Chapter 31: The Ultimate Realm of Meat Eating

Xia Long set down his chopsticks and asked curiously, “Boss, can you tell the secret recipe in this special sesame sauce from Donglaishun?”

“First, it’s a two-eight blend—twenty percent yellow soybean paste mixed with eighty percent sesame paste...” Zhuang Chen closed his eyes, dipped a little with his chopsticks, and tasted it. “The fermented tofu is definitely from Laocai Chen’s aged jar, matured for some time, carrying that distinctive aroma of fermentation.”

“The chive flower is from Liubiju—fragrant but not overwhelming. Then there’s cooking wine, fish sauce, shrimp broth, oyster sauce, fragrant oil, Sichuan pepper oil, sugar, light soy sauce, thirteen-spice blend, ginger juice...” He continued, “Especially grinding the fermented tofu into a perfectly smooth sauce, that takes the most effort. All by hand, over an hour of work, your whole arm goes numb.”

Just then, the waiter pushed the door open. Hearing Zhuang Chen’s words, he was dumbfounded, his face full of disbelief. “You...” He raised his thumb in admiration, “With one look, you’re truly an expert!”

Zhuang Chen laughed heartily, recalling how he once witnessed Mongolian shepherds slaughtering sheep: plucking the wool from the chest, slicing a fist-sized opening with a sharp knife, and slipping a hand inside the chest cavity. Finding the main artery, they pinched it off cleanly and swiftly. They believed this was the gentlest way to slaughter a sheep, and that the meat tasted the best.

The waiter leaned in and whispered, “Since you’re a connoisseur, we have lamb neck meat. Would you like to try it?”

Zhuang Chen clapped his hands and quickly ordered everything to be brought over. Xia Hu, puzzled, remarked, “I’ve never eaten lamb neck before.”

“A sheep weighing a hundred pounds, its neck meat doesn’t exceed two pounds,” Zhuang Chen explained, setting down his chopsticks and taking a sip of water, anticipation in his voice. “It’s a rare delicacy!”

Xia Long’s face was flushed from the meal. He slapped Xia Hu’s shoulder and laughed, teasing, “You know nothing. If you weren’t following the boss, you’d never taste this in your lifetime.”

“My favorite gourmet, Mr. Cai Lan, once said: ‘The highest realm of eating meat is lamb.’”

“For example, the neck meat—both fatty and lean, firm texture, interlaced with fine tendons. It’s perfect for making minced meat or meatballs.”

“The outer loin, shaped like a plank, is commonly called plank meat. It has a skin and tendon layer outside, with delicate muscle and tender, juicy flesh—ideal for roasting whole or cutting into chunks for grilling.”

“The tenderloin is a small, long strip close to the spine, resembling bamboo shoots, with fine, long fibers, also called bamboo shoot lamb. Low in fat, it’s suitable for stir-frying or pan-frying.”

“If it’s lamb brisket, the meat is slightly tough, with a thick, rich flavor—perfect for stewing or braising.”

As Zhuang Chen spoke, he picked up pieces from different sections of lamb, tasting each one in turn with his eyes closed. In his mind’s eye appeared a snow-white maiden, blossoming in her youth, her skin milky and flawless as ice and jade, radiating boundless allure. She drew near, extending arms pale as frost and snow, embracing tightly. The fullness of her form was warm and smooth, like the finest silk, gliding gently and raising goosebumps, as if an electric current swept through, stirring trembling waves.

His mind emptied, drifting among white clouds, his soul soaring with the breeze to the ninth heaven, merging with the pure blue sky, returning to the womb, thoughtless and curled into himself, a profound sense of safety emerging from within.

At this moment, he finally understood the meaning of that saying.

Twenty-odd plates of meat brought great satisfaction. Compared to Bian Yi Fang, Zhuang Chen much preferred Donglaishun—the thrill of eating lamb was unmatched!

Overstuffed, he suddenly remembered a place perfect for a stroll after a meal. He told Xia Hu to drive straight to the Great Bell Temple.

“You like prayer beads?” Xia Long asked, intrigued. “The Great Bell Temple and Xiaowuji are the two major hubs for collectibles in the capital. Anyone who enjoys beads or walnuts goes there.”

Zhuang Chen patted his belly and laughed, “Just wandering around to kill time. An elder of mine used to be into this, so I picked up a bit. There’s nothing like rolling a pair of walnuts in your hands—just play.”

Xia Long nodded, smiling. In earlier days, noble sons of the Eight Banners carried three treasures when going out: thumb rings, walnuts, and caged birds.

