Chapter 113: Am I Qualified Now?

The scene was utterly silent. Everyone's eyes had widened in disbelief at Chen Huajiang’s speed the moment he wielded his knife. Now, seeing the radish slices on his blade, their mouths hung open in astonishment.

At that instant, the silence was so profound that one could hear a pin drop.

After a long pause, a chef finally exclaimed in amazement, “What remarkable knife skills.”

The speaker was a plump man in his thirties, standing behind Master Lu, dressed in a white chef’s uniform and still holding a cleaver in his hand.

“These knife skills are truly incredible.”

“I get it now—this guy is one of us, a fellow chef!”

“No wonder he dared to challenge us; he really has the chops.”

To the uninitiated, it was just a spectacle, but to those in the trade, it was a revelation. Chen Huajiang’s display of knife work instantly won the admiration of all the chefs present. Regardless of their allegiances or other reasons, his technique was, to them, undeniably masterful.

“Now, do I have the right to critique your dish?” Chen Huajiang flicked his wrist, letting the radish slices fall into the soup pot from earlier.

He looked at Lu Daguang, who now wore an expression of suppressed anger and gravity.

“Are you here to challenge us?” Lu Daguang ground out, fixing his gaze on Chen Huajiang.

His words sent a ripple of agitation through the staff behind him.

A challenge, to the layman, usually happened in martial arts schools, but in the culinary world, it was also common—especially between rival restaurants specializing in the same cuisine. For instance, if two Cantonese restaurants on the same street had a grudge and each claimed their cuisine was more authentic, they would settle it with their culinary skills. That was what it meant to issue a challenge.

Given Chen Huajiang’s knife work, it was obvious he was no ordinary cook. Lu Daguang’s suspicion was reasonable.

“Or do you still think I’m unqualified to critique your dish?” Chen Huajiang did not answer him directly, but spoke coolly.

Qualification is an interesting, almost all-powerful word. Without even the right to speak, what use is there in discussing right or wrong, reason or logic?

Chen Huajiang picked up a sheet of tissue paper, spread it flat on his left hand, and poured the remaining half cup of white liquor from the table onto it.

The paper became damp, clinging almost transparently to his palm, the lines of his hand visible beneath.

This left the onlookers puzzled. They exchanged glances, not understanding what he was doing.

But Lu Daguang’s eyes suddenly widened—he had already guessed what was about to happen.

In the next moment, to everyone’s astonishment, Chen Huajiang picked up a carving knife with his right hand and began to carve into the thin, damp paper on his left hand.

He moved swiftly, as if painting or writing on his own palm.

But the others hardly dared to breathe. The paper was as thin as a cicada’s wing, the knife unbearably sharp; a single slip could cut his hand.

Soon, Chen Huajiang stopped, allowing the crowd to finally exhale.

He glanced at Lu Daguang, then placed the paper, thin as a wing and intricately carved, over the “fanned” feathers of the peacock soup.

Lu Daguang’s eyes went wide, his face shifting from shock to awe.

“What...what kind of carving is this?”

“My god, this guy’s carving skills are out of this world!”

“Incredible, truly incredible!”

The private dining room was abuzz with excited exclamations.

Because of Chen Huajiang’s addition, the peacock soup was elevated to a whole new level of beauty. Where Master Lu’s careless preparation had left the tofu feathers of the peacock ragged and broken, the paper Chen Huajiang carved not only refined the appearance of the feathers, but even turned the shattered tofu beneath into veins or blood vessels, adding to the artistry.

“Amazing, absolutely amazing!”

“Boss Chen’s knife skills are simply phenomenal.”

“My heavens, this is nothing short of miraculous.”

Zhang Baoma, Dashu, and the others stared at Chen Huajiang with open mouths, looking at him as if he were a deity.

Now, they finally understood why Chen Huajiang had criticized the dish earlier. At first, they’d thought he was just showing off, trying to make himself look good.

But now, they realized it was all true—and if anything, he’d understated things, not exaggerated them.

“Now do I have the right to critique your dish?” Chen Huajiang asked Lu Daguang again.

The servers behind Lu Daguang were already nodding. If even this did not qualify someone to critique the dish, then who possibly could?

“Yes,” Lu Daguang replied through gritted teeth, his face shifting from pale to ashen.

Though his heart was filled with resentment, faced with the evidence, he could only admit that the other man was indeed qualified to judge his peacock soup.

“That’s settled then. If I, Chen Huajiang, brought people to dine here, it means I respect your skills, Lu Daguang. Otherwise, do you think I have nothing better to do—come here to cause trouble for no reason? With my time, I’d rather earn more money.

“And as for being a chef, offering criticism is not the same as hurling abuse, and certainly not a personal attack. Otherwise, it’s an insult both to oneself and to one’s knowledge. For a chef, critiquing a dish is like a musician commenting on a piece of music, or a doctor diagnosing a patient. Is it mere empty talk? That would not only insult others, but also degrade oneself. Do I look like some ignorant fool to you?”

After putting the other in his place, Chen Huajiang spoke with disdain, his gaze shifting to the floor manager.

Before, Chen Huajiang hadn’t even been considered “qualified” to speak, but now he certainly was.

As he finished, both Lu Daguang and the other staff looked to the floor manager. Her expression was sour, her eyes evasive.

Even a fool could see that she was the problem.

“And another thing: why was there no hand towel provided with the hand-washing water earlier, and no explanation given?”

“I wasn’t even going to pursue the matter, but in the end, you not only failed to be grateful, you turned the truth upside down?”

He looked at her with contempt.

“What? There was something before this? I think I understand now.”

“We’ve been tricked by Wang Lianhua. With his skills, even if he wanted to pick a fight, he wouldn’t have done it in such an amateurish way. That would be belittling himself.”

“It must have been Wang Lianhua sowing discord—we all fell for it.”

The others suddenly realized the truth, their eyes scornful as they turned to the floor manager.

“What’s going on here? Explain yourself clearly. If you try to stir up trouble again, you’ll regret it!” Lu Daguang snapped coldly at the floor manager, Wang Lianhua, his voice icy.

With a thud, Zhang Lianhua could no longer support herself; she slumped to the floor and confessed everything.

“Sob, boss, please don’t fire me. I know I was wrong, I’ll never do it again.”

She clung to Lu Daguang’s pant leg, begging. The benefits here were generous—her fashionable style and comfortable life depended on it.

It wasn’t just the salary; many guests from Hong Kong or Taiwan often left generous tips. Those tips were worth more than her wages. The thought of losing all that filled Zhang Lianhua with dread, even despair.