The Reviled God of Cooking Tries to Slack Off - Chapter 122

Especially if you’re trying to profit by stepping on Jiang Tingzhou’s reputation—that’s even more impossible.

The backlash started fermenting from the very first day the mall restaurant opened. Many food bloggers gave it negative reviews. Even those who tried to be polite couldn’t bring themselves to say it was “delicious.”

President Zhong quickly caught on. That very night, she paid to suppress the bad publicity and boosted “positive” reviews from paid bloggers. Many customers didn’t see the negative feedback in time, and there were still long queues the following day.

But by the third and fourth day, the situation could no longer be contained.

More and more food bloggers visited and posted complaints. Ordinary customers also began uploading videos to criticize the place. The attention snowballed until the issue even trended on short video platforms.

At first, people didn’t know the full story. But as the topic grew in popularity, internet users began digging into it. Though the amateur sleuthing was messy and often inaccurate, some still managed to uncover the truth behind the false advertising and misleading branding.

【“Champion of the competition? Which champion? I looked it up—the previous champion just took the money but didn’t even cook. They’ve got a terrible reputation in the industry.”】

【“I waited in line and bought their so-called fried potato chips. The store was still playing reruns of the chef competition. The potatoes on the show looked mouthwatering, but the ones I got were burnt and worse than supermarket snacks.”】

【“Honestly, it’s better to buy the puffed snacks from the sugar factory. Their new yam crisps are addictive—I can’t stop eating them.”】

【“I want to buy them too, but the sugar factory’s always out of stock!”】

【“Wait, aren’t those two restaurants owned by Mr. Jiang?”】

【“I’m a fan of Jiang Tingzhou. His actual restaurant isn’t even open yet. We’ve been waiting for it!”】

【“So it’s a case of the real Li Kui meets the fake Li Gui”】

(Translator’s Note: Li Kui is a well-known, fierce warrior character from the classic novel Water Margin (水浒传). Li Gui was a bandit who pretended to be Li Kui in order to intimidate and rob people. One day, Li Kui himself ran into Li Gui. Naturally, the impostor couldn’t match the real one and was exposed.)

Within a few days, the controversy only grew hotter. President Zhong even tried bribing bloggers to delete their videos, but some exposed the bribe messages instead—leading to even more ridicule.

Though she kept trying to contain public opinion, it was clear that the restaurant’s business was declining fast. The long queues vanished.

Meanwhile, Jiang Tingzhou’s two restaurants were already fully prepared.

The day after tomorrow was the weekend. The forecast predicted sunshine and a light breeze—a perfect day for a grand opening. Jiang Tingzhou decided to make it official then.

That evening, Jiang Tingzhou hosted a dinner with all staff members from both stores in the newly completed restaurant. The chefs handled most of the cooking, though he personally made two dishes. The employees dug in enthusiastically, barely lifting their heads from their bowls.

This wasn’t a formal event—just a relaxed meal before the storm. 

Jiang Tingzhou, aware that his status might make some uncomfortable, chose to sit separately from the employees. He dined with An Xiaoping and Li Shuyan, making it feel more like a family dinner. 

As they filled their stomachs, talk inevitably turned to recent events. 

Li Shuyan nudged An Xiaoping and asked, “Xiaoping, were you the one who contacted those bloggers?”

“Yes,” An Xiaoping said proudly. “As soon as Brother Jiang gave me a hint, I understood. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

He’d been working in this field for a while and had grown experienced. Jiang Tingzhou had only needed to talk with him for two minutes on the phone—no need for detailed instructions. The behind-the-scenes preparations were already in motion.

Of course, it wasn’t just about recruiting a few bloggers to give reviews.

The sugar factory had stayed silent before, but now that the competitor was falling, it was time to step in and show its cards.

Their store featured real contestants from the 20th Chef Competition. All of them had appeared openly on camera, showcasing their numbers during the competition. A large amount of footage was filmed at the post-competition booth and repurposed for the store.

When this behind-the-scenes footage was released, it immediately generated buzz and reminded viewers who the real deal was.

This wasn’t an aggressive takedown—it was a calculated move riding the wave of public sentiment. Instead of fighting fire with fire, they let the internet turn the tide naturally. No need for underhanded methods—just present the truth, and the audience would decide.

Normally, Jiang Tingzhou wouldn’t bother stepping on a competitor. But since the other side had struck first—like that burst pipe incident—he had no reason to hold back.

“Is the food there really that bad?” asked Wen Qi, chewing happily on the restaurant’s own bandit-style pork liver. The chili was fresh and bright, the liver cooked just right, even the garlic sprouts were tender and perfect with rice.

The dish he was eating had vibrant peppers, perfectly cooked liver, and fresh garlic sprouts. He genuinely couldn’t understand how someone could ruin such a basic stir-fry—it was just a waste of ingredients.

“I tried it,” Li Shuyan chimed in. “I asked my secretary to bring some back. Objectively speaking, it’s not that horrible—more like average takeout. But the issue is, they hyped it too much.”

Taste is subjective. President Zhong had years of experience in the restaurant business. Though she’d rushed the store’s setup, the food was still technically “passable.” 

But when you try to ride the coattails of the chef competition, expectations skyrocket.

