Chapter 112: Unworthy

“I think you’ve misunderstood, Chef Lu. I never said your cooking was utterly worthless, that’s just someone exaggerating and stirring up trouble. What I actually said was—”
Chen Huajiang frowned, his gaze sweeping briefly over the female supervisor before turning to explain to Lu Daguang.
“Don't bother arguing with me. Keep your little tricks and schemes to yourself!”
“Are you really going to claim you never said my cooking was bad? Do you dare to swear on it?”
Before Chen Huajiang could finish, Lu Daguang brusquely interrupted him, waving his arms and slapping the table with a resounding thud, sending soup splashing across its surface.
His furious gaze, full of contempt, bore down on Wang Ning, while the staff behind him rolled up their sleeves, their expressions mocking.
“Don’t try anything foolish. If you do, we’re not afraid of you.”
“So what if we said it? As customers, aren’t we allowed to comment on the food?”
“I almost got confused here. We’re not dining for free, nor refusing to pay. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to say whether the food is good or bad?”
Liang Long and Zhang Bao stood up as well, confronting Lu Daguang and his staff with annoyance.
Just as Liang Long had said, he was utterly baffled by the situation—since when were diners forbidden from commenting on the taste of their meal?
“Because you have no right to critique my cooking!”
“Hmph, do you think a little money gives you the right to be arrogant here?”
Lu Daguang sneered at them, his gaze fixating on Chen Huajiang, his tone mocking. “I’ve cooked more meals than you’ve ever eaten. What makes you qualified to judge my Peacock Soup? Who do you think you are?”
His words were blunt, stripping Chen Huajiang of any right, even as a guest, to comment on the dishes.
“That’s right, who are you to judge Chef Lu’s cooking? It’s laughable.”
“Let me tell you, two years ago, the officials from the Imperial Banquet Hall in Capital City came to invite Chef Lu to work for them. Who do you think you are? Do you have the credentials to critique his cooking?”
“Everyone who dines here is either wealthy or distinguished—businessmen from Hong Kong, relatives from Taiwan, major entrepreneurs from the coastal regions. Each knows more about food than you, yet all praise my master’s cooking. You’re just looking for trouble, aren’t you? Is it because you can’t pay, so you’re stirring things up to eat for free?”
With Chef Lu’s disdainful words, his staff grew even more arrogant, their faces full of scorn and ridicule.
Liang Long and the others were stunned—not out of fear, but because of what was said.

But what truly unsettled them was the mention of the Imperial Banquet. Being invited to cook for the nation’s most prestigious event was the highest honor, representing national recognition of a chef’s skill. Faced with this, everyone felt a little intimidated, suddenly unsure of their right to critique Chef Lu’s work.
Unconsciously, Zhang Bao and the others glanced at Chen Huajiang, now hesitant to speak and even blaming him silently for showing off too much.
To them, Chen Huajiang’s earlier comments had seemed like a display, an attempt to impress with worldliness.
But now, things had escalated beyond expectation.
“Chef Lu, you’re mistaken. Your achievements and the number of dishes you’ve created are your own business. But whether a dish is good or bad is for me, the diner, to decide.”
“First, my remarks were confined to this private room, among acquaintances. Second, my comments never left this room—it was your supervisor who spread them. If you dislike them, you can ignore them, but you can’t demand I keep silent. Third, judging whether an egg tastes good is every diner’s right; it doesn’t require the diner to know how to cook eggs, nor to be able to lay them.”
Chen Huajiang spoke coolly, his gaze finally settling on Lu Daguang.
His words only drew more contempt, as everyone assumed he was admitting defeat. Lu Daguang sneered—reasoning at this point seemed weak, especially after things had escalated.
“You say I lack the right to judge your dish? No, I do. First, the carving is poorly done—the cucumber slices are uneven, the chili rings vary in size. Next, the broth is inconsistently blended, thick in some places, thin in others. Finally, the tofu is crumbled—the feather patterns made from tiny fragments are clearly a sloppy effort, utterly lacking sincerity.”
Chen Huajiang pointed at the dish, itemizing its faults one by one.
Lu Daguang knew the dish had issues—he hadn’t intended to cook seriously today and had indeed made it carelessly.
Everyone has off days; Lu Daguang was no exception.
He realized the young man before him was an expert, a gourmet—otherwise, he couldn’t have pin-pointed the problems so precisely.
But—
Even if it was a careless effort, Lu Daguang still didn’t believe the other had the right to criticize him.
“What a joke. If everyone nitpicked like you, who could claim perfection?”
“Kid, I repeat—you have no right to judge my cooking. Not a shred of right.”
“What are you trying to do—”
Lu Daguang was intent on bullying, ready to vent his frustration on the group before him.

But before he could finish, Chen Huajiang stepped forward, swiftly snatching the carving knife from one of the chefs.
Lu Daguang’s face turned pale with alarm, and the chefs tensed.
“Put the knife down!”
“Don’t do anything rash!”
“Damn it, you want to eat for free, and now you’re getting violent after being exposed by our chef?”
The staff watched Chen Huajiang warily, their voices loud with tension.
“Huajiang, don’t do anything foolish!”
“Boss Chen, it’s just a small matter—no need to escalate.”
“Put the knife down, it’s not worth it.”
Liang Long and Zhang Bao were anxious, urging him to calm down, thinking he’d lost his temper and was about to attack.
“Relax, I’m not holding the knife to attack him. Honestly, a shameless chef like him isn’t worth the trouble.”
“I took the knife to demonstrate whether I have the right to critique his ‘garbage dish.’”
Chen Huajiang spoke with indifference. Then, before the stunned eyes of everyone, he casually dipped the knife into a pot of meatball and radish soup.
With a deft motion, he lifted a piece of tender white radish, sending it flying through the air.
As the radish descended, Chen Huajiang’s gaze grew focused and serious. In his right hand, the carving knife spun rapidly, its speed creating mirages of movement.
The knife descended in sync with the falling radish, and, about ten centimeters above the table, his hand stopped.
He extended the knife forward, and the radish was sliced into layer upon layer of thin sheets—delicate as cicada wings, translucent and clear, stacked in a spiral that resembled a staircase winding upwards.