Chapter 102: Only the Third Generation of the Wealthy Understands Eating

Zhuang Chen was taken aback. The boss led him mysteriously into the inner room, carefully lifting a golden-yellow item from the safe. An idea flashed through his mind, and he exclaimed in surprise, “Golden lip fish maw!”

“Haha, three jin six liang, the store's treasure!” the boss declared proudly. “Ten years ago, I bought an 84-jin heavy golden lip fish with a fortune in gold. Impressive, isn't it?”

Zhuang Chen took the item, examining it closely for the first time this legendary top-tier ingredient. Locals also called it yellow tortoise, with a market value exceeding a million yuan. The fish gelatin could save lives, and it was said that the fish gills and scales could treat infertility. Every part of the fish was a treasure: the meat was valued at least at three thousand yuan per jin, while the maw was the most precious, priced at one and a half million yuan per jin on the market—a gem with no equal.

Especially for postpartum hemorrhage, it reportedly had miraculous effects that cured the illness. The gelatin was taken from the body, dried, and preserved. Ancient wealthy households regarded it as a family heirloom, capable of saving a life in critical moments.

“Back in April 2009, two fishermen from Fuding City caught a nearly lifeless 64-jin golden lip fish while at sea. A Wenzhou merchant bought it for 980,000 yuan, then resold it for 1.25 million to a Guangzhou buyer.”

“In February 2010, fishermen from Nanhai captured a golden lip fish weighing over 140 jin, which was purchased by three Wenzhou merchants in Zhanjiang for 3.45 million yuan.”

“In 2011, a fisherman from Pingtan netted a golden lip fish measuring 1.93 meters in length and weighing 150 jin, selling it for 3 million yuan...”

The boss grew more excited, saying, “We call it golden fish here. What golden? A gram of fish maw is worth dozens of grams of pure gold!”

Zhuang Chen nodded. Indeed, it was a treasure. Casually, he asked, “How much would you sell it for?”

The boss hurriedly retrieved the maw, re-locked it in the safe, and declared solemnly, “We’re fated to show it to you. No matter the price, I won’t sell it. It’s to be kept as a family heirloom!”

Zhuang Chen shook his head, unfazed. He could understand. Those who are meant to have heaven-sent treasures do so; if it were up to him, he wouldn’t sell it even if beaten.

Ascending to the second floor, the chef had prepared the ingredients, filling an entire table. Since eating alone was boring, he invited the boss to sit and eat while chatting, to make friends. He promised that if anything was needed in the future, just a phone call for delivery.

Guangdong people valued the freshness of ingredients above all else, which gave rise to the yellow sand market that had not stopped for a single second since 1994. From the banquets of the Qing dynasty’s Thirteen Hongs golden age, to the tea gatherings in Chen Tang Feng Yue, to the matchmaking at Tao Tao Ju...

There were also the two great food families locally: one was the Jiang family, who adhered to Guangdong traditions, created Taishi cuisine, and pioneered decades of flourishing feasts. Their representative was the chief foodie of Yangcheng, Jiang Kongyin Taishi.

The other was the Tan family cuisine, which originated in Guangdong and then moved north to become a top official cuisine, renowned in the capital. Their representative was Tan Zongjun and his son.

Lu Wenfu’s “The Foodie” said: “Three generations of wealth and nobility know the importance of diet,” and this was not false.

Those who clutched handfuls of silver in teahouses and feasted grandly—even if they ate abalone every day and swallows’ nest every night—were not true foodies.

Surveying Yuan Mei, Li Yu, Zhang Dai, those historically recognized as foodies, first they needed cultural heritage, but more importantly, they all encountered a satisfactory and fitting chef.

Singapore’s wealthy merchant He Zhenya, a renowned food writer in Southeast Asia, had a chef named Liang Mei who, in daily tasks like making scrambled eggs, demanded perfection. Anything ugly, undercooked, or overcooked was discarded.

For He family banquets, the chef rose early, preparing a piece of roast pork that took two hours, selecting only the best rib from the rib chop, without regard for time or cost. Such roast pork surpassed any star-rated hotel.

Yuan Mei’s chef, Wang Xiaoyu, treated cooking as a medical practice, diagnosing with his heart every suitable thing, cooking according to each ingredient’s nature without forcing or yielding excessively. He was truly a philosopher.

Yuan Zicai often spoke of friends’ exquisite dishes, and Xiaoyu would personally observe, treating him with disciple’s respect. Thus, integrating and assimilating the best from all schools, he served his master better.

