Chapter Eight: War of Words

Cantonese cuisine, originating in Guangdong, took root in the Ming dynasty, flourished during the Qing, and reached its peak in the Republic era. It is renowned for its meticulous selection of ingredients and complicated preparation, earning the title of the “freshest flavor of Chinese cuisine.” Moreover, it is the most influential Chinese culinary tradition overseas—so much so that in many foreign countries, when one mentions Chinese food, it is almost synonymous with Cantonese cuisine. This has led to the peculiar phenomenon where foreigners know of “Cantonese” but not necessarily “Chinese” food as a whole.

Over the centuries, Cantonese cuisine has leveraged its unique strengths to dominate Lingnan, take root abroad, and rise rapidly. Of the four classical Chinese cuisines, it is the most recently ascendant, but also the fastest growing—without exception.

Because the Five Ridges are the emblematic mountains of Guangdong, every Cantonese chef with a sense of heritage carries with them the pride of a Lingnan native, declaring, “The mountains are my temple,” and calling themselves devotees of the “Temple of the Five Ridges.”

Yet within China, especially in the North, the status of the Temple of the Five Ridges is not so illustrious.

Domestically, because Cantonese cuisine is so deeply regional and its rise came relatively late, its expansion has been limited, with its stronghold confined mainly to the southern regions of Guangdong, Guangxi, and Taiwan. Apart from specialty Cantonese restaurants in major cities, it rarely achieves the widespread household presence of Sichuan or Shandong cuisine.

Yet to my utter surprise, in this seemingly ordinary, unremarkable “highway service station restaurant,” I actually encountered the abbot of the Temple of the Five Ridges.

This trip to southern Shandong has been nothing short of a series of remarkable encounters.

Thus, when the white-haired old man asked me, “Are you an eagle or a tiger, and why are you wandering?” I truly felt at a loss for words, momentarily unable to respond.

After all, it was the first time I had faced off against more than a dozen chefs at once.

My hesitation led to a long, silent stare between me and the white-bearded elder, neither of us speaking for quite some time.

The old man, not understanding my silence, glanced at me for a while longer, then asked the middle-aged proprietor beside him, “Wangcai, didn’t you say this man is from the Temple of the Five Viscera and knows the kitchen lingo? Why isn’t he speaking?”

Wangcai? Did his parents really give him a dog’s name? Was he even their biological child?

At this, both Hongye and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing, leaving the middle-aged boss visibly embarrassed.

Hongye, ever the character, waved her hand apologetically at the old man and Wangcai, saying, “Sorry! Too many divergent thoughts! Please, carry on...”

This little interlude finally eased the tension from my earlier stage fright.

Besides, this old man was just running a shady establishment—what was there to be afraid of?

So, I adjusted my attitude and responded with a chuckle, “Abbot, we’re neither eagles nor tigers, just sparrows passing through, heading south.”

My words brought a satisfied smile to the old man’s face. In the jargon, “eagle” refers to passing police officers, “tiger” to local health inspectors. By saying we were sparrows, I was letting him know we posed no threat, just ordinary people.

But even if we were just ordinary folk, he couldn’t expect us to pay for those outrageous dishes, could he? Over five hundred yuan for fried noodles—just thinking about it made my teeth itch with anger.

Seeing that we weren’t officials, the old man chuckled and said, “Young man, if you don’t know the price, why scare the monkeys?”

At those words, my face fell, and the excitement I’d felt at meeting a fellow insider vanished.

This old man really wasn’t a good person after all!

Not knowing the price means we failed to check the marked prices—menus used to be placed on plates for guests. In kitchen lingo, “not knowing the plate” means ignoring the posted prices, and so the customer has only themselves to blame.

As for “why scare the monkeys,” it was an even more brazen threat. They likened themselves to monkeys not out of humility, but to say they were as cunning as monkeys—not to be messed with.

What kind of temperament do monkeys have? It’s actually rather alarming: startle a monkey once and it’ll flee up a tree, but try it a second time and the monkey, realizing humans can’t climb, will start throwing branches down and might even retaliate. A true ruffian’s temperament.

So, in short, “scaring the monkeys” meant I was bluffing, but if I tried again, I’d only bring trouble upon myself.

Putting all his words together, it was clear the old fox was subtly threatening me.

What’s more, he was shameless—running a black-market eatery and then having the nerve to accuse us of not knowing the rules and for daring to scare his “monkey” crew.

Outrageous—intolerable!

Seeing his attitude, I cared nothing for age or seniority. At the very least, in the kitchen lingo, I had to get my dignity back!

Suppressing my anger, I smiled slightly and retorted, “I’m from the Temple of the Learned, afraid of a door without a lantern? Be careful—if water runs wild, even a grand house can’t withstand a fire!”

This was a direct threat: if he continued to run his black-market eatery, he’d better beware my wrath burning him down.

The old man simply smiled and shook his head. “A great tree has deep roots; the soil is moist.”

I was stunned. His meaning couldn’t be clearer: he had powerful connections and wasn’t afraid of me.

At this point, our encounter was no different from enemies meeting on a narrow road!

Now I finally understood—so much for “temple brotherhood, four temples united by incense.” When it came to interests and face, all those words were nothing but lies!

If he wasn’t afraid, then neither was I. Let’s see who comes out on top!

From that moment, all pretense was dropped. In full view of the onlookers, we began a fierce war of words.

The old man said, “I eat the mutton and share the soup. Know when to stop.”

I shot back, “There’s no mutton in the fish—be careful with your knife!”

“Young friend, won’t you give me face?”

“Then give me some substance!”

“Would a thin quilt suffice?”

“We’re all from the temple—just burn one less incense stick.”

“...There are rules.”

“You take me for a two-legged sheep!”

“Thin-skinned little dumpling, not made for sweetness.”

