Chapter 30: Simple Joys

After a satisfying meal, he went home first and enjoyed a deep, restful sleep. Upon waking, he felt refreshed and invigorated, the energy from his earlier exercise coursing through him, leaving him in high spirits.

Xia Long had already called ahead to reserve a private room at Donglaishun. Hanging up, he sighed with a touch of resignation. “Ah, nowadays they’re all franchise branches. The standards just keep dropping. If you want the real, authentic flavor, you have to go to the main location at Wangfujing’s Dong’an Market.”

Zhuang Chen waved his hand, inviting the two brothers to sit down for tea and conversation. He glanced at Xia Hu, who had grown even more taciturn, and pressed him, “Don’t be such a clam all the time. Isn’t hotpot your favorite? This time, I want to hear the details from your own mouth!”

Xia Hu was taken aback. His poker face finally betrayed a hint of awkwardness. He scratched the back of his head in silence, thinking hard before finally speaking. “I’ve always been a man of few words since I was young, so my brother usually does the talking. That’s why…”

“Cut the nonsense!” Xia Long glared, snapping, “The boss asked you to speak, so just say it! There’s no outsiders here. What are you hemming and hawing for?”

Xia Hu chuckled sheepishly, picked up his teacup nervously, took a sip, and then declared with great seriousness, “You’re a true gourmet, so I’ll just say my piece and you can take it however you like.”

Zhuang Chen lounged comfortably on the sofa, amused to see a top-tier special forces soldier looking so uneasy.

“In my opinion,” Xia Hu began, “if you want a proper hotpot, you must have a pure copper pot heated by charcoal—specifically, a purple copper pot with a tin lining inside.”

“When the water comes to a boil, you watch as the steam rises and the thin slices of meat tumble in the scalding water. You listen to the crackle and pop of burning charcoal in the pot. That feeling…”—he couldn’t help but swallow, prompting Zhuang Chen to burst out laughing. Not bad; he had the makings of a true foodie.

“With the right copper pot, the next step is choosing the best mutton!” Xia Hu grinned broadly, chuckling as he continued. “Old-timers in our hutongs have a saying: only eat what’s in season; don’t bother with roasted or hotpot mutton until winter sets in.”

“It’s said that in the old days, every respectable restaurant had a master meat selector. In the dog days of summer, they’d go to Inner Mongolia or the sheep farms outside the city to hand-pick the animals, then have them delivered to the outskirts of Beijing and fattened up for a month.”

“When the lunar calendar reached about October, that’s when the hotpot and roast beef places would really get busy, all the way through to March of the following year.”

“They’d usually choose sheep around two years old, weighing eighty to ninety jin—those are best. But honestly, as long as the meat isn’t gamey, fishy, or tough, and the texture is tender and fatty, it’ll do.”

“As for which cut to select, that’s up to personal taste. If you like lean, go for the large ‘three-way’ cut from the hind leg. If you prefer fatty and tender, pick the chuck from the back of the neck. For a crisp, tender bite, go for the ‘cucumber strip’ from the hind leg—these are the best cuts for hotpot.”

Xia Hu sipped his tea again. Facing a professional gourmet like Zhuang Chen made him nervous—he was terrified of saying something wrong. If it weren’t for growing up on hotpot, he’d never dare to speak on any other topic.

“In truth, when it comes to hotpot, the clear-water copper pot is there to highlight the quality of the mutton and the freshness of the condiments. The condiments themselves are crucial; they directly determine the quality of the meal.”

“I’ve been to Inner Mongolia and Zhangjiakou myself. The local mutton there is extraordinary, but when it comes to the all-important condiments, they’re always just a little lacking!”

“Well said! That deserves encouragement!” Zhuang Chen applauded, smiling. “Looks like our ace bodyguard has real potential as a foodie. I’ll have to nurture that.”

Xia Hu blushed crimson, quickly uttered a few polite words, but Zhuang Chen glanced at his watch and said, “Hearing you talk makes me even more impatient.”

He stood up with authority and declared, “Stick with me, and you’ll never go hungry. If nothing else, I guarantee you’ll feast on the finest food and drink!”

“Let’s go!”

They headed straight for Wangfujing and the bustling Dong’an Market. After parking, they strolled around a bit, bought a bowl of spicy-sour noodles for forty-five yuan, took one bite, and tossed it straight into the trash.

He rinsed his mouth. Ever since his change in status, his palate had become increasingly discerning. His taste buds seemed to spring to life like bamboo shoots after the rain. At the mere thought of fine cuisine, his spirits soared—more excited than if he’d met a peerless beauty.

He sighed to himself. Clearly, he was a foodie to the core. Well, so be it—let’s eat!

With Tang Hong absent, he felt no urge to shop, so he wandered around, letting his eyes feast on the beauties everywhere, putting him in an excellent mood.

At last, dinnertime arrived. He made a beeline for Donglaishun, entered the private room, and gazed at the gleaming copper pot on the table. It looked like an antique, its patina rich and deep—another few centuries, and it would be a museum piece.

A pot of clear water, a couple of scallions and slices of ginger.

