The Reviled God of Cooking Tries to Slack Off - Chapter 125

Li Shuyan was watching from backstage and had even pulled out her phone to check the livestream for a while. When she saw the barrage of comments gradually shifting in tone, she finally felt relieved.

But when she turned around and saw Jiang Tingzhou, she couldn’t help but ask, “Tingzhou, were you really that sure none of this would affect us?”

What if a blogger had blindly talked nonsense with full confidence and actually damaged the store’s reputation?

Jiang Tingzhou smiled. “I had some confidence. Didn’t I mention before how important customer feelings are? Those feelings lie in the details.”

Wen Qi, who was standing nearby, listened and watched. He also began to form a clearer picture in his mind.

Having been deeply involved in the store’s opening process, Wen Qi knew how much effort Jiang Tingzhou had put into every aspect. Not only was it hard to find skilled chefs, but even the waitstaff were carefully selected. Salaries were set 10% higher than industry standards, with full benefits and a housing fund. Jiang Tingzhou personally interviewed the floor supervisors and established a performance-based bonus system.

As long as business thrived, everyone earned more. Naturally, the entire team was full of motivation.

Take the kitchen, for example. Having a good chef isn’t enough. Behind every great dish is an entire team handling prep, cutting, plating, and delivering food in a smooth and efficient workflow—even during peak hours.

Meanwhile, the waitstaff outside had to be equally sharp. Some dishes start to lose flavor within minutes of being plated. If guests had to wait too long, even a delicious dish could leave a bad impression.

The kitchen had a dedicated system to manage order flow and optimize dish delivery. No matter how many customers were in the restaurant, the first dish had to reach the table within 15 minutes of the guests sitting down. Once half the dishes had been served, the next round could be paced. Dishes could be served out of order to maximize efficiency, while ensuring that guests were never left waiting too long.

Signature dishes like Braised Pig Intestines used a unique delivery method—not only to replicate the feel of street-style selling but also because the dish required precise stewing of intestines, trotters, and brisket. Jianghu cuisine emphasizes freshness, and its prep time far exceeds that of other cuisines. Everything had to be timed just right—stew too long, and the texture turns to mush.

This meticulous timing ensured that every bite the customer tasted was perfect.

And in case a table finished their food unusually fast and stir-fried dishes weren’t ready, the rotating “Pig Trotter Series” delivered every 15 minutes ensured a steady stream of dishes.

But the dedication didn’t stop at the kitchen.

The consistent “Jianghu” aesthetic wasn’t about fancy décor but about the collective energy and competence of the staff—and the well-calibrated details that made everything work.

For example, the dining area was spacious with wide aisles so carts could move freely without disturbing guests. The ventilation was carefully designed to maintain a strong but not overwhelming spicy aroma.

Guests enjoyed delicious food, scenic views outside, and reasonable prices. Portions were generous. Meat dishes averaged around 40 yuan, while vegetable dishes were around 10 yuan. Most customers couldn’t even finish everything without pairing dishes with rice.

A full table of food for a group usually cost only 50 to 60 yuan per person—and everyone left satisfied.

Of course, food taste is subjective. Even the world’s best dishes might not please everyone. But no one could deny the quality service, pleasant ambiance, and vibrant atmosphere.

Even viewers in the livestream, unable to taste the food firsthand, could judge from what they saw—this restaurant was the real deal.

Making customers “feel good” was about delivering flavor, location, and reputation in the right way. Once that trust was built, they’d naturally become regulars.

Li Shuyan, despite being new to the restaurant world, was visibly excited. After hearing all this, she gained more confidence in the business. 

But she had one more concern. “What about the Northeastern cuisine shop?” she asked. “I noticed you’ve been focusing more on the Blazing Jianghu.”

Both stores were bound to attract attention from bloggers.

“Don’t worry,” Jiang Tingzhou replied. “The manager there is very experienced—better than anyone here. If anyone causes trouble, she’ll know how to handle it.”

So far, he hadn’t received any reports of trouble from her, which probably meant she’d already dealt with it.

