Chapter 8: The True State Banquet

Zhuang Chen was taken aback—was that surprise? Housekeeper Hu kept his lips sealed, continuing to guide him through the gardens. It truly lived up to its reputation as a state guesthouse; even a casual stroll around the grounds took a full two hours.

By the time they returned to Building Six, it was already eleven o'clock. Housekeeper Hu led Zhuang Chen straight to the banquet hall. Once he was seated, Hu finally confessed, "Yesterday, I relayed your suggestions to the kitchen, and they took them very seriously."

"The news reached Master Hao. Upon hearing that a gourmet was visiting, he personally arranged for a few special dishes to be prepared for you today."

Zhuang Chen was a bit startled and blurted out, "Specially made for me?"

Housekeeper Hu smiled gently. "No need for modesty. It is our duty to ensure our esteemed guests are satisfied. In fact, it's not an exception; whenever Master Hao has time, he enjoys exchanging ideas with knowledgeable diners. Please, don't feel pressured."

Zhuang Chen breathed a silent sigh of relief. Who would have thought a few casual remarks would reach the Executive Chef of the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse?

But then again, wasn't this what his master had hoped for? To witness the highest level of the Imperial Kitchen. Today was a rare opportunity—time to see the real measure of their craft.

Housekeeper Hu went to the kitchen to make arrangements. Zhuang Chen waited with anticipation. Soon, the first dish was brought to the table. Lifting the blue-and-white porcelain lid, he saw—

"Clear Broth Lion's Head!" Housekeeper Hu announced with confidence. "This was once the Premier's favorite dish—light but not bland, rich yet not greasy."

The pale yellow meatball soaked in a milky white broth, flanked by two pieces of green vegetable—refreshing and simple.

Zhuang Chen nodded inwardly. This was a classic from Huaiyang cuisine, plump in form, resembling the head of a lion. Its original name, Sunflower Minced Meat, dates to the Sui Dynasty when the Emperor visited Yangzhou. The chef, inspired by Yangzhou’s four famous scenic spots—Wansong Mountain, Qianqian Mound, Ivory Forest, and Sunflower Hill—created Squirrel Fish, Qianqian Shrimp Cakes, Ivory Chicken Strips, and Sunflower Minced Meat, all dishes that have been celebrated for centuries.

He picked up his chopsticks and gently lifted a piece, placing it in his mouth. It instantly melted into a burst of rich meat juices, like sweet dew after rain sweeping across parched earth. His taste buds, starved for flavor, suddenly came alive with joy.

Zhuang Chen couldn't help closing his eyes as a medley of ingredients flashed through his mind. He murmured, "Pine nuts... herbs... bamboo shoots... Tsai Yang... red ginger..."

As the initial wave of flavor faded, new layers emerged, each note sparking like a tiny flame, reigniting the palate.

The fragrance came in waves, surging like a mighty river, distinct and lingering, leaving one reluctant to part.

Slowly opening his eyes, he praised, "Such masterful knife work!"

He picked up another piece and held it before his eyes, examining it closely before saying, "The greatest difference between regular meatballs and Lion's Head lies in the chopping and the slicing."

"The result of chopping is a minced paste, while slicing requires further pounding or tossing—a much more complex and delicate process."

"In the Qing Dynasty, the renowned gourmet Yuan Mei’s household chef, Wang Xiaoyu, once made Lion’s Head with half-fat, half-lean pork minced finely for his master’s critique. Yuan Mei, after tasting it, wrote just seven words: 'Meatballs should be sliced, not chopped.'"

Taking another bite, Zhuang Chen commented, "The slicing method relies on pounding, to loosen the fibers on the surface of each meat cube so they adhere together."

"Chefs usually select pork belly with a four-to-six fat-to-lean ratio, hand-cut it into small pieces, add other ingredients, pound them together, blanch, and serve with clear broth and tender greens."

"If I'm not mistaken, this Lion's Head follows Yuan Mei’s ancient method from the Suiyuan Recipes—Eight Treasures Meatball!"

"Excellent eye!"

A voice came from behind. Zhuang Chen turned to see an elderly man approaching, his complexion rosy, his bearing dignified.

Housekeeper Hu hurried forward and greeted him respectfully, "Master Hao, you’re here."

"Yes, I heard a gourmet was visiting—how could I miss the chance?" Hao Baoli stopped before Zhuang Chen, looked him up and down, and said courteously, "Young friend, you have a keen eye!"

Zhuang Chen rose at once and replied humbly, "You flatter me, sir; I dare not accept such praise."