Even the Qianlong Emperor was enamored with walnuts, frequently composing poems in their praise. Zhuang Chen had seen several pairs of old walnuts, polished over decades, gleaming like agate—truly beautiful.

They arrived at the Great Bell Temple. It wasn’t a weekend, just after dinner, so the crowd wasn’t large. The three began to browse the market, which was vast, with both stalls and storefronts selling every manner of item—from bodhi beads costing about a hundred yuan, to agarwood worth tens of thousands. Everything one could wish for was there.

Prayer beads were the most common, fueled by the recent craze for collectibles, especially in the capital. It seemed people felt embarrassed to greet others without a few strings of beads dangling from their wrists. As he walked, Zhuang Chen would occasionally offer explanations: “Despite all these bits and bobs, if you ask me, only four kinds are worth playing with long-term.”

“Vajra bodhi, walnuts, rosewood, and Hainan huanghuali. The rest are just commercial hype—nothing worth mentioning.”

He’d often heard masters grumble about this, so over time he became a half-expert. Vajra beads and walnuts require skill and patience—perseverance wears down stone, and as long as you roll them daily, they’ll look gorgeous in three years.

Rosewood and huanghuali are even rarer, always reserved for imperial use. The thirteen Qing emperors had only one pursuit: replacing all their furniture with rosewood, eventually naming the palace the Purple Forbidden City.

For rosewood, three types circulate in the market. First is genuine large stock—furniture-grade material, snapped up by big investors and stored for years, sometimes decades. Wood needs to dry out; without a few years to evaporate moisture, it can’t be made into furniture, or it’ll crack. Such stock is worth millions, with a ton costing at least three to four million. Chen Lihua, for example, holds at least several billion worth.

Second is imported Indian reclaimed wood—beams from dismantled houses or carts. Locals sometimes used rosewood for everyday objects, or early homes even had rosewood beams.

In recent years, everyone knows Chinese collectors love rosewood, so old reclaimed wood is sold for profit. Many merchants claim that reclaimed wood is superior—well-seasoned, dense, high-quality—but it cannot be generalized; the specifics depend on the actual piece.

Third is pure bead stock from southern Fujian. No matter the size, once it’s in their hands, it’s turned into beads—small as 0.6 cm, large as 3.0 cm. One word: carve!

Before his master passed, he played with many types of beads. For true collectors, they’d rather quit smoking and drinking than miss out, even gritting their teeth to buy three strings of Hainan huanghuali beads, spending hours rolling them with gloves.

If Zhuang Chen were to appraise huanghuali, the main requirement is a clean, pure base color. The aesthetics are akin to ancient landscape painting: first, the paper must be good, then the painting finds its mood, and the ink can fully express its effect.

Rosewood is prized for its oily density and dignified presence; agarwood for its fragrance; huanghuali for its patterns. Its grain flows like water, full of artistic conception and imagination.

Whether it’s the shimmering ripples of water, the majestic tiger stripes, the vivid ghost faces, or the mysterious knots, all are extraordinary.

A clean base color means the wood grew long enough, matured fully, with good oiliness and density, promising a beautiful patina with long-term handling. Only then will the oil lines be clear and natural, with a strong fluorescent effect.

Second, the pattern must be clear, distributed with order, and have a strong sense of layout. Every specimen is a treasure; inferior ones are blurry, with weak oil lines and poor contrast. The finest have high color contrast, offering stunning visual impact.

Third, the best must have patterns on all sides—360 degrees. Most huanghuali beads are only attractive on one side; merchants always display the best face, while the back is ordinary or even plain—a fatal flaw. The true gems are beautiful from every angle, evoking joy and serenity.

They finished browsing the stalls—nothing interesting—so they went straight into a shop. The owner immediately recognized them as major customers and eagerly displayed his wares, especially Hainan huanghuali beads, starting at two thousand each.

“In the past, the Li villages were full of huanghuali. Mountain folk used the wood for tools and building houses—it was worthless then. In the early nineties, wealthy outsiders came to the villages, flashing cash to buy huanghuali lumber. Anything made of huanghuali, they wanted, hauling it away by the truckload.”

“No one understood it back then—they thought it was a chance to get rich, selling the wood for a few bucks apiece. I heard one big boss bought an entire village, built an apartment complex in the city, and had all the villagers move there.”

“All they had to do was give up their ancestral homes, and the huanghuali lumber was carted off. Now we know—they were shrewd, made a fortune!”

With envy, jealousy, and resentment, he concluded, “Huanghuali went from a few hundred yuan to millions today—a six hundred fold increase in twenty years. Those southern businessmen who had foresight and invested in huanghuali became billionaires in less than a decade. That’s real wealth!”