Chapter One: Joining the Army

My name is Tian Buer, and I am a cook.

On my very first day in the kitchen, my master imparted to me an important lesson: there are many things in this world that should never be eaten carelessly, especially wild game served in restaurants—those are best left untouched. Even one of my rivals once warned me that there are two places in this world closest to hell: one is the battlefield, and the other is the kitchen. On the battlefield, you witness every possible way a person can die; in the kitchen, you witness every possible way living creatures meet their end.

Behind those seemingly delicious dishes, diners can never imagine how much “unclean” matter and how many tragic stories are concealed. As I gained more experience, I gradually understood deeper truths, as well as many unspeakable taboos and secrets that circulate among chefs. I came to realize that some things, while appearing delectable, can be fatal; others, appearing dangerous, can actually save lives.

Later on, this profession became more and more inscrutable to me. From gutter oil to masked palm civet, from dead rats to human placenta—it seemed that in recent years, the things people dared to eat grew ever more outrageous and bizarre.

So I resolved to share the stories that occurred in my restaurant and among my friends, to caution everyone: be vigilant about what you eat, for what you consume may not only fill your belly but, if you are not careful, may invite “adventures” you would never wish upon yourself.

...

My story must begin with the time I first became an apprentice.

In truth, I was quite fortunate. The place where I learned to cook was not some commercial culinary school, but rather the most reputable, most conscientious “Grand Canteen” in all of China—the Army Kitchen Squad.

When I was young, my studies were poor. My family were all simple farmers with little worldly knowledge, and seeing that even so many college graduates could not find work, they thought an education was futile. So, upon finishing high school, my family—through a connection my second uncle had at the county military office—sent me off to enlist in the army.

Before I left, my mother gave me a thousand yuan, while my father left me only with these words: “If you don’t make something of yourself, don’t bother coming back to see me.”

Thus, together with nine other youths from my village, I boarded the train bound for the military camp, traveling from our hometown in Hebei all the way to the southwest province of Guizhou. With hope for the future and longing for military life, I joined the great family of the People’s Soldiers.

But I quickly discovered that the life of a soldier was far from the idyllic picture I had imagined. To my shame, after the new recruit training, my poor physical condition left me at the bottom of every assessment. In the end, I became the “leftover talent” unchosen by any specialty, and was separated from my village friends, assigned instead to the squad with the lightest duties—the kitchen.

I watched as my peers from the village shouldered rifles while I was handed a serving spoon. The disparity was hard to bear. Carrying this psychological burden, I became passive in my kitchen duties, rarely participating in squad or company activities, and sometimes even acting out like a sullen child.

Looking back, if things had continued as they were, I would have at best idled away my time in the kitchen squad, finished my two-year conscription, and quietly returned home to farm out the rest of my days.

But unexpectedly, it was a sudden “crisis” that befell me during this period of self-abandonment that changed my fate and my attitude altogether.

Because of that incident, I was blessed by misfortune and found my direction and purpose in life.

It happened during my first Spring Festival in the army.

One day, dozens of men and women suddenly arrived at our regiment. They were dressed in strange attire, as if in mourning for someone, and among them were both young and old, men and women, their accents a chaotic mix of north and south. I had no idea what had brought them together, but they unfurled a banner as soon as they arrived and proceeded gravely toward the regimental headquarters.

As I watched, I noticed some of them were holding urns of ashes...

I was baffled, for there had been no recent military action or disaster relief missions. Who were these “military families,” and what was the story behind these urns?

Later, I learned from my comrades that the ashes belonged to veterans from our company who had gone missing during the War of Resistance. Their remains had only recently been discovered by chance. When the bodies were exhumed, a piece of uniform was found with a note in the pocket bearing the name and unit number, confirming they were our predecessors.

Soon after, the descendants of these martyrs came to the military, hoping the regiment would lay their ancestors to rest properly and restore their names and honors.

The event caused a sensation at the time, even attracting the attention of higher command. On the order of the military district leaders, the division commander personally received the families, promising to ensure the martyrs’ remains were handled with dignity and that their stories would be commemorated.

That year, by the order of the divisional leadership, we celebrated an unforgettable Lunar New Year’s Eve together with the families of the fallen.

And that very night, I nearly lost my life!

Naturally, for New Year’s, a grand banquet was indispensable. Though time was short and the task heavy, our kitchen squad ensured the company—especially the families of the martyrs—were well fed, and gave them special consideration.

The meal standard for the military families was particularly high: four dishes and a soup, plus, by direct order from our leaders, every table was to be served an additional steamed bass and a bottle of liquor.

Our kitchen squad was led by Squad Leader Zhao Haipeng, a short, veteran soldier from southern Shandong. Because of his long service, we all called him “Old Squad Leader.”

Upon receiving the order, Old Squad Leader immediately assigned tasks, instructing me and a fellow soldier named Zhao Hong to prepare the fresh bass.

Processing the fish was a simple matter of scaling and gutting—preliminary steps before Old Squad Leader would take over to slice, marinate, plate, and steam the fish. Once he finished the final dish—steamed bass—our task would be over.

At first, all went smoothly. The five first-rate bass, bought specially for the families, were all individually inspected by Old Squad Leader before being placed in the steamer.

As the fragrant steam rose, even I, usually withdrawn, became talkative. The three of us chatted happily in the festive atmosphere, standing by the stove and swallowing our saliva at the delicious aroma.

Watching the final dish near completion, I felt a torturous anticipation—a torment that was both exhilarating and, in hindsight, a rare military experience steeped in camaraderie.

When Old Squad Leader lifted the lid of the steamer, Zhao Hong and I both rushed to carry out the fish, eager to finish our task and join the others for a celebratory drink.

But just as we triumphantly carried out the plates of plump bass, Old Squad Leader suddenly doused our enthusiasm.

“This fish isn’t right!” he exclaimed.

His face, moments ago beaming with joy, turned dark as he stopped us from serving the dish.

He bent down to study the fish in our hands, scrutinizing them for a long while without saying a word.

I was baffled. What could be wrong? The fish was fresh, and the fillets looked fine—who would care about minor imperfections?

As I puzzled over it, Old Squad Leader sighed, pointed at the bass in my hands, and said, “Xiao Tian, this fish can’t be served. Take it outside and bury it.”

“What?” I stared at him, thinking I must have misheard.

After all, these bass were specially bought for the families of martyrs. Money was not the issue—there were only five fish in total. If one could not be served, one table would be missing the main dish.

Zhao Hong, equally confused, protested, “Old Squad Leader! The fish isn’t bad. You checked it yourself before it went in the pot—fresh as can be!”

But Old Squad Leader remained firm, shaking his head. “I know, but this fish simply can’t be eaten. If someone eats it, there will be trouble!”

“What trouble?” Zhao Hong and I asked together—not out of stubbornness, but genuine confusion. How could we explain to the company commander that a fish was missing for no apparent reason?

“Silly boys!” Old Squad Leader, both exasperated and amused, patted our heads and gestured toward the two fish. “Look closely—what’s different about the fish in Xiao Tian’s hands compared to the others?”

I looked down at my fish, then at Zhao Hong’s, then compared them with the others in the pot.

Very quickly, I discovered something odd—something even eerie—about the bass I was holding!