Chapter 39: Three Meals a Day Are Two Different Matters

Zhuang Chen was momentarily taken aback, then smiled as he patted the other's shoulder, saying nothing. Wang Kuan glared, laughing as he cursed, "You fat bastard, Zhuang's got billions to his name, you think he cares about your pocket change?"

"Everyone sitting here is family. When SCC first started, we were nothing. To recruit members, I used to knock on the windows of supercars, shamelessly pitching the club."

"Later, everyone thought it was fun and joined in, and that's how SCC became what it is today, finally getting some prestige."

Lighting a cigarette, he pointed outside and whispered, "Those guys out there are just hangers-on—always buddying up when nothing's happening, but when trouble comes, they bolt faster than rabbits!"

"The only ones we can count on are the dozen or so brothers here, right?"

He finished, giving Zhuang Chen's hand a genuine slap. "You know a horse's strength after a long journey, and a person's heart after much time. From now on, let's meet often, bond through our cars, eat, drink, and whoever you like is a brother—whoever you don't, just nod and move on!"

Old Tan was the first to step forward, extending his hand. "That's right, meeting is fate. No need for all that pretense. We're all in investments, let's communicate more in the future."

Zhuang Chen smiled as he shook hands. The chubby one sidled over, ingratiatingly asking, "Bro, my hands are itching, where's the car key?"

Wang Kuan kicked him, scolding, "Beat it! I haven't even had my turn yet, go to the back of the line!"

Prince Ting stubbed out his cigarette, smirking, "Kuan, aren't you always bragging about how awesome LaFerrari is?"

"Let's race today, let you see just how tough the ONE77 really is!"

"Damn, you think I'm scared?"

"You talk too damn much—see you on the track!"

Zhuang Chen had no choice—dragged to the parking lot, he handed the keys to Wang Kuan. Let them risk it; everyone else headed to the viewing platform, eager to see whether Aston Martin would triumph or Ferrari would prove tougher.

Qiqi leaned against Zhuang Chen, her face tense, whispering, "Bro, that's a LaFerrari—over forty million..."

Zhuang Chen laughed heartily, patting her hand, unconcerned, "They're all friends, it's just a game."

Dominant!

Qiqi's eyes sparkled—this was a true tycoon. Her heart soared, as if clutching a diamond thigh, basking in envious, jealous, hateful stares from all directions. She was surely on the path to the pinnacle of life.

Zhuang Chen watched as red and white cars sped around the track. With seven years of free maintenance, rare was the chance for someone else to warm up his car—he hardly cared.

Perhaps Wang Kuan's skill was superior, winning by a slim margin. Prince Ting, disgruntled, grumbled endlessly, but finally conceded that Ferrari was still second to Aston.

Wang Kuan, flushed with joy, grabbed Zhuang Chen, shouting, "I'm happy today! Nobody leaves—barbecue tonight, my treat!"

Everyone roared their assent. Forty or fifty supercars surged into downtown, drawing crowds of onlookers. Zhuang Chen was second to last to depart, with Xia Long and Xia Hu bringing up the rear.

Qiqi beamed, constantly posting on social media, showing off every aspect. Zhuang Chen paid her no mind, reminding her not to post his face—everything else was fair game.

They arrived at Shichahai in the west of the city. The barbecue restaurant, originally called Luquan House, was run by a man named Ji, hence the nickname Barbecue Ji. It was also an old establishment; in the old days, there were three famous barbecue places in Beijing: Barbecue Wan, Barbecue Ji, and Barbecue Wang.

Now, only Barbecue Wan and Barbecue Ji retained their traditional prestige, renowned both domestically and abroad as unique halal cuisine restaurants.

Prime location, facing one of Beijing's Eight Scenic Spots: Silver Ingot Mountain View. A stretch of emerald water, distant western hills bathed in sunset, savoring barbecue—truly an excellent spot.

Zhuang Chen had wanted to try it, and now the opportunity presented itself, so he didn't refuse. Parking was difficult; though many left midway, they still filled five private rooms, others grouping in threes and fives. He followed Wang Kuan to sit together.

It was the same familiar faces from earlier, plus the vases beside them. Zhuang Chen sat to Wang Kuan's left. The chubby one tried to squeeze in but was shooed away by Old Tan, taking the seat on the right.

"Ji, there are many tonight—same old rule, put it on my tab!"

Wang Kuan volunteered to order, clearly a frequent visitor. He had the waiter bring two cases of beer, smiling at Zhuang Chen, "These bastards are always here. Tonight's mainly to entertain you, Zhuang—no leaving until we're drunk!"

Zhuang Chen picked up a bottle, poured his glass full, and though he didn't often drink, tonight he was fired up. Who was afraid?

They clinked glasses first. Wang Kuan laughed, "This barbecue has filled the air with its aroma for a century, and the preparation is meticulous. Only two-year-old lambs are selected, the most tender parts like top round and hind leg, all sinew trimmed, sliced into uniform thin sheets."

"Marinated with soy sauce, ginger juice, vinegar, and other seasonings, mixed with scallions and cilantro, then grilled. The lamb is juicy and tender as tofu, rich and aromatic, mouthwatering and thoroughly satisfying!"

