Chapter 191: Feeling Content After a Full Meal
Chinese cuisine is a fascinating labyrinth of culture, history, and flavor, but it is also a realm filled with linguistic traps, especially when it comes to the naming of its dishes. These poetic titles often lead to profound misunderstandings for the uninitiated.
For many people, particularly those unfamiliar with the nuances of the culinary arts, hearing the names of certain classic dishes is a guaranteed ticket to confusion.
Take, for instance, the famous "Wife Cake" (Sweetheart Cake). A customer might jokingly ask where the wife is hidden, only to find a flaky pastry filled with winter melon and almond paste.
Similarly, "Ants Climbing a Tree" contains neither insects nor timber, but rather glass noodles clinging to ground meat like busy little workers. "Almond Tofu" contains absolutely no soy-based tofu, being instead a gelatinous dessert made from apricot kernel milk.
The dish currently sitting before the diners, Fish-fragrant Pork (Yuxiang Rousi), followed this same deceptive tradition. Despite the name suggesting a seafood feast, there was absolutely no fish to be found in the dish.
"Yuxiang," or "Fish-fragrance," was not an ingredient; it was a flavor profile. It was a culinary magic trick born from the ingenious use of pickled chilies, scallions, ginger, garlic, sugar, vinegar, and soy sauce to mimic the seasoning traditionally used in preparing fish dishes in Sichuan.
As a staple of Sichuan Cuisine, the status of Fish-fragrant Pork is quite subtle and historically fascinating. It wasn't included in the earliest, ancient records of Sichuan culinary history; it was a relatively modern innovation.
However, although Fish-fragrant Pork lacks the ancient lineage of some of its peers, its reputation is no less formidable. In fact, among the general populace, it often holds a higher place of affection than many of its older, more aristocratic predecessors.
Fish-fragrant Pork can truly call itself famous without a hint of irony. It typically utilizes pork tenderloin, the filet mignon of the pig, which is considered the tenderest cut of meat available. And indeed, under Ren's masterful preparation, this dish did not disappoint the high-level diners gathered at the table.
Ren placed the steaming plate in the center of the table, and the aroma was instantaneous—an aggressive yet welcoming cloud of savory, sour, and spicy notes.
The visual appeal was undeniable. The shredded pork was glistening in a rich, reddish-brown sauce that clung lovingly to every strand. Interspersed with the meat were vibrant strips of wood ear mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and carrots, creating a mosaic of textures.
Mana reached out with her chopsticks, her movements elegant but eager. She picked up a generous portion of the pork and vegetables.
The shredded pork was soft, tender, and incredibly smooth. The moment it touched the tongue, the "velveting" technique Ren had used became apparent. The meat offered no resistance; it was salty, savory, and rich. But as she chewed, the texture evolved. The thick, glossy sauce gave way to the ingredients hidden within.
Moreover, Fish-fragrant Pork should be one of the few Sichuan dishes with such a rich variety of textural components.
There were the bamboo shoots, providing a crisp, refreshing crunch that cut through the richness of the meat. There were the carrots, sweet and soft, offering a subtle earthiness. There were the chili strips—pickled red peppers that retained their color but had traded their raw heat for a complex, fermented tang. And finally, the wood ear mushrooms, which snapped delightfully between the teeth, remaining crunchy even after being subjected to the intense heat of the stir-fry.
Besides these star players, there were the supporting actors: the finely chopped green onions, the pungency of ginger, and the aromatic hit of garlic. These aromatics need no further mention to a seasoned gourmand, yet their presence was vital.
All of these disparate elements were concentrated into one plate, bound together by the master sauce. They maintained their individual characteristics—the crunch, the snap, the tenderness—while being assimilated into a unified, distinct flavor.
This was Fish-fragrant Pork.
"The correct way to describe this dish," Ren explained softly from the side, watching their reactions, "should be 'stir-fried shredded pork with a fish-fragrant flavor.' If one had to describe the fish-fragrant flavor profile, it would be a delicate, precarious balance."
He held up a finger. "Sweet, sour, spicy, salty, and umami. Five flavors, none overpowering the other, all dancing together."
Because of the starch thickening in the sauce, the dish appeared a bit sticky. The sauce had a viscosity that allowed it to cling to the ingredients rather than pooling at the bottom of the plate. When Mana picked up a piece of pork, a trail of amber sauce followed it, glistening under the warm lights of the restaurant.
As she put it in her mouth, she finally understood why this humble dish was crowned with the word "famous."
The shredded pork was smooth and tender, sliding over the palate like silk. The vegetables were crisp and unique, providing a rhythmic crunch. And bringing it all together was that five-in-one Yuxiang flavor—the sourness of the vinegar stimulating the saliva glands, the sweetness balancing the heat, the saltiness grounding the dish.
There is no other word to describe it besides harmony.
Just like its identity, this is a home-cooked dish. It lacks the pretension of banquet food. It doesn't demand you sit up straight or use a specific fork. It simply asks to be eaten.
"This..." Gin Dojima murmured, his eyes wide. "This is dangerous."
"What do you mean?" Anne asked, her mouth full.
