Chapter Twenty-four: The Ultimate Cuisine the Wealthy Fail to Comprehend (Part Two)

The cooking was underway, bustling and intense. As Ming Tian had anticipated, the imposter truly knew nothing at all. He didn’t even realize that the blood needed to be drained from the beef tenderloin first.

A skilled chef understands how to preserve the blood; through proper cooking, the juices within the beef transform into a delicious broth. But that requires either a frying pan or mastery of searing techniques. In this era of the Northern and Southern Dynasties, most cooking relied on cauldrons and barrel-shaped copper pots. In essence, most ingredients could only be boiled or steamed. Ming Tian’s methods for baking biscuits and flatbreads were considered top-tier innovations among chefs of this time.

Given these circumstances, the beef had to be blanched in boiling water to remove the blood, since there was neither ginger nor cooking wine. Otherwise, steamed or boiled beef would be unbearably gamey. The imposter, flustered, tossed a heap of vegetables along with his oddly cut beef tenderloin into the pot, intending to make the era’s most common meat stew.

How foolish.

Ming Tian sighed, heart aching for the ruined pot of beef. Still, no matter how poorly it was made, it was beef tenderloin—the quality was evident. The meat was pink and shone like rubies, clearly from a young calf. This was the finest meat one could hope for in this age; even if cooked badly, it would never taste truly awful.

In contrast, Ming Tian faced pork breast from a sick pig, under these conditions. Even the best chef couldn’t make something extraordinary out of it.

He hesitated, staring at the pork breast. Even in modern times, dishes featuring pork breast were rare. But soon, Ming Tian smiled.

There was a way!

If he wanted to beat the tender beef with sick pig’s breast, he would have to use the most common technique in modern cuisine.

Resolute, Ming Tian drew his knife.

Pork breast was tough and stringy—hard to chew, not tender, not particularly enjoyable, and the smell of sick pig was nearly impossible to deal with. The only solution was to mask it with stronger flavors.

The first thing that came to Ming Tian’s mind was green onion. This crop, cultivated in the north since the reign of Qi Heng, had a long history and enduring appeal. Chopped finely and mixed into minced meat, its pungency could overpower the pork’s odor and enhance its flavor.

Ming Tian set to work, hacking at the pork breast with broad strokes. It took him nearly half an hour to strip out all the lean meat, consigning the fat to the trash. He then minced the meat, kneading it into balls the size of cherries, and coated each one with a thick layer of flour.

“The chef’s dish looks so ordinary,” someone remarked.

“Yes, even my wife could cook like that. Nothing special at all,” echoed another.

The audience wasn’t blind; doubts about the imposter began to surface. Meanwhile, Ming Tian’s technique drew many curious eyes.

“Look, what’s that person cooking alongside the chef doing?”

“Why cover minced meat in flour? Won’t that make the stew too thick?”

Then someone exclaimed, “Hey, look! That’s not water in his pot!”

“That’s pork fat! What’s he planning?”

A chorus of astonishment erupted; they had never witnessed such a cooking method. It wasn’t surprising—deep-frying hadn’t yet appeared in the Northern and Southern Dynasties, only emerging in the Song Dynasty with the invention of frying pans.

But even a barrel-shaped copper pot could be used for frying!

Ming Tian dropped the meatballs one by one into the fat; the crisp sizzle echoed across the stage, drawing gasps and curious looks from the crowd. Even the prefect, who had initially looked down on Ming Tian, leaned forward, intrigued by what this man was doing.

The imposter stared, baffled by Ming Tian’s actions, then snorted with laughter.

“Boy, have you lost your mind? Fried meat? Oil is for frying people! If you want to jump in the oil pot, you don’t need to hint at our prefect like that!”

To the imposter, Ming Tian’s strange culinary approach could never produce anything tasty.

Moments ago, the imposter had been anxious about cooking the beef tenderloin, but now he relaxed, his expression lightening. “Victory is assured,” seemed written all over his face.

Foolish.

Ming Tian smiled, ignoring him.

Frying not only preserves the meat but also removes unpleasant odors—though not as effectively as ginger or cooking wine, it suffices. Ming Tian had mixed chopped green onion and egg white into the meat, and while frying, he began grinding pepper to make his own powder.

Fortune smiled on Ming Tian: the Silk Road had already been established in the Han Dynasty; although pepper was not yet common, the prefect, as a third-ranking official, had prepared pepper for this competition.

The imposter, meanwhile, looked clueless about pepper, tossing handfuls straight into his beef stew.

Soon Ming Tian’s crispy fried meat was ready, and the rich aroma permeated the entire venue. The crowd forgot the imposter, their eyes fixed on Ming Tian.

“My heavens, it smells amazing!”

“How can such a strange cooking method produce this fragrance?”

“Mama, I want to eat too.”

“Hush, don’t fuss. When we get home, I’ll try to make it for you, alright?”

Sprinkling pepper powder atop, Ming Tian finished a large plate of crispy meat. He glanced at the golden, glistening pieces and smiled.

If only there were ketchup—then it would be perfect. Sadly, in this era, even across the ocean, foreigners hadn’t dared eat tomatoes yet.

To win, one must win beautifully.

The goose mushroom dish for the mountain bandits was his fourth time cooking, but this was his first competition. Ming Tian, though optimistic and courteous, was fiercely competitive at heart—he could not lose! And he must win with style!

It was a pity he couldn’t make ketchup.

“Mama, I want to eat right now!”

“Why are you so disobedient?” A mother scolded her daughter, about five or six years old, tugging at her sleeve for food. The mother, caught between embarrassment and frustration, raised her hand to strike.

This scene caught Ming Tian’s attention.

“Hey, children don’t know better. Don’t hit her,” Ming Tian stopped the mother, smiling as he tossed a piece of crispy meat to the girl.

She caught it eagerly and bit right in. Instantly, her face melted into bliss; Ming Tian recognized the look—it was likely the best thing she’d ever tasted.

“Thank you, uncle,” she said politely, then ran back gleefully to her mother’s arms.

The audience, witnessing this, crowded around, eagerly asking the girl how it tasted.

Uncle? The innocence in her voice made Ming Tian laugh and cry at once.

Meanwhile, a similar scene unfolded at the imposter’s station. The strong pepper aroma drifted from his stew, and a little boy sucked his fingers, drooling as he stared at the pot.

The imposter noticed, glared, and smashed an egg on the boy’s face, turning him into a mottled cat.

“Look! What are you looking at, brat? Get lost!” the imposter cursed, furious.

The dazed boy burst into tears and fled to his father’s embrace.

Seeing his child bullied, the father’s heart broke, but he dared not speak out, glaring at the imposter and silently wiping egg from his son’s face.

Ming Tian saw this and was deeply annoyed. Children are naturally greedy, yet the boy hadn’t even tried to steal food—he just got closer to watch. Was it really necessary to treat a five- or six-year-old like that?

Time slipped quickly by.

As the bell rang, the hour of You had arrived; the sun was now setting in the west.

“Serve the dishes!”

The soldier’s loud cry drowned out the crowd’s chatter. Ming Tian and the imposter’s dishes were brought before the prefect.

The outcome would soon be revealed!