"Ha, no need for formality. Please, sit!" With a wave of his hand, Hao Baoli signaled for Housekeeper Hu to pull out a chair. The old man sat, gazing at the Lion's Head, and said softly, "Half lean, half fat pork, minced finely, blended with pine nuts, herbs, bamboo shoots, Tsai Yang, gourd, ginger, and the like, all minced, then a touch of starch, shaped into balls, set on eight plates, and steamed with sweet wine and autumn soy."

"Using the back of the knife, you slice for half an hour, breaking all the sinews, so the texture is soft yet cohesive."

Zhuang Chen nodded and replied, "I’ve tried ancient methods too. For example, in the Northern Wei's Classic of Food, there is a recipe for jumping meatballs."

"Ten pounds of mutton, ten pounds of pork, all sliced, three pints of ginger, five orange peels, two pints of preserved melon, five pints of scallion whites, all pounded together into balls the size of bullets."

"The flavor is rich but not greasy, though the texture is still slightly lacking."

A faint smile appeared on Hao Baoli’s face. "At the founding banquet of the Republic, six hundred honored guests attended. After the feast, the servers were amazed to find not a single Lion’s Head left!"

"When Emperor Qianlong toured the south, he brought this delicacy to the capital, writing a poem in its honor: 'The chef’s knife moves fast and fine, sunflowers formed with skilled design. When full, recall the sun’s embrace—who are you, meat-eater, in this place?'"

The two exchanged a knowing smile. For Hao Baoli, who had seen countless dignitaries at the state guesthouse, encountering true connoisseurs was not uncommon. Yet this young man was clearly a master himself, and that made Hao feel a certain kinship.

As the head of the Imperial Kitchen, commanding over two hundred skilled chefs, Hao Baoli never missed a chance to improve the state banquet. Thus, he ordered that all guest feedback be collected and used for ongoing refinement.

The waiter brought the second dish. Housekeeper Hu personally received it and placed it before Zhuang Chen. Hao Baoli smiled and said, "I began overseeing the state banquet menu in 2003, during which time I developed a deeper understanding of these dishes."

"Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, Four Treasure Shark Fin, Puff Pastry Goose Liver Soup, Casserole-braised Beef, Roast Fish à la Jisi—these dishes were all very popular. But the perennial best-seller remains this soup, known as the Diaoyutai Signature Soup."

Zhuang Chen looked at the clear, bottomless broth in the purple clay pot before him. The aroma was delicate and fresh, and he blurted out, "Is this... Black Fish Roe Soup?"

He examined it closely—the soup was milky white, the roe shaped like petals, as thin as paper, a most refined ingredient.

It was a traditional dish from Shandong cuisine. Black fish roe, a unique delicacy from Rizhao, had a long history and was renowned both at home and abroad. It was said to be a favorite on imperial tables through the dynasties.

He took a sip. Instantly, a surge of intense umami engulfed his tongue. The broth was silky, as if a boneless beauty were dancing gracefully on his tongue.

Arms spread wide, he was embraced by gentleness; the aroma caressed his senses, the texture firm and smooth, white as snow—like the most perfect work of art.

Sourness—

Upon careful tasting, a certain flavor stood out, bold and piercing, breaking through the layers of moisture to reach deep inside.

A subtle tingle whetted the appetite, followed by a faint spicy note that pricked at the tip of the tongue, like the moment a melon is split, only to be instantly enveloped again in sweet warmth, lingering, elusive, and wonderful.

"The flower path has never been swept for guests; today this humble door opens for you."

Zhuang Chen couldn't help but recite, "The Suiyuan Recipes records: 'Black fish roe is the hardest to prepare; it must be boiled thoroughly, the sand removed, the fishy odor dispelled, then stewed with chicken broth and mushrooms.'"

He took another sip, then suddenly frowned in puzzlement. "Black fish roe has a peculiar trait—it turns astringent when exposed to vinegar. No kind of rice vinegar, aged vinegar, or aromatic vinegar works well. But this soup..."

"It actually has a hint of cucumber..."

Hao Baoli’s eyes lit up. He had underestimated the young man's palate and admitted frankly, "Since this soup was added to the Diaoyutai menu, several generations of masters have refined it. First, we switched to serving it in purple clay steam pots for elegance."

"Second, we stopped thickening the broth; now, the soup is as clear as water. As for the problem you mentioned, that was indeed the greatest challenge."

"Finally, we use juice pressed from Russian pickled cucumbers. It brings acidity without vinegar, heat without chili, achieving the highest realm of soup-making."

Zhuang Chen suddenly understood. Tasting it again, he caught that fleeting, lively note and exclaimed in admiration, "A stroke of genius!"