! He used to be the imperial chef at the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, cooking for the Premier!”

Zhuang Chen couldn’t help but laugh quietly. After all those twists and turns, it turned out to be someone from Hao Baoli’s circle?

Seeing his skepticism, the girl hurried to explain, “We have our own farms at Yangcheng Lake. All our ingredients are authentic and honest—absolutely no tricks.”

“The boss says every part of the crab has its own unique taste. Mixing them together only muddles the flavors and can even disguise a lack of substance. No matter how many customers come, we always prepare each serving individually.”

“Each part is cooked according to its own flavor—the crab roe, crab meat, crab claw, crab fat, and crab paste are prepared in sequence and served within ten minutes, ensuring that each part reaches the table at its peak.”

“It’s the ultimate crab dish in the city’s culinary world—everyone who tastes it, regrets nothing in their lifetime!”

Her pride was evident. Zhuang Chen nodded in approval; the skill was indeed a delightful surprise. He ordered two portions to go, planning to let his brothers try it as well.

The only regret was not witnessing the Xue family’s renowned technique firsthand—dispatching a hairy crab in two minutes, as deft as the legendary butcher with an ox. Truly worthy of a century-old establishment.

He’d never had much opinion about crab before, but today’s meal changed his mind. After fifty crabs, his mouth was still fragrant—every burp carried the taste of Yangcheng Lake.

Back at Nine Rooms, he lounged comfortably in the courtyard, basking in the sun, feeding the koi, and dozing for a while. The gardener had already begun restoring the garden, planting bamboo, arranging bonsai—lush greenery soothing to the eye.

Just before drifting off, it occurred to him that he had been in the metropolis for so long and still hadn’t tasted authentic local cuisine.

He sent a message to Hu Hai, asking if there were any old, reputable restaurants worth trying. The reply came quickly:

“A deep courtyard on Yongfu Road—Yongfu Club, the only two-star Michelin restaurant for local cuisine in the city.”

He had Xia Long call to make a reservation. After a workout the next day, he’d go sample it. Local cuisine was often joked about as “one hand on the soy sauce bottle, one hand on the sugar jar.” Time to see if that was true.

The next morning, after a run, a swim at Ten Joys Club, and a massage, it was almost half past ten when he headed straight to Yongfu Club. The building was low-key, said to have been built in the 1930s in an intense Spanish style. It was once the British consulate; now, its owner was Mr. Wang Xingzheng.

As the first Chinese fashion designer of his generation, Wang had rented the property in 2001 and began converting it into Yongfu Club. The lease was for ten years; he spent three years shaping its unique atmosphere. In 2004, a leading design magazine awarded it the second place for global best club design.

At the door, Zhuang Chen learned that Yongfu Club was now members only. He made a quick call, and ten minutes later, everything was settled.

“We used to be open to the public,” the elegant manager explained, “but in 2013, many tycoons invested, and Mr. Huang acquired fifty-five percent of the shares for two hundred million dollars, becoming the club’s second-largest shareholder. That’s when we switched to a membership system.”

With a warm smile, she handed Zhuang Chen a platinum membership card. “As the only domestic member of the International Club Alliance, you have access to over 130 top private clubs worldwide.”

She led him on a tour. The main building had three floors: a grand hall, private dining rooms, an outdoor terrace by the courtyard, and sunrooms. The left hallway’s walls were lined with awards the club had won.

She pointed to the Michelin star plaques on the right and smiled. “The Michelin Guide describes Yongfu Club like this: ‘The corridors in the small garden are built with Qing dynasty beams—worth a visit. The menu is a refined take on traditional local cuisine, using tea leaves to cut greasiness and black-haired pork for depth. Signature dishes include Keemun tea-smoked cod and Pu’er braised pork.’”

Zhuang Chen surveyed the surroundings. The main hall’s walls were covered in silver leaf, a technique borrowed from lacquerware. Nearly a thousand art pieces and antiques were on display, from sofas and plaques to lighting and old tablecloths, each bearing the traces of former owners.

The table lamps were inlaid with tortoiseshell, the wallpaper was deep blue velvet, the drapes crimson peacock feathers hand-stitched, and thirteen Victorian mirrors, carefully antiqued, adorned the walls.

On the second floor, the violet hall featured a sunroom—perfect for sipping afternoon tea, evoking the leisurely elegance of the city’s old elite.

In one corner stood a Ming dynasty bed once belonging to a wealthy family’s daughter, conjuring images of a young lady’s boudoir. Opposite, a Gucci sofa from the sixties, crafted from stitched leather and crocodile skin, faced Ming dynasty armchairs and a ‘Eight Immortals’ table draped with Qing dynasty gold embroidery. Across the room sat a cream-colored FENDI sofa.

“This is the Hall of Six Arts, the stage for private banquets. The entire hall was relocated from a wood-built Jiangnan mansion dating to the early Qing. Look up—the carved nanmu beamwork was transported from Dongyang, each piece meticulously numbered, disassembled like building blocks, and reassembled here. Even the roof was designed to leave space for the old persimmon tree in the courtyard.”

“The walls are covered with hand-painted Tibetan motifs brought from XC…” the manager continued enthusiastically.

Zhuang Chen, listening, curled his lip—he didn’t care for this kind of décor, neither Eastern nor Western, not quite one thing or another. He interrupted, “Enough. Where do we eat?”

“Of course, right this way!” she quickly said. “Mr. Wang is passionate about collecting antiques from all over the world—each piece has the beauty of accumulated years. Personally, I find it fascinating.”

He waved her off. “That’s your boss’s hobby. I just hope your chef doesn’t disappoint me.”

She fell silent and led him to the dining room, called the Fragrant Book House. Handing him the menu, she recommended, “Our dishes aren’t overly decorated—simple, allowing you to taste the chef’s dedication and persistence.”

“Our head chef is a disciple of Master Li Borong, the leading authority in local cuisine. We stick to traditional techniques but also innovate. Even the soy sauce is house-brewed.”

Zhuang Chen ordered a few specialties at random. Culinary skill couldn’t be judged on reputation alone—even two Michelin stars didn’t guarantee anything; after all, Tang Court had three.

The first course was a salad—simple, with pomelo, romaine, avocado, and a sprinkling of house soy sauce. Local cuisine was known for its rich, red sauces, and soy sauce was key to the flavor. He tasted a bite but withheld judgment—a standard cold dish, nothing more.

Next was mashed potatoes with pine nuts, followed by braised pork and oil-braised prawns. Just one word: sweet.

The manager herself brought out a dish, introducing it with ceremony. “This is our signature—crab meat lion’s head. In 2017, Michelin’s gala dinner featured this dish; its tender, rich flavor won many hearts.”

Zhuang Chen took a bite, but felt a pang of disappointment—it fell far short of the lion’s head at the State Guesthouse. Though both were chopped by hand, the skill level was simply not the same.

The Keemun tea-smoked cod was the first highlight—the fatty fish paired nicely with the fragrance of tea. Stir-fried shepherd’s purse with winter bamboo shoots was a classic home-style dish. Shepherd’s purse, as southerners call it, is known in the north as chrysanthemum greens—bitter, with a subtle sweetness when chewed. This dish was a modest surprise, but nothing more.