Chapter Sixty: The War of Delicacies

Zhao Dezhu made a point to thank a few generous business owners in the livestream room by name, while he selectively ignored those viewers who sent smaller gifts of lesser value. To outsiders, his behavior seemed blatantly snobbish, but in reality, as soon as he finished his thanks, those very business owners, not wanting to disgrace the title of “boss,” sent even more gifts in quick succession.

Setting aside prejudice and envy, Zhao Dezhu was undeniably skilled at streaming.

He fixed the camera on the table and, unhurriedly, turned his gaze toward the two dishes before him.

“Dark Star Soup? Volcano Eternal Pork? What dreadful names,” Zhao Dezhu sighed with a faint smile. “Look at this soup—nothing but black upon black. How is it any different from black sesame porridge? Tsk tsk, it truly offends my appetite.”

“Classy!”

“Full of style!”

“A classic opening.”

“The restaurant owner might be offended by you, too…”

“Hahaha! I love how he can’t stand me but doesn’t dare touch me.”

“I’m still waiting for that fated person to appear.”

“666…”

The bullet comments in the livestream overflowed with sarcasm, but the atmosphere was lively as ever.

Meanwhile, the restaurant’s patrons were quietly taken aback, thinking this man was incredibly cutting with his words. Was he really not afraid of Chef Li putting him in his place?

Instinctively, they glanced at Li Can, who stood at the kitchen entrance. Sure enough, his eyes had narrowed into a dangerous arc.

“Sir…” Su Rui approached Zhao Dezhu. She had barely spoken two words when he shot her a glare, and she quickly changed her tone. “Well… miss, if you don’t like the soup, you didn’t have to order it. There’s no need to speak so harshly.”

“But how could I have known what it looked like before ordering?” Zhao Dezhu retorted, his voice sharp and delicate. “Now that I’ve paid, what I say about it is my business.”

“Sister Su Rui, don’t bother with him,” Li Can called her back before she could argue further, raising his voice slightly. “Everyone has their own tastes. Let’s not be petty.”

“Heh, don’t think a few kind words will make me go easy on you,” Zhao Dezhu laughed behind his hand, as if he’d seen through Li Can’s intentions.

“By all means, don’t go easy,” Li Can waved a broad hand, half joking, half serious. “But if I find you’re shooting arrows without a target, deliberately distorting the truth, there will be consequences.”

At these words, the surrounding guests immediately wore schadenfreude-filled expressions.

As for Zhao Dezhu, his face soured as if he’d swallowed a dead rat.

The other party’s response was so artful, there was no angle for rebuttal.

After thinking it over, Zhao Dezhu could only huff coldly and let the matter drop. He glanced at the livestream chat, finding that all his viewers were egging him on to pick a fight with Li Can for the sake of the show.

Fight? How?

Zhao Dezhu ignored them and turned back to the Dark Star Soup. Yet after staring a long while, he found himself at a loss for what more to criticize.

In terms of appearance, there was little left to remark on.

He picked up a spoon and dipped it into the bowl—only to find the spoon sinking straight to the bottom.

“What’s this? The surface looks thick, but it’s just regular broth underneath. Good job on the window dressing,” Zhao Dezhu commented as he stirred. No matter how he mixed it, the soup didn’t change color; instead, a few white sesame seeds floated up from the bottom.

Not only that,

In the midst of the sesame seeds, he occasionally spotted a few translucent little spheres rising and falling.

Encircled by sesame seeds amid the dark background, they resembled planets drifting through the cosmos.

How beautiful!

Zhao Dezhu couldn’t help but praise it inwardly, but his role was that of a “sharp-tongued critic.” If he broke character, the audience would surely be disappointed.

“A bowl of soup costing several hundred for such a small portion—what a rip-off.”

“The cheapest soup at the Royal Pavilion is over five hundred, and you get even less,” someone defended Li Can.

“And you know that’s the Royal Pavilion,” Zhao Dezhu sneered.

“Well, I—I still think the food at Neighbor’s Kitchen is no worse than the Royal Pavilion’s,” the guest replied, lacking confidence.

Zhao Dezhu ignored him, scooping up one of the little spheres with some of the black soup and tasting it.

Though the black broth looked thick, it was actually light and smooth, with no coarseness at all. The flavor was rich and aromatic, sweet with a gentle finish, and carried a subtle, elusive hint of the sea—clearly from some seafood ingredient in the soup.

He gently bit into the sphere; it was a peeled, seedless longan.

The fruit’s flesh was filled with broth, which burst out with each bite.

Even more wondrous, the liquid within the fruit was noticeably richer and more layered than the soup itself.

He couldn’t help but take another spoonful. This time, along with the longan, he also picked up a few tiny pieces of kelp and black beans.

“So the soup’s color comes from black beans—how cheap. But I’ve had black bean soups before, and they were never this dark. Did they sneak in artificial coloring…”

Daring not to taste any further for fear of breaking character, Zhao Dezhu babbled a few more criticisms, then turned his attention to the other dish—Volcano Eternal Pork.

To be frank, the first impression was pure spiciness.

A dense layer of chopped green and red chilis covered the entire plate; nothing beneath could be seen.

“This is a lethal dose, isn’t it? Won’t you get diarrhea from this?” Zhao Dezhu picked through the dish with evident distaste. After much effort, he finally unearthed a slice of pork, and his eyes lit up.

The slices, in thickness, size, and their staggered arrangement, were nearly perfect!

“Heh, they must have used a machine for this,” Zhao Dezhu declared without thinking—never considering that the chef might have cut them by hand, because in his mind, a hole-in-the-wall cook couldn’t possibly wield such knife skills.

“We don’t own a meat slicer,” Su Rui protested indignantly.

“Why are you so flustered? Who says you have to keep the slicer at the restaurant? You could prep it at home and bring it in, couldn’t you?”

Zhao Dezhu snorted, picked up a slice of pork, and chewed, mumbling, “It’s brutally spicy, but aside from that, there doesn’t seem to be much else…”

He stopped mid-sentence.

As the sauce from the meat seeped out, the initial burn began to fade—strangely, not vanishing, but mellowing to a perfectly tolerable heat.

Then, as the spice receded, the richness of the meat’s flavor erupted, overwhelming his palate with an irresistible allure.

Suddenly, the subdued spiciness surged again, but the savory juices strove to keep it in check. The two forces ebbed and flowed, battling for dominance in his mouth.

Almost reflexively, Zhao Dezhu reached for another slice, unwilling to let either sensation claim victory—relishing the contest of flavors.

The livestream audience was stunned.

The diners around him sat with mouths agape.

At that moment, even Zhao Dezhu himself may not have realized the look of rapture that had bloomed on his once moneyed face...

(To be continued…)