“Three plates each of chuck, tenderloin, and rump…”

“Bring two plates first of the ‘ingot meat’ and ‘cucumber strips’…”

The waiter, recognizing them as regulars, offered, “We’ve just received fresh cuts of large and small ‘three-way.’ Would you like to try them?”

Zhuang Chen’s eyes lit up with delight. “We’re in luck—bring three plates of each, and some tendon meat as well.”

The waiter jotted down the order. Twenty plates of meat was no small amount, but judging by the three men’s bearing, it was clear they were true aficionados, so he said nothing and got straight to serving.

Hotpot restaurants varied in size. The big ones had dedicated suppliers, mostly sourcing sheep from Inner Mongolia. Some chains even owned their own ranches, raising specially bred sheep brought in from other regions.

Even the smallest family-run places got their meat from local halal butchers—reliable quality. Because of their faith, the mutton sold by Muslim butchers was always trustworthy, and conscientious restaurateurs always bought their meat from the Muslim quarter.

Soon, plate after plate arrived. The so-called ‘chuck’ was from the back of the sheep’s neck, tender, lean, rimmed with a ring of creamy fat—easily recognizable and meltingly rich once blanched.

The tenderloin, from the rear of the backbone, was finely grained, nearly fatless, resulting in a drier, chewier texture.

The rump, from the sheep’s haunch, offered a three-to-seven fat-to-lean ratio, making it lusciously tender.

‘Ingot meat’ referred to the shank—mostly lean, with a satisfying chew.

The ‘cucumber strip’ was a treasure: the inner thigh of the hind leg, almost entirely lean but incredibly tender, melting away on the tongue.

The ‘small three-way’ was from the upper foreleg, marbled with alternating layers of fat and lean, the fat luscious, the lean robust, creating a complex mouthfeel.

The ‘large three-way’ was from the upper hind leg, with a much higher proportion of fat, resulting in a rich, indulgent bite.

Tendon meat was found near the ribs, in the loin, ringed with a layer of white sinew, combining a crisp snap with tender juiciness—a truly unique texture.

Zhuang Chen surveyed the spread and nodded to himself. No wonder this was a century-old institution. The finest mutton had to be marbled just so: mostly lean, less fat, yet still meltingly tender—like the cucumber strip. Such cuts were rare indeed.

A skilled butcher, when slicing, would adjust for the unique character of each cut, following the grain to achieve the best texture. Machine-sliced meat, by contrast, was uniformly thin regardless of cut, the structure broken down by the blade, so the slices would fall apart as soon as they hit the pot.

The waiter, having finished serving, picked up a plate of cucumber strip to demonstrate. “Here at Donglaishun, we hand-slice fresh mutton, thoroughly draining the blood first. If the blade is bloodied during slicing, you’ll never get uniform slices.”

“Mutton that’s been drained of all its blood won’t release any liquid even after sitting in the plate for ages, nor does it smell sour or off. And when you put it in the pot, there’s no scum on the surface.”

He raised the plate high and flipped it over—astonishingly, the meat clung to the plate, suspended in mid-air without falling, not a drop of liquid in sight.

Zhuang Chen smiled faintly. Clearly, this was a well-practiced demonstration, known among insiders as “standing the plate.” Machine-sliced mutton, often frozen before the blood has drained, releases a puddle of blood when thawed, and left at room temperature, it acquires an unpleasant sour odor.

Hand-sliced mutton, cut to a certain thickness, locks in the juices and preserves the structure of the fibers, so it doesn’t fall apart in the pot.

Especially with the chuck—if not sliced along the grain, the ultra-thin piece would vanish in an instant when blanched.

Once the waiter departed, Zhuang Chen picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a cucumber strip, and ordered, “Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s eat!”

He gently placed the meat in the copper pot. The boiling water worked its magic in just four or five seconds; into his mouth it went, dissolving into broth, scalding his tongue, utterly satisfying!

In fact, in earlier times, hotpot broths weren’t always just plain water—they were often rich stocks. Later, as Muslim restaurants competed for customers, they began using clear broth to prove the superior quality of their mutton.

Good meat calls for a clear broth.

The best mutton could simmer for an hour without producing much scum. Inferior meat, on the other hand, would immediately cloud the surface with a layer of grayish foam, which only grew thicker the longer it cooked—high in purines, and leaving a disagreeable taste.

He tasted the chuck, exclaiming in admiration, “This must be mutton from outside the pass—its texture perfectly matches the clear broth. From Zhangjiakou to Jining, the mutton from that region is rich in intramuscular fat and just the right amount of intermuscular fat, making it tender and juicy, never tough no matter how long you cook it.”

Zhuang Chen smiled, “Back when I couldn’t get mutton this good, I devised a workaround: order a plate of tail fat, use it to enrich the broth first, then follow the rule of cooking fatty cuts before lean ones. It’s not quite the same, but it’s better than nothing.”

He picked up a piece of shank, dipped it in sesame paste, and popped it in his mouth—suddenly, he was transported to the vast grasslands. The sky was a sapphire blue, crystal clear to the horizon, with flocks of sheep mirroring the drifting clouds. He drew in deep breaths of cool air tinged with the scent of grass.

The sky stretches vast and wild,
The wind bends the grass, revealing cattle and sheep.