“Does the noble lady never leave the house?”

The old man chuckled, “I’m in a wheelchair... just a thin-skinned dumpling.”

At that, my anger boiled over. I slammed the table with a loud bang and stood up in fury.

Wang Hou immediately stepped behind me for support.

The old man’s disciples also drew the machetes hidden up their sleeves.

He remained calm; I stood my ground. We were locked in a standoff, neither side giving an inch.

Finally, I pointed at the floor beneath my feet and said to the old man, “Don’t forget—this is the land of culinary origins!”

That final remark hit the old man where it hurt.

Seated in his wheelchair, his white beard trembling with restrained authority, he waved to his disciples. “Wangcai, these are our new friends. Add two more dishes, open a bottle of wine... It’s my treat.”

At that, I couldn’t help but smile inwardly.

The old fox had finally conceded.

Later, Wang Hou asked me why the old man, who had sparred with such vigor, instantly backed down at my last remark—and even treated us to extra dishes, clearly seeking reconciliation. What did that last bit of kitchen lingo mean?

I told him it wasn’t kitchen lingo at all, but a “reminder”—not to forget whose turf he was on. In Shandong, if he angered me, it wouldn’t end well for him.

The so-called “land of culinary origins” in the chef’s trade refers to Shandong. Shandong cuisine was the first of the four great cuisines to develop a complete system and is closely tied to the rites of Zhou and the doctrine of the mean, earning it the title of “the etiquette of food,” and known as the “foundational cuisine” of China.

Thus, chefs honor Shandong cuisine as “the origin of flavor,” and Shandong itself as “the land of culinary origins.”

Knowing this, my “reminder” is easy to understand. I was telling the old man: I’m a Shandong chef, you’re running a restaurant on my home turf—if you cross me, it won’t do you any good. The rest, he could figure out for himself.

Truthfully, I had no powerful backing. I was simply borrowing the “local aura” of Shandong to bluff him.

But I figured the old fox would fall for it. Cunning types like him are always calculating, the sort who “bully the weak, fawn on the strong.” He might threaten a fellow temple chef without hesitation, but would never risk offending the whole Temple of the Learned—even if that risk was only hypothetical.

The old fox’s subsequent actions matched my expectations exactly.

After his disciples had all left, the old man remained behind.

Suddenly, his demeanor changed; he smiled, clasped his hands politely, and said, “Young friend! No conflict, no friendship. My disciples were present just now, and I had to keep up appearances... I hope you’ll forgive me!”

Though sly, the old man was energetic and smooth-tongued. Seeing him offer me an out, I decided to accept gracefully—after all, I’d been bluffing him.

So I returned the courtesy. “No need for apologies! We’re all travelers here, and I’d be glad for a senior’s guidance!”

The old man could change his tune as quickly as the weather. He nodded, indicating his understanding.

Soon, Wangcai, the middle-aged boss, brought over a bottle of Erguotou, poured each of us a small cup, and stood by awkwardly.

He really did look like a mutt.

The old man waited for us all to have wine, then raised his cup, pointed to Wangcai, and laughed, “My surname is Lei, given name Ren—Ren as in benevolence. This is my nephew, Lei Wangcai. It was all a misunderstanding. Once we drink together, we’re brothers; fellow disciples of the Temple of the Five Viscera should look out for each other!”

Hearing their names, I was at a loss. Lei Ren and Wangcai—what inspired their parents to choose such names? Regardless of whether others found them shocking, I certainly did.

Still, I kept my amusement to myself and clinked glasses with Lei Ren and Wangcai, introducing Wang Hou and Hongye as well. Thus, we all became acquainted.

After we’d drained our cups, Lei Ren set his down, stroked his white beard, and casually asked, “May I ask where you apprenticed, young friend? And what is the purpose of your travels?”

It was clear he was probing for information, but I had nothing to hide.

I was a bona fide disciple of the Temple of the Learned, and though I hadn’t formally gone through the master-apprentice ceremony with my old sergeant, I was still institutionally trained.

With that confidence, I was unafraid of the Five Ridges’ scrutiny.

So I answered with a smile, “My master is also an abbot from southern Shandong. As it happens, on this trip we are heading to ‘Shiren Gu’ in southern Shandong to pay my respects to my old... master.”

“What?” Lei Ren’s face changed dramatically at the mention of Shiren Gu.

My words made his eyes light up with a golden gleam.

“Southern Shandong! Shiren Gu...” Lei Ren’s eyes widened as he gripped my arm urgently.

He pressed, “Is your master’s surname Zhao?”

I was bewildered, but my old sergeant did indeed bear the surname Zhao. Though I didn’t understand, I nodded, “Yes, my master’s surname is Zhao! Zhao!”

“Ah! So you’re from a distinguished family!”

Lei Ren suddenly became extremely excited, his attitude shifting 180 degrees, making me feel rather uncomfortable.

I even wondered whether my old sergeant had some unresolved issue with him. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he let go of my hand? Was he afraid I’d run off?

But before my imagination could run wild, Lei Ren revealed an even more startling truth.

He exclaimed, “Zhao Family Tower at Shiren Gu! I know it well! In the Republic era, it was the pride of southern Shandong! Back then, Master Zhao Qingshan brought glory to the nation, battling the Japanese at Five Flavors Pavilion in Jinan with the ‘Pilin Culinary Duel’ and the ‘Ox-Head Summoning’—these are legends known to all in the Temple of the Five Viscera!”

Lei Ren’s words left me utterly stunned.

The problem was—I’d never heard my old sergeant mention any “Pilin Culinary Duel” or “Ox-Head Summoning.” Could he have mistaken me for someone else?

And how did Lei Ren, of the Five Ridges, know so much about the old stories and traditions of the Temple of the Learned?