Chapter 7: A New Beginning

Butler Hu carefully jotted down every opinion with his pen—this was experience distilled from many years: no matter what guests said, attitude was paramount.

After so many years serving in the presidential suite, he’d encountered his share of discerning gourmets. Right or wrong, he would first record everything, then follow procedure to relay the feedback to the kitchen—thus, he’d fulfilled his duty.

Zhuang Chen paid no mind to the others. His hunger was genuine, and with these precious ingredients, paired with fragrant rice, he could finally sate his appetite. He devoured two dishes quickly, still unsatisfied, especially relishing the abalone sauce poured over authentic Wuchang rice—the taste was simply unparalleled.

The third dish was a light stir-fry of two vegetables, refreshing and just right to cleanse the palate. Accompanied by Cantonese-style congee, soft and aromatic, it warmed the stomach and left him feeling comfortable.

“Clear soup with matsutake, to nourish the spleen and stomach, strengthen the body—please, have a taste.”

Butler Hu presented the soup, pen and paper at the ready, waiting for Zhuang Chen’s verdict. The attendant filled a bowl and set it before him. Zhuang Chen scooped up a spoonful, tasting the broth—and in that instant, he found himself transported to wild mountains and bamboo groves, surrounded by lush greenery.

A tiny matsutake mushroom broke through the earth, its white body brimming with hope for life, shyly peeking out at the new world. A country maiden wandered the mountain paths, pure and lively, skipping joyfully through the bamboo. She hummed a folk tune, pausing now and then to squat down and carefully unearth matsutake and spring bamboo shoots, placing them in her woven basket.

A gentle breeze carried the scents of grass and trees—the bashful aroma of green grass, the upright fragrance of bamboo leaves, the elegant note of pine—all mingling with the earthy perfume of soil. Mother Earth opened her arms, nurturing life in all its forms; all things flourished, and he watched in silent awe.

He commented with satisfaction, “Excellent. Wild Shangri-La matsutake, simmered in fresh crucian carp broth—pure and unadulterated, a perfect harmony.”

“The preparation is particularly noteworthy: first marinated in salt water, then blanched. I believe there’s also mugwort stems and pomelo peel added…”

Zhuang Chen took another spoonful, savoring it carefully; indeed, there was a subtle secret within. However fresh, matsutake inevitably carries an earthy note—how to best highlight its natural freshness is the true test of a chef.

The finer the ingredients, the simpler and cleaner the cooking method. It’s not as if you can simply boil them in plain water—otherwise, what need is there for a chef?

True mastery lies in subtraction: discarding the superfluous and preserving the essence, fully revealing the beauty of the ingredients. That is the true path.

This dish pleased Zhuang Chen most—everything from timing to preparation was just right. The handiwork of a true chef; impressive, indeed.

By now, Butler Hu was certain of Zhuang Chen’s identity as a gourmet, and the heartfelt emotion on his face was a state ordinary people could not comprehend. It was a pity the chef wasn’t present—he would be sure to report back and seek further improvement.

Zhuang Chen put down his chopsticks, wiped his hands with a damp towel, and felt thoroughly content. For a dinner, this was both healthy and sumptuous. After all, the State Guest House mostly served dignitaries, often elderly, who favored light, nourishing cuisine—true skill revealed in the details.

For most people, a delicious meal can be summed up in two words: “Tastes good.”

Those with more discerning taste might add a few phrases: why it’s good, or how to prepare it well…

But only the truly knowledgeable appreciate the painstaking effort behind it. For chefs, their creations are works of art; to find a kindred spirit among guests is the rarest fortune.

Gourmets are such people.

A gourmet need not be a great cook, but a truly outstanding chef must possess a gourmet’s intuition—to understand ingredients, to appreciate technique, to progress ever further.

He took the bill: more than six thousand for the meal—excellent quality, hardly inexpensive. Zhuang Chen returned to his suite, settled into the fully automated massage chair to relax, and reflected on the miraculous day he’d just witnessed.