"We came early today, so Ji reserved this room for us. Eating the refined way is boring—how about we try the martial way?"

Zhuang Chen's eyes lit up. Refined eating meant the chef grilled the meat and served it to you. Martial eating, on the other hand, required everyone to do it themselves, gathering around a large iron griddle heated by firewood and grilling their own meat.

Degree of doneness, saltiness, all up to you. One hand holding a glass of spirits, the other using the long chopsticks provided by the restaurant to grill meat, placing the cooked pieces in your bowl. A sip of liquor, a bite of meat—pure joy.

Especially when snow falls in winter, with blizzards outside and warmth inside. Whether noblemen or actors, all were treated equally.

Soon, dozens of plates of raw meat arrived. Prince Ting ordered, "You ladies, don't just sit around—go grill some meat and let the guys chat!"

Qiqi was reluctant—it was a rare chance to get close to Zhuang Chen—but seeing the other tall girls too shy to speak, she obediently joined the meat-grilling brigade.

Zhuang Chen smiled wryly, watching the goddesses of every nerd's dreams fumble with smoke and fire, secretly sighing at the waste of both talent and ingredients.

Seeing Qiqi struggle, he couldn't help but instruct, "Add soy sauce, sesame oil, cooking wine, lots of cilantro, and more water..."

"Yes, place it on the griddle, leave small gaps between the iron bars so the smoke can seep through..."

"Turn the meat often with the six-pronged chopsticks for even heating, and stuff the meat scraps into the gaps to enhance the charred aroma..."

The tall girls finally got the hang of it, and Zhuang Chen relaxed. Glancing back, he saw everyone else looking at him oddly, so he shrugged, "I just like eating—know a bit, that's all."

Prince Ting sneered, "Forget it. Those women are good for lying down with their legs spread, maybe agile tongues, but what else can you expect?"

Everyone laughed uproariously. Qiqi pretended not to hear. Learning that the tycoon liked eating, she threw herself into grilling, hoping to impress.

Zhuang Chen shook his head—this was likely the daily life of the rich second generation. Amid rampant materialism, how hard it was to keep one's integrity and heart.

He casually explained, "The meat comes from West Gate—two-and-a-half-year-old castrated bulls or dairy cows that have only calved once. Only the purest cuts are used—top round, tenderloin. Special steel knives cut the meat into willow-shaped slices, about 150 per pound."

"The fuel is pine branches or cones, and the iron bars are made just right—not too wide, not too narrow. Wide gaps leak oil, narrow ones block the flame. Like patina on antiques, the older the griddle, the richer the aroma it imparts; every bit reflects the old Beijing craftsmanship."

"Once, someone invited Qi Baishi for barbecue. The old man laughed, 'With my teeth, how could I chew?' But the host replied, 'Precisely because you can chew it, that's why you should come.'"

"He added, 'The meat is as tender as tofu.' Qi Baishi didn't believe it, but upon coming here, he was so impressed by the unique flavor he couldn't stop praising it."

"The owner saw Qi Baishi in high spirits and asked him to write a sign for the shop. After the meal, rice paper was brought out—Qi Baishi took up the brush, wrote a large character for 'barbecue' in ancient script, then paused. After thinking, he added a line: 'Barbecue is not an ancient term; this is Qi Huang's invention.' Laughing, he finished and left. I think that sign still hangs in the restaurant today."

Everyone stared, and Wang Kuan gave a thumbs-up, "Damn, you know more than any of us—impressive!"

Zhuang Chen waved it off and suggested, "Since we're going martial, let's have two experienced chefs assist. It's rare to come—I'd really like to taste the eight flavors: old, tender, charred, burnt, sweet, salty, spicy, and 'embracing the moon.'"

"Alright, you in white—go get two chefs in here!"

The tall girls breathed a sigh of relief, quickly fetching the grill masters, returning to their roles as eye candy. The chefs entered, handing out white towels for wiping sweat in the hot room.

The meat was top round beef, sliced evenly. After sinews were removed and pressed firm, it was marinated with seasonings for an hour.

Mixed with scallions and cilantro, spread onto the pine-scented griddle, and turned with special long chopsticks—called six-pronged wood in shop lingo—the aroma filled the room.

Once the meat changed color, they added scallions and cilantro. Standing up, sweating, eating with sugar garlic, melon strips, chili oil, and finally a big gulp of beer—the sensation...

The chef arranged the meat in a ring, cracked an egg in the center, letting it set—the so-called 'embracing the moon.'

Paired with their signature layered flatbread, big bites of meat and big gulps of beer—pure satisfaction!

After feasting and drinking, everyone gradually departed. Wang Kuan added Zhuang Chen to the friends group, a small circle of a dozen people, for more gatherings in the future.

"Bro, let's head to the hotel?"

No drinking and driving—Xia Hu drove the sports car, while Zhuang Chen rode in Xia Long's Bentley. After seven or eight bottles, with Qiqi brimming with spring fever, they headed straight to the Hilton and booked the presidential suite.

A lover's bath, unable to resist—a round standing up.

On the sofa, music and passion, hot and cold, another desert storm.

For over an hour, eighteen variations, until Qiqi was crying out, finally exhausted and fast asleep.

At last, he understood—three meals a day,

Yet it was really only two things!