Chapter 86: A Single Bite Decides Life and Death

Zhuang Chen took note, gazing at the riot of colors in the liquor cabinet, and asked, “What’s your store’s crown jewel?”

“Dog Hair Dave!” came the reply.

With utmost care, both hands cradled a bottle, setting it gently on the bar and warning, “Let’s be clear: you can look, but not drink!”

“Each bottle sells for two thousand dollars, boasting an alcohol content of 29%. It was brewed in 1994 and has been aging ever since. Twenty years later, this beer hit the market, with only twelve bottles ever released.”

Zhuang Chen shook his head. Only being allowed to look, not drink, was rather vexing, but there was nothing to be done—it was, after all, their pride and joy.

“This is the second most expensive beer in the world. The number one spot belongs to Cantillon Don Quixote, selling for 2,500 euros—about 17,070 yuan—making it the world’s most expensive beer.”

“It’s produced by a Belgian brewery and was introduced in 2008. According to some connoisseurs who’ve tasted it, the flavor is sharply acidic—not exactly pleasant.”

Watching Zhang Hong’s envious expression, Zhuang Chen wondered if he should call Wade right away and have a case sent over for a taste test.

Zhang Hong put away the store’s treasure, then produced another bottle, placing it before Zhuang Chen. “Since we get along so well, I can’t be stingy your first time here, can I?”

“Carlsberg Antique Jacobsen, four hundred dollars a bottle, with only twenty thousand bottles released each year. It’s a historic brew—the brewery was founded in 1847. Today you’re in for a treat!”

Zhuang Chen curled his lip—fine, some people simply delighted in making a show of things. He poured the beer into his glass: a crystal-clear golden hue, with sparse, delicate foam, and a silky, pure texture. Subtle aromas of citrus and yeast wafted up.

It had a medium body, with a strong initial bite; the yeast and bitterness lingered throughout, and as the tasting progressed, a devilish bitterness began to reveal itself…

Standing up, Zhuang Chen surveyed the liquor cabinet and discovered that, in truth, the prices weren’t that high. Most ranged from a little over twenty to three or four hundred—this was the standard.

Of course, compared to industrial beer, it was much more expensive, which explained its niche appeal. He turned to use the restroom—the alcohol content wasn’t high, but it was certainly diuretic.

He packed up several cases to take away, something to sip at leisure. On the way, Hao Baoli called, having heard he was in Hangzhou, and introduced a retired friend, promising a surprise.

Following the address to the city’s outskirts, he found himself at a rustic farmhouse restaurant. There he met Tian Yunhe, just past sixty, whose stern demeanor did not soften even upon learning Zhuang Chen was Hao Baoli’s junior.

“Pufferfish?” Zhuang Chen was surprised—it was the ingredient famed as the deadliest in the world, with a single gram of toxin capable of killing several people!

He’d heard that chefs apprenticed for at least five years before being qualified to handle pufferfish, and that seasoned chefs needed at least a decade to start their own establishments. Having never tasted it, his curiosity was piqued, and he rose to follow Tian Yunhe into the backyard for a glimpse behind the curtain.

At the entrance, a wave of fresh fish aroma greeted him. Inside, tanks lined both sides, filled with all manner of seafood—a sign that even in retirement, Tian could not stay idle.

Tian Yunhe stopped before a large tank, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a net, and with a keen eye on the swimming fish, scooped one out.

“Tiger puffer,” Zhuang Chen murmured.

Tian’s expression flickered; he replied coolly, “Good eye—yes, it’s a tiger puffer.”

He gripped the hefty fish in his right hand, using his left to tickle its belly. Instantly, the puffer inflated like a balloon, sprouting tiny spines—a rather adorable sight.

“Pufferfish are ticklish. So many spines—it’s a male.”

He placed the puffer on the cutting board, picked up his knife, and with deft, swift strokes, had the fish cleaned and opened in moments—his movements fluid and elegant.

Setting the knife aside, he carried the fish to the sink, washing it as he explained, “Every part of a pufferfish can be eaten, except the liver, which is poisonous—though ironically, the liver is the most delicious. I’ll prepare a pufferfish feast.”

Both hands worked quickly, cleaning the innards with deceptive ease—skill hidden beneath simplicity. Not a drop of blood could be left, or the dish would become deadly.

He returned to the board, took up a sharp scraper, and began to remove the skin. Following the grain of the flesh, he expertly peeled off the two- to three-millimeter-thick skin in one piece. “The outer layer is spiny, but the inside is incredibly crisp—many gourmets prize this skin.”

He put down the knife and wiped his hands with a towel. “Don’t underestimate the skill needed to cut the skin. As an apprentice, I spent three years mastering just this step.”

“You can’t use brute force—it’s all about finesse, especially in the wrist and waist. You have to slice and twist, almost like dancing, to succeed.”

“Go wait in the main room; the food will be ready soon.”

Zhuang Chen returned to the living room, where the first dish was soon served: two pieces of brown, translucent aspic in a small black dish. The waitress picked up a piece and placed it in her mouth, saying, “According to custom, I’ll taste first, then you may eat.”

Three minutes passed—she was unharmed. Zhuang Chen gently lifted a piece. Under the light, he saw tiny flecks of white fish meat suspended inside. It must be an appetizer.

He placed it in his mouth. Smoothness glided across his lips and teeth; a gentle bite revealed impressive elasticity and a superb texture. A burst of sweet freshness flooded his palate, slightly salty, with a delicate hint of wine lingering in the background.

“Wonderful!” he couldn’t help but exclaim. Never mind its small size—the aspic captured the essence of pufferfish’s freshness, a true chef’s touch.

Never underestimate an appetizer. This was made from pufferfish skin, simmered with homemade soy sauce and white wine, then cooled into aspic, with a deliberate inclusion of fish meat—a bite was pure enjoyment.

Next arrived two large plates, blue-black in color, each adorned with over a dozen slices of translucent pufferfish sashimi arranged like flower petals, with a small mound of bright green bitter lettuce in the center, topped with a scattering of pale yellow shredded ginger—a feast for the eyes.

“Pufferfish sashimi, served with rice vinegar, scallions, and a special chili sauce we call ‘Fallen Leaves and Red Carrot Threads’—a unique dipping combination. Please enjoy.”

Faced with such an exquisite, artful presentation, Zhuang Chen hesitated to disturb it.

The semi-transparent pufferfish flesh was as white as snow. Tian Yunhe’s knife skills had not only removed every tiny bone, but left a vivid scarlet stripe down the back—red and white mingling in a subtle, poignant beauty.

He gently picked up a slice, admiring the fish’s unique snowy marbling under the light, shimmering with a faint iridescence. Here, the puffer slices were cut thicker, offering a richer, more satisfying texture.

Typically, pufferfish is dipped in yuzu vinegar. Zhuang Chen, however, found that while vinegar heightened the fish’s freshness and masked any trace of fishiness, it also marred the pure flavor of the puffer. The tingling sensation it left on the lips spoiled the final taste, so he opted for soy sauce instead.

He placed it in his mouth, marveling—pufferfish truly was a delicacy. Even with a thicker cut, it melted instantly, the delicate flesh dissolving between his teeth into a nectar of sweetness and umami.