Many dishes on her menu overlapped with those from the show, making the comparison even more obvious—and brutal.

Once bloggers had experienced real gourmet food, eating something merely average made it feel outright awful.

Some bloggers weren’t shy about their criticism. One even recorded themselves spitting out blackened hotpot into a trash can. The footage was hard to watch.

“They did it to themselves. That’s not on us,” ,” An Xiaoping said bluntly. “They picked the wrong path. They can’t blame anyone else.”

Foodies can be fickle. When their expectations are betrayed, they become harsh. And when every blogger confirms the same disappointment, word spreads fast.

“But it seems like they haven’t given up yet,” Li Shuyan added. “I’ve had people monitoring their moves. Apparently, they’re still spending big—hiring a major influencer to counter the recent wave of criticism.”

Jiang Tingzhou smiled. “Of course she won’t give up that easily.”

The initial launch over there had been too successful. It was a rare money-making opportunity, and the investment hadn’t yet been recouped. Giving up now would mean cutting major losses. President Zhong, a veteran in the business, wouldn’t back down so easily.

For now, the store still maintained high ratings on review platforms. It could continue fooling some new customers. Deleting online comments and spinning narratives was just part of the strategy to hang on.

“She’s more persistent than the others I’ve dealt with,” Wen Qi noted. “Really stubborn. She won’t stop until she hits rock bottom.”

At that moment, the head chef of the restaurant approached to toast Jiang Tingzhou. He was the most skilled and senior chef there, and he looked genuinely happy.

“Boss Jiang, I have to toast you. I’ve opened many restaurants before, but they all failed. Thank you for giving me another chance!”

He downed the drink in one gulp. Jiang Tingzhou toasted back with tea.

“What? You’ve opened restaurants and failed?” Li Shuyan blinked in disbelief. “How is that possible?”

She loved his garlic-flavored spicy chicken feet—they were tender, addictively spicy, and so delicious it could make you ignore chaos happening around you.

“Alas, running a restaurant isn’t that simple,” the chef said with a sigh. “If the management isn’t good, everything falls apart.”

Jiang Tingzhou knew his story.

The chef had excellent culinary skills, but his past restaurants had collapsed due to internal strife. Unequal profit sharing, manipulation from competitors, embezzlement during procurement—he’d even served rotten food and nearly ended up in a lawsuit.

No matter how good the cooking, customers wouldn’t return if the place was a mess.

“I saw the burst pipe in your store and immediately felt something was off,” the chef said. “It reminded me of my own experiences. I got worried. Thank you for handling it, Boss Jiang—I feel reassured now.”

Jiang Tingzhou smiled. “That’s my job.”

If he opened this restaurant, it was his responsibility to remove obstacles so the chef could focus on the food.

Li Shuyan watched the chef leave and sighed. “This business is way more complicated than I imagined. It’s not just about cooking good food.”

Taking over the sugar factory, she had thought the key was simply taste and quality—just like how their cream buns had exploded in popularity, setting the factory on its current path. She assumed restaurants would be the same—put effort into flavor, work hard, and success would follow.

But this experience had changed her thinking.

The sugar factory was expanding and facing increasingly sophisticated opponents. If Jiang Tingzhou hadn’t reacted quickly, wouldn’t they have suffered serious damage this time?

Everyone present had similar thoughts.

Wen Qi had practical experience, and Li Shuyan had a strong background—but neither had the full picture. Both admitted that each industry had its own rules. Even though the sugar factory was thriving, they were still learning as they went, adapting past lessons step by step—like crossing a river by feeling the stones.

From factory to storefront, the sugar factory was inching closer to the customer. With each step, the expectations grew. It seemed like a natural progression—but looking at these two restaurants, it was clearly far more complex.

“Don’t worry,” Jiang Tingzhou said reassuringly. “There’s a logic to this. Let me explain.”

His calm words settled everyone down, and all eyes turned to him.

“There’s a saying—‘food is the god of the people.’ Catering is a massive industry. If we break restaurants into simple categories, they usually fall into three types: cheap, moderately expensive, and very expensive. Cheap places have a per capita price of under 100 yuan—think morning market stalls or our two new stores. They’re accessible to everyone. Moderately expensive places charge over a hundred yuan per person. People don’t go often, but the margins are better. Then there are high-end restaurants—those where meals cost thousands or even tens of thousands.”

Jiang Tingzhou had experienced or worked in all three types in his past life, so he understood their operations deeply.

He paused and then asked, “So, what do you all think is the most important factor in a restaurant’s success?”

Li Shuyan’s first thought was: flavor.

She recalled many success stories. Didn’t Sister Zhou’s morning market shop thrive purely on taste?

Wen Qi considered it, then said: Location.

He had a point. If Zhou Lifen had opened her shop in a remote area, no one would have discovered it.

“I think it’s publicity,” An Xiaoping said. “Look at how fast the ham took off—that’s marketing.”

The sugar factory’s new restaurants had flavor, location, and publicity. But did that guarantee long-term success?

Jiang Tingzhou nodded. “All of you are right. Every type of restaurant has its survival method. But in my experience, for an affordable restaurant to succeed, you need three things: good location, great taste, and reasonable pricing. But whether it can truly thrive depends on one thing—how customers feel.”