txolops Chapter 66 doesn't even deserve to be called gourmet food!
Chapter 66 doesn't even deserve to be called gourmet food!
Hao Hao's mom and Xiao Meng's mom left with their phones.
Watching their retreating figures, Wang Hai turned to Lin Chen in front of the stove and said, "Brother Chen, these two kindergarten parents were acting all high and mighty this afternoon, but now they've obediently joined the group and become die-hard fans."
Your skills are the best cure for any dissent.
Lin Chen tossed the wok in his hands and said, "Everyone who comes to eat is a guest."
Regardless of status, just follow the rules.
"That's right. In front of Brother Chen's pot, no matter how big the boss is, he has to line up obediently."
Wang Hai deftly pulled out the next takeout box and filled it with rice or soup for the customer.
Tangtang sat on a small stool, pulled a disposable spoon out of a plastic bag, and obediently handed it to the customer in front of her: "Uncle, here's a spoon for you."
"Thank you, Tangtang."
The customer smiled and accepted the bag.
The long queue in front of the stall remained orderly, and the 150 portions of stock were being consumed at an extremely rapid pace.
In the early summer evening, the square was filled with a down-to-earth atmosphere and a busy rhythm of food preparation.
……
at the same time.
Second floor of Yintai Building.
In stark contrast to the bustling plaza downstairs is a top-tier private kitchen restaurant called "Matsukawa" on the second floor, located in the land of cherry blossoms.
This restaurant is decorated in an extremely luxurious style and specializes in expensive seafood flown in daily and top-grade Wagyu beef.
Normally, this is a favorite business banquet venue for executives from Yintai Building and even several multinational companies in the surrounding area, with the average spending per person often exceeding two or three thousand yuan.
At this moment, in front of the open kitchen counter.
The head chef of the Matsukawa branch, Watanabe, was wearing a crisp white chef's uniform with a white headscarf tied around his head, signifying his identity.
He held an expensive, custom-made Yanagiba knife in his hand, his expression serious as he sliced a piece of freshly thawed, top-grade bluefin tuna.
After cutting it, he even used a small pair of tweezers to carefully place a piece of edible gold leaf next to the sashimi.
Watanabe is a Japanese man who always talks about "craftsmanship".
In his eyes, cooking is a sacred art, and only the people of Japan can bring out the true flavor of ingredients to the fullest extent by adhering to rigid rules that have been followed for decades.
As for traditional Chinese cuisine, he has always looked down on it, believing it to be nothing more than low-class, unskilled food made with heavy oil and salt.
"Yes."
Watanabe put down the Yanagiba sword in his hand, picked up a clean white towel, and carefully wiped the blade.
He looked up and surveyed the store.
It's already 6:30 pm, the prime time for dinner.
Normally at this time, the five high-end VIP rooms in the store would already be filled with corporate executives in suits.
The tables in the lobby should also be packed.
But today, the store seemed unusually quiet.
Three of the five private rooms were empty, and there were only a few tables of casual diners in the main hall. It was so quiet that you could even hear the ice melting.
Watanabe's brows furrowed tightly.
He turned his head and looked at the lobby manager standing to the side, his tone clearly displeased.
"What's the booking situation for tonight?"
Watanabe questioned in accented Chinese, "Why haven't General Manager Liu from the planning department and several other executives from foreign companies come here for dinner these past few days?"
Is there a problem with your service that's causing the customer's dissatisfaction?
When the head waiter heard the chef's question, he looked a little embarrassed and stood there stammering for a long time.
"Chef Watanabe, it's not a problem with our service."
The guests did not complain.
The supervisor answered cautiously.
"Why did the number of executives suddenly drop sharply in the evening?"
Watanabe's gaze hardened. "As service staff, didn't you even bother to find out where the guests went?"
The supervisor swallowed hard and forced himself to speak.
"Chef Watanabe, I've inquired about him."
Those executives didn't go to other star-rated restaurants...
The supervisor lowered his head, his voice trailing off, "They...they've been lining up outside the building every day after get off work these past few days."
"Queue? Queue for what?"
Watanabe paused, his brow furrowing even deeper. "Did some new Michelin-starred restaurant from a romantic country just open downstairs?"
"Not a romantic restaurant..."
The supervisor took a deep breath and said truthfully, "A Chinese roadside stall selling food from a tricycle has been coming to the edge of the plaza downstairs these past few days."
They were selling fried rice. All the executives were lining up downstairs to buy that fried rice.
Upon hearing the words "a roadside stall selling Chinese food from a tricycle" and "fried rice," Watanabe abruptly stopped wiping his knife.
He stared wide-eyed at his supervisor, as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world.
"What did you say?"
Watanabe put down the towel in his hand, his face instantly darkening. "You mean, all those executives who usually eat the top-quality seafood sashimi that I meticulously prepare with artisan spirit are now going downstairs to eat some Chinese fried rice sold from a tricycle?"
The supervisor nodded, his voice a little dry: "Yes."
And I heard today that the stall was giving away free clear broth made from old hen.
There are nearly a hundred people lined up downstairs now. Several CEOs in the building have asked others to help them pack, and even the people from the CEO's office go down to pack every day on time.
Watanabe's face turned pale and then flushed after hearing this.
As an extremely proud top chef from Japan, he has always believed that his cuisine is synonymous with high-end, an art that only true elites can appreciate.
Now, his upscale private Japanese restaurant has had its customers stolen by a roadside stall in China that doesn't even have a storefront.
"Absurd! Utterly absurd!"
Watanabe slammed his hand heavily on the kitchen counter, his eyes filled with anger and extreme contempt.
"Chinese fried rice is nothing more than mixing leftover rice from the previous day with cheap eggs, pouring in a bunch of low-quality oil, and stir-frying it a few times in a big iron wok."
"Can something that requires no skill or technique be called gourmet food?"
Watanabe gave a cold laugh, his tone full of arrogance.
"Is there something wrong with the tongues of these executives?"
Instead of enjoying fine Japanese cuisine, they choose to eat this kind of heavily oiled and salty junk food!
"How much does he charge for a serving of fried rice?"
Watanabe asked in a cold voice.
"Ninety-nine yuan a serving."
The supervisor answered in a low voice.
"Ninety-nine yuan?"
Watanabe's contempt intensified. "A broken tricycle without even a storefront, a bowl of cheap leftover rice, and they dare to sell it for ninety-nine yen?"
They're scamming us!
Watanabe untied the white headscarf from his head and threw it on the table, his eyes full of disdain.
"Making a group of executives worth tens of millions line up on the roadside to eat this kind of food that has no craftsmanship is an insult to high-end catering!"
A desecration of us real chefs!