Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Contest of Perception

The discerning eye, counted among the “three sacred words” of a chef—knife, fire, and skill—falls under “skill.” Though it is not listed separately, it is an exceptionally important ability.

In truth, the discerning eye is not needed only by chefs. It is a skill required in many professions.

In the culinary world, although “the eye” is generally not included in the training of basic skills, it is nevertheless something every chef in the great kitchens must study and hone diligently.

Take those private cooks who mistake Glauber’s salt for table salt and use it to boil meat, ultimately poisoning their customers to death. Are they not negative examples of having an insufficiently discerning eye?

That is why many master chefs now believe that “the eye” should be separated from “skill,” turning the Three Sacred Words of the Five-Organs Temple into four: knife, fire, skill, and eye.

I do not know whether they ever made the change, but I had no objection to Zhao Shuihe’s proposed contest.

After all, I was confident that my eye was not bad. Besides, in my Eight-One Restaurant, I handled everything myself, from the preparation station to the cooking. I was busy every day from dawn to dusk; even if I had wanted to lack an eye for things, I could not have managed it.

So I agreed without a second thought.

“I’ll compete with you in discernment. Name your terms. What’s the wager?”

When Zhao Shuihe saw that I had accepted, she giggled again. Lightly rolling the coin between her fingers, she said, “How about guessing each other’s dishes?”

“Guessing dishes?” I stared at her.

“Guessing dishes?” Hongye echoed, baffled.

Zhao Shuihe’s words left both of us staring wide-eyed.

Generally speaking, when chefs of the Five-Organs Temple competed in discernment, there were only two methods: counting beans and slicing tofu. This so-called dish-guessing contest was something I had never heard of before.

I knew how counting beans worked. Ten to twenty red beans would be placed on a plate, and each contestant would be allowed a single glance. They would then state the exact number of beans on the plate. Whoever guessed correctly won, usually in a best-of-three match.

Slicing tofu was somewhat more complicated. Each person would cut a plate of tofu into a specified number of slices, generally between ten and twenty. They would then exchange plates, take a glance, and guess how many slices the other person had made.

The former tested eyesight alone; the latter tested knife skills as well.

But I had absolutely no idea what Zhao Shuihe meant by guessing dishes.

The Heart-Dueling Manual had an unwritten rule: finished dishes were never allowed to appear. If there were no finished dishes, then what exactly were we supposed to guess?

Seeing my confusion, Zhao Shuihe calmly explained, “You just ate my noodles and witnessed my skills. We’ll use all the information we currently have about each other to guess what dish the other person is best at making. Who taught you? How good are your skills? What do you say?”

Her words left me staring wide-eyed once more.

This was far too difficult. It tested not only discernment, but also reasoning ability. More than that, it silently tested an invisible quality: honesty.

Even if she or I guessed correctly, we would still have to determine whether the other person would tell the truth and whether they would dare admit defeat.

In a flash, I understood. Zhao Shuihe was extraordinarily clever. Rather than testing my eyesight, she was testing my conscience.

Judging victory and defeat was easy enough. Admitting one’s own victory or defeat aloud, however, was another matter entirely.

What an interesting challenge.

I was far from certain that I could win. I also had no idea how much Zhao Shuihe knew about me, or how much Hongye had told her.

Most importantly, seeing the confidence on Zhao Shuihe’s face made me want to back out.

While my nerves were taut, Zhao Shuihe was brimming with confidence. She toyed with the coin in her hand, making the heavy piece of metal spin between her fingers as if it were alive, all while flashing me a sly smile.

“Hurry up!” She pointed toward the sun. “It’ll be dark soon! I’m waiting to get my beauty sleep!”

She was reminding me that she could not wait forever.

I watched the sun sink gradually toward the west and listened to Zhao Shuihe’s words. Suddenly, I thought of Wang Hou. Wasn’t he asleep right now as well?

Then my heart suddenly tightened, and before I knew it, I blurted out, “I accept. What are the conditions for winning and losing?”

Zhao Shuihe replied, “If you win, I’ll help you undo the White-Food Gu and that food curse on Wang Hou. But if you lose…” She grinned. “You’ll kneel down, kowtow to me, and call me Grand Teacher-Maternal Ancestor!”

I knew she would say that. It came as no surprise.

After thinking it over for a moment, I nodded.

“Sister Hongye!” Zhao Shuihe said politely to Xian Hongye. “You’ll be our witness. We can’t have anyone backing out afterward!”

Hongye was forced to nod. At the same time, she looked at me with concern.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded, formally accepting the challenge.

“When Sister Hongye says we begin, we’ll begin!” Zhao Shuihe declared smugly.

I continued nodding. After exchanging a glance with Hongye, I formally accepted the contest in the Heart-Dueling Manual. All that remained was for Hongye to give the signal.

After a moment of silence, Xian Hongye said in a trembling voice, “Begin.”

At once, the entire world fell silent—so silent that it seemed only Zhao Shuihe and I remained, facing one another like a water lotus and its reflection.

Without hesitation, we cast the sharpest, most penetrating gazes we could muster over every inch of each other’s bodies.

As our eyes met, we both entered a state of meditation. Like two computers, we examined each other’s bodies and analyzed every scrap of information we could imagine—from fingers to movements, from [censored] to… well, I did not seem to have one.

In short, we observed everything about each other.

Amid the silence, my mind raced as I tried to see through this woman and uncover the entirety of her culinary skill.

Compared with Zhao Shuihe, I had one advantage: I had eaten the Spring-Breeze Noodles she had made with her own hands, whereas she had never tasted anything I had prepared.

In that respect, I already had the initiative.

Spring-Breeze Noodles were an extremely simple dish. Most of the skill went into making the noodles themselves.

If I had eaten machine-made noodles, I might not have been able to discern anything. But what I had eaten were the fine noodles Zhao Shuihe had made using the Three Plum Blossoms technique. That method contained a great deal of meaning.

The Three Plum Blossoms technique, also known as Three-Water Noodles, involved adding water three times while kneading the dough, along with carefully prepared salt and sugar.

All the skill in this method lay in the fingertips. The process was complicated, but it produced exceptionally even seasoning and dough of perfect softness and firmness, like a sponge filled with tiny bubbles. The dough was smooth, delicate, and extraordinarily pliable.

Once finished, it contained neither unblended strands of gluten nor excess moisture. When used for pastries and noodle dishes, there was no need to add further seasoning. It was even delicious eaten raw.

That kind of dough was the ideal foundation for Huaiyang pastries and noodles, which were known for their delicate sweetness and ingenious shapes. It was also a signature technique of the pastry chefs in the Two Ancestor Temples.

Following that line of thought, I suddenly remembered that the little girl had said Beauty Xiao was the person she admired most, and there had even been a trace of pride in her voice when she said it…

Beauty Xiao? Three-Water Noodles?

When I pieced those clues together, something suddenly occurred to me.

Could it be that this girl’s greatest specialty was—

“Tian Bu’er! You’ve lost!”

Zhao Shuihe suddenly shouted, snapping me out of my thoughts.

She smiled at me and said, “I’ve seen through everything about you! The dish you’re best at is Cloud-Thread Soup! The dishes you make most often are fish-fragrant shredded pork and hot-and-sour potato shreds! Your greatest specialty is accordion cucumber! Am I right?”

I was utterly dumbfounded.

Was this little girl… a god reincarnated?