The Game of Life

Jiang Weiming simply stir-fried some garlic pork slices for Jiang Feng. He had wanted to cook several dishes, or at the very least two challenging dishes to offer his grandnephew a taste, but his age stood in the way; he had the will but not the strength.

After preparing a small bowl of noodles for himself, Jiang Weiming felt somewhat dejected.

When he had learned that Taifeng Building was returning to the Jiang Family, his aspirations were high, as if he were returning to his youth, eagerly wanting to make a big splash and help his grandnephew revitalize Taifeng Building. But just now, his aged and decrepit body had clearly told him,

You are not up for it, you are just an old man with not many years left, unable to wield a kitchen knife or lift a heavy pot.

You’ve been away from the kitchen for thirty years, you’re not a chef anymore.

“Granduncle Weiming, what’s wrong?” Jiang Feng noticed Jiang Weiming’s poor mood.

“I’m old, tired from cooking just two dishes, can’t do it anymore,” Jiang Weiming sighed.

In his youth, he could traverse mountains and rivers, march for two days and nights without stopping. He could eat grass roots and tree bark, and at his most desperate, even consumed the earth of Bodhisattva, yet remained lively and vigorous. How strong his body was back then! But now, thinking he was still robust, he couldn’t even manage a complete meal.

“You’re still young, Master, not old at all!” Jiang Weisheng flattered.

“You’re just sweet-talking, how’s your grandson?” Jiang Weiming was amused by Jiang Weisheng.

“On his winter vacation, his mother took him out for fun in Beiping, to see the Capital and climb the Great Wall. Just yesterday, my daughter-in-law was complaining to me that he was fussing for Peking duck the whole trip and wouldn’t listen to reason,” Jiang Weisheng chuckled.

“Beiping City is wonderful!” Jiang Weiming reminisced, “By the way, Feng, when do you plan to return to Zet City? Granduncle Weiming will go back with you!”

“Oh, Granduncle Weiming, there’s no need for the trouble, I’m going to call my grandfather tonight and tell them to come over,” Jiang Feng had already planned this because Jiang Weiming was so old, and the high-speed train from Shu to Zet City takes over eight hours, he worried Jiang Weiming’s body couldn’t handle it.

“It’s such a hassle for your whole big family to come all this way to see me. I’m quite hale and hearty, not yet so old that I can’t walk. I’ll go with you, don’t bother calling, I want to see if Feng can recognize me,” Jiang Weiming hummed, feeling a bit petulant.

Jiang Feng couldn’t help but laugh and cry; one moment his granduncle claimed he was old, the next he refused to act his age—an old child indeed.

“Alright, I won’t call. It’ll be a surprise for my grandfather when the time comes,” Jiang Feng went along with Jiang Weiming’s words.

Determined and temperamental, Jiang Weiming insisted on heading to Zet City that very day, and only after Jiang Feng had shown him on his phone that there were no tickets did he give it up. Jiang Weisheng strongly asked that both Jiang Weiming and Jiang Feng stay at his house, maybe because Jiang Weiming often visited, his house even had spare clothes for Jiang Weiming.

When Jiang Feng went to inform the homestay’s owner he needed to cancel, the owner—a friendly and enthusiastic Shu girl who had previously learned that Jiang Feng was there to find relatives and had offered him advice- congratulated him upon finding his relatives and promptly refunded the room fee.

Jiang Feng didn’t forget to share the good news with Wu Minqi.

As usual, the reply came after four, as brief as ever.

“Congratulations, would you like to bring your granduncle to my family’s restaurant for a meal?”

If Wu Minqi’s family had a small restaurant like Jiang Feng’s, a free meal wouldn’t be an issue, but her family’s restaurant happened to be a

Michelin-starred restaurant. To mooch felt awkward for Jiang Feng, and to pay was equally awkward since he had no money, and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to part with it, considering the debts he still owed.

