Chapter 73: Talking Past Each Other, Chef Wang, Please Remain Calm

Upon entering the restaurant, not a single waiter or greeter was in sight. Everyone inside was clustered around the center of the establishment, where a white-haired man in his fifties sat, slapping the table and babbling excitedly.

Standing nearby was a middle-aged man in a Mao suit, likely the manager, gesturing energetically in response. The two were completely unable to communicate, talking at cross purposes—the foreign man growing more agitated by the minute, the manager’s hands flying in increasingly animated gestures.

Eventually, the manager turned to the plump chef in his white uniform and said, “Chef Wang, this imperialist gentleman says your skills are superb—he’s very satisfied with the meal.”

“Naturally,” Chef Wang replied with pride, arms folded, chin lifted. “My skills are inherited from my family line. That crucian carp was prepared with three cleansings, three scaldings, and three rinses, then marinated overnight in baijiu before cooking, all to put on a display before him. You won’t find this Drunken Fish anywhere else. At least he has the sense to appreciate quality.”

Again the two sides launched into another round of frantic gestures and incomprehensible conversation.

Throughout this, not a single server came to attend to Chen Huajiang and his companions. They had been noticed, but were treated as if invisible.

“He’s asking why it tastes so bitter—he thinks something’s wrong,” Chen Huajiang finally muttered, rolling his eyes before approaching the cluster.

“What did you say, boy?”

“Bitter? What bitterness?”

“And who are you—do you understand foreign languages?”

As Chen Huajiang stepped forward and spoke, the manager, chef, and staff all turned to him.

“Can I help you?” Chen Huajiang asked the foreign man in English.

“This dish is poisonous, it must be!” the foreigner exclaimed in anger, slapping the table and pointing at the Drunken Fish. He insisted the dish was bitter, suspecting spoiled ingredients or even toxins, and would not be convinced otherwise.

“Not so—that’s the taste of baijiu,” Chen Huajiang shrugged, pointing at the Drunken Fish. He then turned to the others, who were staring in surprise, and explained, “He thinks you used spoiled ingredients because it tastes bitter.”

“Nonsense—bitter? That’s mellow sweetness! Drunken Fish always tastes like this. Tell him to taste it carefully,” Chef Wang said, clearly displeased, gesturing for Chen Huajiang to translate.

Chen Huajiang relayed Chef Wang’s words, but the foreigner refused to accept it, insisting expired ingredients had been used. Back and forth they went—the chef growing increasingly agitated, feeling his skills and character insulted. How could a chef of his caliber use expired ingredients? Especially when, because the customer was a foreigner and the reputation of the restaurant was at stake, he had put forth his full effort.

Yet he was repaid with this accusation—naturally, he was furious.

Bang!

“Tell him, if he thinks he can scam a free meal here, he can think again!” Chef Wang shouted, slamming his palm onto the table and pointing at the foreigner. “He’d better pay up and apologize, or I’ll crack his skull! Imagine the nerve—his country was beaten to a pulp, and he still dares act arrogant on our turf. He’s got a lot of guts!”

“Calm down, Chef Wang!”

“Don’t be so upset, Chef!”

The manager and staff hurried to restrain the furious Chef Wang.

Even Chen Huajiang was taken aback by Chef Wang’s outburst. Glancing at the male waiter’s disdainful expression, he suddenly understood. This era was different from the post-reform years; the people had confidence and self-esteem. They hadn’t yet been exposed to television or the internet, so were largely unaware of economic disparities. Their belief in the “paper tiger” nature of imperialism was strong, and their spirit was high.

A few years later, with the spread of television and certain media narratives, people would become aware of the economic gap, wounding their confidence and self-respect. That state of mind would persist for decades, until shortly before Chen Huajiang’s rebirth, when the nation’s self-assurance returned, allowing them to stand eye-to-eye with others.

Yes—in his previous life, it was eye-to-eye. In this era, it was with head held high.

“You, boy—don’t translate Chef Wang’s words. Just tell him the meal is on the house. No more nonsense,” the manager said, wanting only to resolve the matter and motioned for Chen Huajiang to translate.

Chen Huajiang conveyed this to the foreigner, who grumbled as he rose and left.

“So, you know a foreign language? Are you a student from the foreign affairs department?” the manager asked with a smile, extending his hand once the foreigner had gone.

The other employees all looked at Chen Huajiang with curiosity and admiration—few people knew foreign languages at this time, and most who did were university students in foreign affairs departments. Lin Jiayin, too, stared at her husband in astonishment; she had never known he spoke a foreign language, nor had he ever mentioned it. But now, no matter how curious, she dared not ask. She would have to wait until they returned home.

“Businessman,” Chen Huajiang replied, shaking the manager’s hand with a smile.

At this, everyone’s expression turned strange. Some waiters even looked at Chen Huajiang with open disdain. Businessmen were not respected in those days; it would not be until the nineties, when selling tea eggs was more lucrative than building rockets, that things would change dramatically.

“A businessman? Then why learn a foreign language?” the manager asked, now looking cautious.

“To make money,” Chen Huajiang replied with a smile. “Among ourselves, we’re all comrades, so naturally we don’t profit from one another. Foreigners aren’t our comrades—if we want to earn money from them, we have to learn their language, don’t you agree?”

At this, the manager relaxed a little.

Chen Huajiang ordered a cola and a plate of fried peanuts. At that time, cola had just entered the Chinese market but was not popular. In all of Nanming City, this might be the only place to buy it, and it was expensive—fifty cents a bottle, enough for a good breakfast for an average family.

Chen Huajiang didn’t like cola in either of his lifetimes, and Lin Jiayin, thinking it too extravagant, declined as well. Only Huanhuan, unable to resist the allure of sweets, happily drank her fill.

“Manager Zhao, I saw outside that you’re offering to lease out the shopfronts. Is that true?” While Lin Jiayin tended to Huanhuan, Chen Huajiang approached the manager with a smile.

“Brother Chen, you really are a businessman—are you thinking of leasing one of our shops?” Manager Zhao asked, their earlier exchange having made them somewhat acquainted.

Chen Huajiang nodded, confirming his intention under Zhao’s inquiring gaze.

Lin Jiayin, holding Huanhuan and her cola, froze in disbelief. She hadn’t expected her husband to want to lease a shop here—a year’s rent was 3,600 yuan! Where would he get that kind of money?

Her face darkened with worry, thinking Chen Huajiang was being reckless beyond reason.