"It goes well with rice, doesn't it?" Dojima pointed to the bowls of steaming white rice Ren had served alongside it.
The realization hit the table like a thunderclap.
This sauce. This salty, sour, savory sauce. It was crying out for a neutral canvas.
Without a word, chopsticks flashed. Mana picked up a large chopstickful of the pork mixture and placed it directly onto her white rice. The reddish-brown sauce immediately began to seep into the pristine white grains, staining them with flavor.
She lifted the bowl to her lips and shoveled the mixture into her mouth—meat, vegetables, sauce, and fluffy rice, all in one bite.
Explosion.
The neutral sweetness of the rice tamed the intensity of the sauce perfectly, while the sauce elevated the plain rice to something divine. Regardless of whether you got a piece of pickled chili or a slice of bamboo shoot, you just swept it all into your mouth with the rice.
That's how it should be eaten. That was the soul of this dish.
At this moment, everyone also realized that the Boiled Fish from earlier wasn't the only "Rice Killer" on the table. The price of this realization was that all the other dishes suffered, as they all couldn't escape the fate of being eaten with ferocious speed.
(Dishes: Fish-fragrant Pork, please turn on your voice. We are being massacred!)
The table was a battlefield of culinary excellence.
There was the elegant and springy Longjing Shrimp, tasting of tea leaves and the river.
There was the soft yet firm and layered Dongpo Pork, a cube of braised perfection that quivered like pudding.
There was the rich and endlessly flavorful Twice Cooked Pork, fatty slices of belly that were seared until crisp, spicy and not greasy.
There was the spicy and smooth Boiled Fish, swimming in its sea of chili oil.
And finally, this Fish-fragrant Pork with its unique, addictive flavor.
These dishes were just a tiny fraction, not even the tip of the iceberg, of the vast expanse that is Chinese cuisine. But eating them all led to one singular, overwhelming thought for Nakiri Mana.
Regret.
At this moment, Nakiri Mana genuinely wanted to scold herself. She looked down at her stomach with a sense of betrayal.
Why? Why is my stomach so small? Why am I almost full?
In her prime, before the despair of the God Tongue had forced her into an IV-drip existence, she definitely could have kept eating! She would have conquered this table!
However, reality was cruel. Even though she was mentally immersed in the delicious food, enjoying a euphoria she hadn't felt in decades, she was also well aware of her biological limits. If she ate too much, her stomach—which had atrophied from disuse—wouldn't be able to handle the sudden influx of rich, solid food. Indigestion, pain, and vomiting would follow.
Too much of a good thing can be detrimental, and Nakiri Mana, as a woman of logic and status, understood this principle better than anyone.
So, after eating one last crystal-clear Longjing Shrimp, Nakiri Mana placed her chopsticks down on the rest with a heavy thud. She looked at the remaining dishes on the table with a disgruntled, almost childish expression of longing.
Nakiri Mana's current physical condition was such that, frankly, any random child's stomach would be much larger and more robust than hers. Therefore, during the meal, Mana had basically only ate the dishes; she had skipped the rice to save space, realizing that eating the protein and vegetables was more "cost-effective" for her limited capacity.
Nakiri Mana's God Tongue was indeed satisfied. It was singing praises, bathed in the afterglow of perfect seasoning. But her spirit was not yet content.
She felt a phantom hunger. Not a physical one, but a mental one. She always felt that she should eat a little more, just one more bite, to calm the unquenchable fire of desire in her heart.
Just as she was lamenting her weakness, Ren approached the table again, holding a large tureen.
"Eh? This is..." Mana blinked, looking at the contents.
Inside the bowl was a thick, clear soup. Suspended within it were thousands of incredibly fine strands, floating like clouds or blooming chrysanthemums in water.
"Eh?! Wensi Tofu?!"
Courage, the Third Class Bookman who now greatly revered Shopkeeper Ren as a culinary deity, immediately spoke up without thinking. Her eyes were sparkling behind her glasses. "Lady Mana! I feel that with Mr. Ren's skill, making Wensi Tofu should be very simple, but to see it in person..."
Nakiri Mana nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the bowl. She knew exactly what the four characters 'Wensi Tofu' represented in the culinary world.
It didn't represent rare ingredients. It didn't represent exotic spices.
It represented Superb Knife Skills.
A chef who could make Wensi Tofu undoubtedly possessed excellent, top-tier knife skills. It was the ultimate test of patience and precision.
In authentic Wensi Tofu, the ingredients—shiitake mushrooms, winter bamboo shoots, ham, chicken breast, and their main star, the soft block of silken tofu—must all be cut into strands as fine as a human hair.
Think about it. Cutting a mushroom is easy. Cutting ham is easy. But cutting soft, wobbly silken tofu into thousands of distinct, hair-thin strands without mashing it into a paste? That was the realm of masters.
When done correctly, it makes the dish look as if a pot of incredibly fine vermicelli had been stewed, but upon closer inspection, it is all tofu.
Shopkeeper Ren could say he specifically chose this dish for a reason.
He had observed Mana throughout the meal. The previous improved Meiling Porridge was a good start, but it wasn't enough for total appetite satisfaction and body nourishment. On the other hand, heavy chicken soups or tonic broths were not suitable for very weak people like Mana.