Jiang Feng decisively declined, messaging her that he would be returning to the provincial city the next day.

“Fine, see you when school starts, I’m off to get busy.”

Jiang Feng:…

The pressure is huge when your competitor is so driven!

What can you do when your competitor comes from a better background, looks better, is more brilliant, and works harder than you, other than lie back like a salted fish and cheer them on with a 666?

Dinner was prepared by Jiang Weisheng, a pure Sichuan cuisine chef. He cooked a few authentic home-style Sichuan dishes like fish-flavored shredded pork and Mapo tofu, with the only highlight being the chopped pepper fish head.

“Come on, Feng, try the chopped pepper fish head I made. It’s not as good as your Granduncle Weiming’s, just give it a try,” Jiang Weisheng said enthusiastically. “When I was a newbie doing odd jobs at the state-owned restaurant, our signature dish was your Granduncle Weiming’s chopped pepper fish head. Every time foreign guests or leaders visited, they specifically asked for the master to cook. Other head chefs from state-owned restaurants were so envious.”

“That was so many years ago, and you still remember it,” Jiang Weiming laughed and shook his head. “You, after graduating from high school, I told you to work at the factory, but you wouldn’t; I asked you to go to college, but you refused, insisting on working odd jobs at the restaurant without even taking a salary, driving your parents so mad, they chased you all over the city to beat you up.”

“Who would have thought, you actually managed to pick up some skills.”

Jiang Feng tried a mouthful of the chopped pepper fish head.

It was passable, without any obvious faults, but also nothing outstanding to praise.

You could say the taste was okay, but you couldn’t blindly praise the dish as being extremely delicious either.

Better than some, not as good as others.

If this dish were made by a Sichuan chef in their thirties or forties, Jiang Feng might have complimented it as not bad, but Jiang Weisheng was an old chef who had dedicated nearly forty years to tirelessly learning and practicing in the kitchen, so this dish fell far short of expectations.

“Delicious!” Jiang Feng said, keeping a straight face and steady heart.

Jiang Weisheng’s face lit up with joy.

Jiang Feng suddenly felt a bit relieved.

Although he wasn’t a prodigy like Wu Minqi, equipped with the protagonist’s template from someone else’s novel, at least he was better than most, with a slight talent. If he were like Jiang Weisheng, who had devoted his life to studying culinary arts, only to find that innate limitations meant he could go no further, it would be such a pity.

However, Jiang Weisheng had long come to terms with it. When he first started learning to cook, Jiang Weiming had told him he had no talent for culinary arts, not even average, and that he would remain an ordinary chef all his life. He had been ready for that.

After working as a chef for forty years, with a healthy mentor, a happy family, and grandchildren all around, he was very content.

Receiving a compliment today, Jiang Weisheng was over the moon.

At night, when everyone else had gone to bed, Jiang Weisheng took out his red-colored diary from the bookshelf and diligently recorded:

January 6, chopped pepper fish head: Master’s grandnephew praised it as delicious.

For forty years, Jiang Weisheng would always keep two notebooks, one black to record criticisms, and one red to record compliments. The filled notebooks, countless in number, were neatly arranged on the bookshelf in chronological order.

After putting the diary back, Jiang Weisheng began to count his notebooks.

“Stop counting, there are 26 red ones and 24 black ones, they won’t change, it’s late, go to sleep!” his wife Zhang Li, disturbed by Jiang Weisheng’s activity, said and turned over, falling asleep again.

They will change!

Jiang Weisheng didn’t dare to say it out loud; he had retired, and his son wouldn’t let him work anymore, but it didn’t matter. He had his pension, and once he saved enough money, he could open his own small restaurant.

He, Jiang Weisheng, was born to be a chef; his parents gave him a great name, Weisheng, which stands for hygiene in the kitchen.

He was only in his sixties; he could still work for another ten years, twenty years, work until he was old, work until death!

Cradling his little secret, Jiang Weisheng went to bed to sleep..