Chapter 25: The Rhythm of Gastronomy

These words made Zhuang Chen’s mouth water—imagination is the greatest temptation for any gourmand. After tidying up and completing the checkout formalities, he dragged Hu Hai with him straight to Yangfang Hutong.

“You must be Mr. Zhuang, am I right?”

No sooner had they entered the elegantly antique courtyard than Li Xiaolin, a man in his early fifties, approached. Spotting Hu Hai, he hesitated, “You look very familiar…”

Hu Hai took the initiative, “Master Li, I’m Hu Hai from the State Guesthouse. I’ve been here before with Master Hao.”

“Yes, yes!” Li Xiaolin recalled, his enthusiasm lighting up his face. “So it’s an old friend! Please, come in!”

The group followed him inside. In the main hall, large gilded characters spelling out ‘Li Family Cuisine’ hung on the wall, inscribed by Pujie, the brother of the last emperor, Puyi.

After seating Zhuang Chen, Li Xiaolin inquired, “Is Master Hao in good health? It’s been some time since he last visited!”

“He’s quite well,” Hu Hai replied with a smile. “Just a few days ago, he was reminiscing about you. Today I’m accompanying an esteemed guest—don’t be fooled by Zhuang Chen’s youth; his palate is extraordinary, even Master Hao can’t stop praising him.”

“Oh?” Li Xiaolin paused, appraising Zhuang Chen anew, then said courteously, “So we have a true gourmet among us! What an honor. We must exchange ideas later.”

After a few pleasantries, Li Xiaolin excused himself to prepare in the kitchen, leaving Zhuang Chen and Hu Hai to chat and sip tea. Soon, the first dish arrived; Hu Hai’s face lit up with excitement. “Ha! Jade Tofu!”

Zhuang Chen gazed at the vibrant colors before him—ruby red and emerald green, exquisite and refined. He picked up his chopsticks and took a piece.

Freshness!

Sweetness!

Elegance!

A noble lady seemed to step out of the grand mansion, dignified and graceful, exuding refined opulence—a noble bearing at her very core.

Her slender hand reached out; the tofu, ground to perfection, melted instantly on the tongue, caressing it like milk, like a gentle spa, warm and silky smooth.

He couldn’t help but murmur, “So the ‘jade’ is chili oil, and the ‘emerald’ contains mashed edamame, fresh scallop, scallion, and ginger…”

“The edamame puree and minced scallops are stir-fried rapidly in the pan—the key is to freeze the fresh scallops first, then let them thaw naturally, so they acquire that milk-like viscosity,” Hu Hai explained with relish.

“Jade Tofu was Empress Dowager Cixi’s favorite dish, and it’s also the signature of Li Family Cuisine,” he continued. “Emperor Qianlong lived to eighty-nine, and legend has it he had a secret to longevity: he loved two foods above all, duck and tofu.”

“So, after consulting the imperial recipe archives, the palace chefs decided to create a tofu dish to please the Empress Dowager. They racked their brains and finally found a color reminiscent of jade, thus making this tofu. It’s said that you can only taste this dish here, nowhere else in the world.”

“You’ve exaggerated a bit!” Li Xiaolin entered carrying a platter, smiling, “It used to be rare, but now with molecular gastronomy, Jade Tofu is hardly mysterious anymore!”

He set down the dish and looked at Zhuang Chen. “Young friend, you are indeed full of hidden talents. Come, try this dish.”

“A savory stir-fry?”

Zhuang Chen picked up a bite, chewed, and nodded in satisfaction. “I’ve heard it used to be a cold dish for Manchu families during New Year—made with shredded carrot, bamboo shoot, and mustard greens, stir-fried and cooled.”

“To restore the crisp texture when there were no refrigerators, they must have cooled it outdoors in winter, right?”

Li Xiaolin nodded, smiling. “This was the most approachable dish for the Empress Dowager. Take the Longevity Diet Office, which managed Cixi’s personal meals—it had 108 rooms, spread across eight courtyards, staffed by 128 chefs!”