A wave of fatigue washed over him. He collapsed onto the king-sized bed and soon drifted into a deep sleep. His final thought before darkness claimed him: he hoped all of this was real, and not a dream.

“Where am I?”

Zhuang Chen slowly opened his eyes. Morning had long since broken, sunlight streaming down from above. Staring at the ceiling, he felt an uncanny sense of another lifetime. He rose, surveyed the suite, and exhaled in relief, murmuring, “Thank goodness—it wasn’t a dream.”

He drew back the curtains; sunlight poured in. Breathing in the fresh air, he gazed out at the verdant vista, birdsong chirping at his ear, leaving him refreshed in mind and spirit.

After washing up and tidying his shopping bags, he planned to buy a suitcase that day and hand his clothes to the staff for cleaning—someone was responsible for such tasks.

“Good morning, Mr. Zhuang. Did you rest well last night?”

Butler Hu was already waiting by the door. Seeing Zhuang Chen emerge, he accompanied him downstairs and asked, “Where would you like to have breakfast?”

Zhuang Chen waved him off. Seeing it was already after nine, he declined, “I ate too much last night—still not hungry. I thought I’d take a stroll around.”

“Would you like me to call the shuttle?” Butler Hu smiled. “But walking is nice, too—our State Guest House is full of beautiful scenery. Every step brings a new vista, with hidden wonders at every turn.”

Zhuang Chen laughed aloud. On the second day of his changed fortune, he decided to take a walk for his morning exercise. The two of them left the VIP building, with Butler Hu leading the way, and began to tour the imperial gardens.

They arrived at the lakeside, walking along the path. Gentle ripples danced across the water, lotus just beginning to bloom, a soft breeze caressing their faces—a scene of indescribable beauty.

“The central lake was first known as the Fish and Algae Pond. As far back as the Jin dynasty, eight hundred years ago, it was a favorite spot for leisure—willows lining the banks, peach blossoms floating on the water at sunset.”

Butler Hu followed behind Zhuang Chen, reciting as if from memory, “Because the lake’s waters flowed year-round, and the willow embankments and lovely scenery, it became a prime destination for royal outings and spring excursions during the Jin dynasty.”

“Legend has it that Emperor Zhangzong Wanyan Jing enjoyed fishing here and even had a special platform built—thus the imperial Fishing Terrace was born.”

“By the Qing dynasty, emperors from Qianlong’s reign onward would always stop here for a meal whenever traveling from the Old Summer Palace to the Temple of Heaven, or from the Forbidden City to the Western Mausoleum for ceremonies.”

“Over there, you can see how we’ve cultivated forty thousand flowering trees and three hundred pines, plus hundreds of cherry trees, to create unique landscaping.”

“There are also magnolias, peonies, violets, and more. The designers even diverted water from Yuquan Lake to form four artificial lakes—everywhere you go, birds sing and flowers bloom.”

Butler Hu pointed into the distance and smiled, “Internally, we like to use flower names for the buildings—your Building Six is called White Magnolia, Building Five is Tulip, and Building Fifteen is West Crabapple.”

As they chatted and walked, they encountered almost no one else. After so many days in the capital, this was the first time Zhuang Chen felt the air was so fresh, with orioles and swallows everywhere. It was no wonder the leaders were reluctant to leave.

“Do you remember December 1999, when the Chairman met with Yeltsin, then visiting China for the last time as president? They also took a stroll together in these gardens, leaving behind many rare, relaxed moments.”

Butler Hu, rarely so moved, continued, “From a scenic retreat in the Jin dynasty, to an imperial palace in the Qing, to a venue for major state events, the Fishing Terrace has witnessed eight centuries of history.”

“It’s become a special symbol of the capital—solemn, yet mysterious. Even those who’ve never set foot inside remember it as an irreplaceable part of their collective memory.”

He paused, then, as if recalling something, broke into a mysterious smile. “If you’re not heading out for lunch today, we’ve prepared a surprise for you. We hope you’ll do us the honor of attending.”