Jiang Kongyin Taishi, the last jinshi, had also acted as an agent for British and American tobacco, becoming wealthy. He opened farms, planted fruits, raised dairy cows, and bred flowers. During lychee season, the Jiang family often appeared in the garden at dawn to pick lychees covered in dew, because once the sun rose, they turned sour.

Even the white chrysanthemums needed for snake soup were tended by two dedicated gardeners, growing a unique self-bred variety called “Crane Dances to Cloud,” exclusive in the country.

Tan Zongjun, fellow villager of Jiang Taishi, was known in official circles for his love of food. The Tan family father and son were never satisfied with refinement; they ate bear paws but chose only the left front paw, said to be the fattest and most delicious part licked by bears.

For shark fin, they chose Luzon yellow; for abalone, only purple abalone. A century ago, in the capital there was a vogue: no opera without learning from Tan Xinpeng, no mouth that did not praise Tan family cuisine. Even common people knew that the several Guangdong aunties of the Tan family cooked fine dishes.

Especially the third auntie of Tan family’s son Tan Xuanqing, Li Feng, in this generation, had mastered all the secrets of capital chefs, plus the local Guangzhou cuisine. Tan family cuisine was recognized as the foremost private cuisine in the capital, even surpassing President Duan Qirui’s home-cooked meals.

When Zhang Daqian was in Jinling, he missed Tan family shark fin and often sent people to the Tan family to buy freshly steamed fish fin, which was then airlifted back immediately to enjoy at the table.

When Wang Jingwei arrived in the capital, at a banquet hosted by Shang Zhen gongguan for celebrities, he wanted to hire the Tan family for an “outer meeting,” meaning street performance. Tan Xuanqing refused outright. Later, he had no choice but to compromise and hire the Tan family for one steamed fish fin and one oyster sauce purple abalone. The secretary drove a fast delivery.

Legend has it that the words Tan Xuanqing used to refuse were: “Once you leave the Tan family door, you cannot cook Tan family cuisine.”

If private house cuisine leaves the door, can it still be called house cuisine?

Li Feng, a young woman, actually couldn’t even handle the big flip wok, never learned stir-frying, because Tan family cuisine mostly consisted of high-end dishes requiring precise control of heat. The little tricks that ordinary chefs know, like adding alkali to swallow’s nest or borax to whole beef, they knew nothing about.

They only knew to cook honestly, with heavy ingredients, sufficient fire, and accurate procedures. Only in their own kitchen did it feel natural and easy.

In the 1920s, the Tan family gradually declined. Tan Xuanqing was still hopelessly obsessed with food, unwilling to sell his grand mansion in Bicaifu Hutong, instead renting a house in the Guangdong Huiguan.

Bearing the name of an official family, daily expenses were tight. To maintain the food, he needed another path. In this predicament, a sudden idea struck: why not eat to support eating?

Charging for banquets and selling Tan family cuisine might be a profitable shortcut.

He started quietly hosting banquets, making money while maintaining dignity, without a business license, only hosting at home, hence called “home chef special banquets.”

He started with regulars, initially a bit evasive, unable to face it. Later, as reputation spread, strangers couldn’t be refused, so only regulars got 20% off.

For the most expensive swallow-and-fin banquet, outside high-end teahouses like Chunhua Tower and Dongxing Tower charged only sixteen yuan per banquet, but the Tan family quoted one hundred yuan, with regulars getting eighty yuan.

At that time, capital nobles indulged in extravagant eating, even bribed congressmen feasted wildly. Thanks to the Tan family cuisine, it suddenly became famous in the capital, the more expensive and mysterious, quickly spreading to high society, chased by heavy gold and powerful.

Initially, booking a banquet required three days in advance, later a week, then a month, even three months.

Taishi cuisine was similar. Back then in Guangzhou, it had no rivals, major hotels followed Taishi’s lead. Jiang family every new dish, hotels immediately copied, adding “Taishi” name to attract customers.

Any new dish bearing the Taishi name, once released, was highly popular, windblown for a time. Whether military and political figures, foreign envoys, rich tycoons, or heroes from all walks, all took pride in one banquet at the Taishi mansion.

The American foodie Walt said: “If you can’t cook a chicken well, that chicken dies in vain.”

Wang Xiaoyu said: “A good chef’s stir-fried celery is absolutely superior to a bad chef’s bear paw; the difference is whether one puts one’s heart into it.”

Even back then, in “The Food God,” the Star flying in the air doing flower caramel said to use one’s own heart to cook.

These truths Zhuang Chen understood, but the world was so vast, and he was still young. When he grew old and could no longer walk, he would hire several good chefs and enjoy delicious food while lying at home.

This was real life!