Traditional Chinese medicine dictated that one should not "over-supplement" when the body is too weak (Xu bu shou bu). A heavy ginseng soup might actually cause her body to crash. White fungus and lotus seed soup had little effect on the savory cravings.
In the end, Shopkeeper Ren still chose this dish. Wensi Tofu.
(Advice: Do not over-supplement when too weak. Gentle nourishment is key.)
Wensi Tofu might be considered a very impressive, high-difficulty dish for other chefs—something they would sweat over for an hour. But with Shopkeeper Ren's inhuman knife skills, this dish was as simple as a lazy person's recipe for him. It was as simple as the Sadako Cold Noodles he sold next to it.
Ren picked up a ladle and served a small bowl for Mana.
"Please," he said softly.
Mana looked at the small porcelain bowl.
Wensi Tofu, like the Longjing Shrimp, appeared deceptively simple. It's as if the chef is afraid that adding even a little decoration would ruin the purity of the dish.
The first impression upon looking at it is often underwhelming. "Ah, isn't it just a bowl of thickened soup?" or "Isn't it just shredded tofu stewed with some greens?"
What's there to talk about? Where is the fire? Where is the spice?
In fact, that visual assessment is true. It is simple. But never underestimate a simple, unassuming dish. Never judge a book by its cover, and never judge Ren's cooking by its lack of flash.
Because the deliciousness after the first bite is something you cannot imagine without tasting it.
Mana lifted the spoon to her lips and took a sip.
Wensi Tofu is truly just stewed tofu soup, so there's no delicate floral scent or aggressive fragrance hitting the nose. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
It's just the simple, back-to-basics savory freshness of the high-quality stock and the natural soy taste of the tofu. It's that simple.
But what truly makes it addictive is the feeling when that flavor combines with the texture.
Don't let Wensi Tofu's simplicity fool you; its ingredient selection is exceptionally strict. The tofu must be of the highest grade. The stock must be clarified to perfection. Even the slightest quality issue or impurity can ruin the final taste because there are no heavy spices to hide behind.
The liquid entered Mana's mouth.
The true deliciousness of Wensi Tofu lies in the soft, tender, and pure taste that blends with the texture. The thousands of tofu strands didn't need to be chewed; they simply dispersed, melting in her mouth like flavored snow.
It was savory. It was delicious. It was simple yet extraordinary.
It washed over her tongue, cleansing the lingering oils of the Twice Cooked Pork and the heat of the Boiled Fish. It was a gentle caress for her stomach, a soothing balm for her excited nerves.
A serving of Wensi Tofu was just right to calm the heat brought by this passionate banquet. It was the perfect period at the end of a long, exciting sentence.
At this moment, after Nakiri Mana drank the contents of the small bowl, she let out a long, soft exhale.
She no longer had an appetite for the other dishes in front of her. The craving for more was gone, replaced by a profound sense of completeness.
Her true stomach was full.
Her God Tongue was silenced in bliss.
Her spirit was content.
Her stomach felt warm and weighted, a physical sensation that the cold, clinical nutrient solutions she had lived on for years could never provide. It was the weight of life.
Mentally, she was also exceptionally calm at this moment. The anxiety about the WGO, the friction with her father, the worry about her condition—it all seemed distant. It was as if she had seen through the vanity of the world.
This serenity could only be enjoyed here, in this strange little shop, only after eating her fill here.
Watching the others eat and chat—Dojima laughing at a joke, her father looking relaxed, Lucifer arguing with Cerberus over a piece of meat—a lively scene unfolded before her eyes.
Nakiri Mana still felt a bit disbelieving.
I am actually well, she thought, touching her cheek. I have eaten so much. And I feel... fine.
It felt very solid. Very peaceful. Very comfortable in this shop...
Feeling full was very comforting...
"Eh? What is this?"
A sudden voice broke her reverie. It was Decora, pointing at a small side dish Ren had placed on the corner of the table. It was a clear, jelly-like substance topped with a vibrant red chili oil.
"It's Liangfen (Cold Jelly), I think~" Courage noted, looking at it curiously.
"Oh? It looks pretty good! Wobbly and cute!" Decora chirped. She grabbed a spoon and scooped up a large chunk, ignoring the ominous red hue of the oil. "It probably looks spicier than it is, right? Like the pork!"
She shoved the spoon into her mouth.
Three seconds of silence followed.
"Mmm, the texture is cool and—"
Suddenly, Decora's eyes bulged. Her face turned the color of a ripe tomato.
"Ugh!!! Water! Water! Give me water!"
"Hahaha!"
The table erupted in laughter as the Bookman frantically fanned her tongue, reaching for the pitcher of iced water.
Nakiri Mana shook her head with a smile, watching the few people laughing and joking. The sound of their joy was the perfect background music.
She turned her head, resting her chin on her hand, and looked towards the window. There, a glass wind chime hung from the frame, catching the gentle evening breeze.
Ting... Ting...
The occasional chime brought the unique, crystal-clear tranquility of the night into the warm shop.
As night deepens, remember to have a late-night snack. Don't let your stomach be lonely~
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