The Game of Life

Xu Cheng was stunned.

When he had just ordered, he saw the price of the extra-large Eight-Treasure Porridge was in the three digits but didn’t think much of it, assuming it was just an ordinary large portion. In his opinion, Jiang Feng’s skill was worth far more than the price listed on the menu. By the next year, when he made it onto the list of renowned chefs, if his ranking was anything impressive, his dish prices could climb several times over.

The list of renowned chefs in “Taste” was reevaluated every five years, selecting the top 50 chefs globally for ranking. Although it couldn’t be entirely fair and objective, it was the most just selection process imaginable for the public. The next round of evaluations would be in July of next year. Zhang Guanghang had made a name for himself in the last round, and although he was at the bottom of the list, it was sensational enough that several feature articles about this rising star of the French culinary world appeared in French gourmet magazines. The culinary circles of China were probably going to experience a celebration like never before next year at the ranking of renowned chefs.

And it would be an unprecedented celebration.

“This clay pot…” a fellow food lover at the table couldn’t help but chuckle. “This is actually my first time seeing a clay pot this big.”

Cooks at the neighboring chef’s table also came over to join in the fun; after all, pots this large weren’t seen just anywhere.

“My goodness, Liang, does your shop have such big clay pots?” one chef asked the person beside him.

“Not sure, I’ve never used such a big pot for porridge. A clay pot this size is probably custom-made,” Liang admitted, indicating that this was also new to him.

“Director Xu, would you mind if I scrounged a bowl of porridge?” Pei Shenghua knew from the scent alone that the Eight-Treasure Porridge was made by Jiang Feng.

If he hadn’t seen or smelled it, it wouldn’t have mattered, but now that it was right in front of him, with the taste of the porridge he had during the competition seemingly returning to his mouth—his taste buds reviving the smooth texture and sweet fragrance—Pei Shenghua couldn’t find the same astonishing sensation in the porridge made by any familiar porridge masters after the competition as he did with Jiang Feng’s during the competition.

“Help yourself,” Xu Cheng said with a smile. “Everyone, try some. This porridge will surprise you.”

Xu Cheng rarely praised food so highly, and everyone was very curious. Whether out of curiosity or to give face to Xu Cheng, everyone scooped themselves a bowl of porridge.

With over thirty people having a bowl each, the extra-large clay pot was soon empty, and the attendant standing by quickly took it away.

“Master Xia, have some porridge,” Xu Cheng said to Xia Mushi.

“Sure.” Xia Mushi shifted his gaze from the Bagged Chicken and scooped a spoonful of porridge.

Upon tasting it, he was shocked.

He had never had such a version of Eight-Treasure Porridge before—every ingredient seemed perfectly matched, as if meant to be together, and everything was just right. Xia Mushi’s taste buds had severely deteriorated, almost to the point where everything was tasteless, but he could smell, could see, could feel. Even in this cruel, tasteless world, this porridge provided a rare and delightful sensation.

“Did you want to eat some Bagged Chicken?” The diner seated by the Bagged Chicken had noticed Xia Mushi staring at it from the beginning and now pushed it towards him.

Subconsciously, Xia Mushi wanted to refuse. Since Li Fen’s death, he hadn’t cooked or eaten this dish, and those who knew him thought he despised it intensely.

But looking at the Bagged Chicken in front of him, he found it hard to refuse.

He picked up a piece, took a bite, and couldn’t taste or feel anything.

“Not to your liking?” Xu Cheng asked. He thought the Bagged Chicken on the plate seemed alright.

“My teeth aren’t what they used to be,” Xia Mushi said.

Everyone was quietly eating the Eight-Treasure Porridge, and even the talkative Pei Shenghua was too preoccupied with his porridge to speak. The reporters’ table was intrigued and debated whether to order some porridge as well.

“Reporter Hu, shall we each get a bowl of porridge to fill our stomachs after we wrap up here?” Photographer Tang asked.

The dishes on the table would be cold by the time they got to eat, and only Reporter Hu had tried a piece of the Sweet and Sour Yam; no leftovers, however abundant, could match the comfort of a bowl of hot porridge.

“Let’s wait and see, the main dish hasn’t been served yet. We should be able to enjoy a couple bites while it’s hot,” said Reporter Hu, although his heart was rejecting it. He had just glanced at the menu—a bowl of porridge cost dozens of yuan, not as worth it as going back for the pickled vegetable fried rice downstairs, which was only ten yuan and filling.

While everyone was still sipping on their porridge, Jiang Weiming’s Roasted Pig was brought to the table.