“Each day, at least 100 different dishes for two main meals, and another 20 for two snack times. The quality was impeccable—128 chefs, among the nation’s finest, each with their own specialty.”

As he spoke, the third dish arrived. Zhuang Chen’s eyes shone. “Drumboard Prawns?”

He tasted it. The shell, made from fried pea flour, was crisp outside and tender inside, blending hardness and softness perfectly. The crispy egg skin wrapped pork fat netting and prawn, both soft and springy, shaped like the drumboard of traditional Peking opera.

Chinese cabbage rolled into a round mound, blanched and coated with mustard—refreshing and stimulating, instantly whetting the appetite.

He couldn’t help but praise, “Authentic Beijing flavor!”

Li Xiaolin laughed heartily, delighted by kindred appreciation. He reminisced, “Our family was from the Plain White Banner. My great-grandfather served as an Imperial Household Department minister, managing all royal affairs, especially the Imperial Kitchen.”

“You know, there are incompetent emperors, incurable emperors, but never emperors who don’t know how to indulge themselves. You can’t just serve them anything; each emperor or empress dowager had their own demands.”

“The Imperial Household Department not only safeguarded their food, preventing poisoning, but also tasted and approved every menu.”

“My father was lifelong friends with Pujie and Wanrong’s brother. Once, he invited them to dinner at home, and Pujie spontaneously wrote ‘Imperial Cuisine of the Qing Palace.’”

“At the time, my father said, ‘Please don’t write that—we can’t recreate what Cixi ate. Everything has changed.’ So he changed the inscription to ‘Li Family Cuisine.’”

Zhuang Chen pressed curiously, “How many recipes have been handed down?”

“All told, about nine hundred, but nowadays only two or three hundred can actually be made,” Li Xiaolin sighed, helpless. “Many ingredients are impossible to find. For example, Emperor Kangxi loved dishes from nomadic tribes—bear paw, deer, leopard, ostrich, rhinoceros, tiger, monkey, all wild game.”

“There was also the fifty-pound palace-grade pig, prized for its thin skin, absence of milk flavor, and perfect balance of lean and fat. Today’s breeding methods and environment are different; the flavors simply can’t be replicated.”

He grew wistful. “Society evolves so quickly; things from ten years ago are already outdated, let alone what we make, which is from over a century ago!”

“If it weren’t for period dramas, people today might not even recall the names of Qing emperors. Honestly, so-called imperial cuisine is hard to make now—the ingredients are too particular, and it’s a nationwide hunt to find the best ones. They’re rare and expensive, and not everyone appreciates the distinctions.”

“The essence of any tradition is culture. So-called memory inheritance is just passing something to you, but whether it persists and gains value depends on whether you feel something for it—only culture sustains it.”

The mood grew solemn. As a chef, Zhuang Chen understood deeply. Hu Hai, seeing the conversation stall, joked out of professional habit, “Hey, no one can change these grand truths. For a foodie, enjoying the moment matters most, right?”

Li Xiaolin waved his hand as the fourth dish was served, laughing, “Exactly! It’s rare to have kindred spirits here today—let’s just be happy!”

Steamed frog… Spicy beef… Shrimp with celery hearts… Sweet and sour spare ribs…

The flavors spanned sour, sweet, bitter, salty, fresh, and spicy, letting the taste buds rise and fall, sometimes intense, sometimes subtle—the textures ever-changing, keeping the palate refreshed.

Zhuang Chen closed his eyes. In his mind’s ear, a grand symphony played—the bass, the mid-tones, the melody, rising and falling in harmony.

The appetizers were like the bass: present yet unobtrusive. If you don’t pay attention, you might miss them entirely. But without bass, the orchestra loses its foundation, and all rhythm becomes chaotic.

A master chef is like a conductor—not just orchestrating a single flavor, but arranging them all, even the faintest nuance.

That is the rhythm of gastronomy!