A ten-pound suckling pig had been slaughtered and gutted, then filled with dates, and coated with a layer of grass and mud before being put into a roaring fire to roast. If it were made according to Western Zhou dynasty methods, after the intense fire, the outer shell would be removed, and the thin membrane on the skin would be wiped off. The suckling pig’s surface would then be coated with rice flour paste and fried in lard. After that, the roasted pig, along with seasonings, would be placed in a small pot inside a larger pot, soup would be added, and then it would be cooked for three days and nights before it was done.

Such a complicated method of making Roasted Pig almost counted as the pinnacle of chefs’ creativity and imagination during the Western Zhou period, a time when ingredients, seasonings, and cooking techniques were all extremely scarce.

After a thousand years, using this method to make Roasted Pig would seem somewhat disrespectful to one of the Western Zhou’s eight treasured dishes. What Jiang Weiming followed was a simplified version of Jiang Chengde’s method from years past, where it was the ingredients, not the steps, that were simplified.

Back then, the Roasted Pig could be considered one of Taifeng Building’s signature dishes, and serving such a dish during a banquet was absolutely prestigious.

At that time, Taifeng Building was the number one restaurant in Beiping City. Along with the foodies who came for its reputation, there were also extravagant dignitaries who wanted not just flavors but also prestige. The Roasted Pig, which could infinitely flaunt wealth, naturally got played out. Whatever was expensive was stuffed inside; any spice that was costly was added to the Roasted Pig, making it worth its weight in gold.

Jiang Weiming vaguely remembered that there was a period when the young dandies of Beiping City didn’t compete over who had the most expensive concubines or who sponsored the most popular actors. Instead, they competed over who had the most expensive Roasted Pig, who used or found the most exotic ingredients. It really must have been difficult for Jiang Chengde, having to use so many unusual ingredients and spices to make a Roasted Pig that still tasted good.

The Roasted Pig that Jiang Weiming made today followed the same method taught to him by Jiang Chengde. The suckling pig was stuffed with dates and mud before being roasted in a fierce fire. After removing the dates from its belly, he filled it with fresh bamboo shoots, shiitake mushrooms, duck meat, pigeon meat, glutinous rice, and other varieties of ingredients. He wiped off the thin membrane on the skin, stewed it in broth, and then finally brushed it with sauce and roasted it over high heat.

The Roasted Pig that came out of the stove was just as Jia Sixie described in “Qi Min Yao Shu”: “Its color is like amber, akin to true gold, dissolves upon entry and is majestic as a snowstorm, with the richness of a creamy sauce, truly exceptional beyond the ordinary.”

Each server carried a portion of the Roasted Pig, and not only did the pig itself grab attention, but the aroma it emitted also made it hard to ignore.

The family of three, who had joined the queue for the raffle earlier and ultimately missed out on a 1000 yuan voucher because of their unlucky draw, and who had entered the restaurant out of their own pocket because their daughter wanted to eat there, were particularly caught by the sight. The daughter, seeing the Roasted Pig held by the server, jumped up excitedly, tugging at her father’s sleeve, shouting incessantly.

“Roasted Peppa, daddy, look, it’s Roasted Peppa!” The daughter was as excited as if she had seen the real Peppa Pig.

“Wenwen, lower your voice. Other uncles and aunties are eating,” her mother quietly warned, her eyes conveying a stern message—that if Wenwen didn’t stop, there would be severe consequences.

Wenwen could only speak in a hushed voice, tugging at her father’s sleeve, “Daddy, I want to eat Roasted Peppa too!”

Wenwen’s father: “…But don’t you really like Peppa? Isn’t Peppa your friend? How could Wenwen eat her friend?”

“But Roasted Peppa smells so good,” Wenwen said in a way that left no room for argument.

Wenwen’s father: …

Resigned, he picked up the tablet and saw the Roasted Pig, no, the Roasted Peppa, and felt a chill in his heart.

What kind of roasted suckling pig was this? Were they roasting Peppa Pig? It was even more expensive than the mcm bag his wife had her eye on!

Upon seeing the note on the menu that it required advance reservation, Wenwen’s father let out a sigh of relief and showed the tablet to Wenwen, who was already in the first grade and could guess words, “See, Roasted Peppa needs to be reserved in advance, so we can’t eat it now.”

Wenwen accepted her fate sadly.

Wenwen’s father breathed a sigh of relief.

He was thankful to the restaurant that the Roasted Pig, no, the Roasted Peppa, required a reservation.

If only the Mapo tofu could have less Sichuan pepper, Wenwen’s father thought, his mouth completely numb.