Sure enough, a food influencer had been sent to the “Northern Hometown” restaurant by President Zhong. This influencer had been brought in specially from outside and was named Liu Rui—online handle: Sharp Comments.

He flew in from the North and, true to his name, had a harsh reviewing style and a picky palate. Even the best-known restaurants had been criticized by him.

He had nearly five million followers and was far more influential than Brother Dong.

Liu Rui didn’t livestream. Instead, he brought two assistants, used discreet camera setups, and had booked a private room in advance—away from the bustling dining hall. He preferred to shoot in peace and then edit freely, giving him full control over the final content.

He understood that blatantly trashing a popular restaurant would seem suspicious. With all the chef competition hype and thriving business, anyone watching would know he was lying if he went too far.

And when he actually tasted the food, he realized—it was undeniably good.

Take the Stewed Chicken with Mushrooms, for instance. The chicken was tender and fell off the bone, the vermicelli soaked up the rich broth, and the mushrooms weren’t just any mushrooms—they were fresh hazel mushrooms, incredibly flavorful.

Even with basic camera equipment, the color alone was enough to show how appetizing the dish was.

But still, Liu Rui had taken money upfront. So he had to nitpick.

He commented, “The vermicelli isn’t quite right. The soul of this dish is the vermicelli, and unfortunately, it misses the mark a bit.”

The assistant beside him nodded but didn’t specify what exactly was “wrong” with the vermicelli.

Comments like this followed in other dishes too.

For example, the Sweet and Sour Pork was crispy and crackled when bitten—caught perfectly in the recording. He couldn’t fault the technique, so he nitpicked the sauce: “The vinegar isn’t quite right.”

The Fresh Fish was spot-on. He admitted it was good, but complained about the portion size.

In reality, the portions were larger than most restaurants in Yongqing. If they followed the oversized Northeastern standard, no table could finish their food. Prices were also very fair.

Liu Rui knew it was rare to find a place that offered authentic taste at these prices—even back home. Many ingredients were clearly sourced from the North and prepared with care.

But none of that mattered. He had already accepted the money.

So he stuck to his script: “Not authentic.”

That vague phrase had no clear standard. Authenticity was whatever he said it was. Even if someone else found the food amazing, they couldn’t argue with him.

And with editing tricks, he could amplify his expressions and steer public opinion however he wanted.

Toward the end, he added two more dishes: Snow Cotton Red Bean Cake and Crispy Yellow Fritters. Both were labor-intensive and tricky to prepare.

He hadn’t initially ordered them but added them deliberately later—knowing the kitchen was already slammed and couldn’t serve them quickly.

Back in his private room, he pretended to get increasingly impatient. Even when the server apologized and promised the dishes were on their way, he huffed and puffed on camera, slamming down his chopsticks in frustration.

“I’m not saying this store is bullying customers because it’s popular, but…” he sighed. “The previous dishes were just okay, I was willing to give it a chance. But now I’ve been kept waiting this long? This attitude is unacceptable!”

Inwardly, he was already planning to ask President Zhong for more money. Playing this role was harder than expected.

He thought he had nailed it—until the moment he went to pay.

At checkout, the cashier hesitated and said, “Please wait a moment.”

Liu Rui snapped, “I’ve been waiting long enough already!”

Right then, someone came out from behind the counter—holding a bag with his Snow Cotton Red Bean Cake and Crispy Yellow Fritters.

Through the clear packaging, the desserts looked flawless—white, fluffy, and clearly delicious.

Caught off guard, Liu Rui’s facade wavered.

The front desk girl smiled politely and said, “Sorry for the wait. It’s really busy tonight. These two dishes are on the house—our treat. Also, we’ve included a small box of our local specialty. The chef made extra Cornmeal Dumplings with Sauerkraut and Oil to thank our guests. Every table gets some. Please enjoy.”

Liu Rui was speechless. He hadn’t even mentioned the dumplings when ordering, and had planned to add a complaint later about how “they lacked traditional dumplings.” Yet here they were, perfectly timed and complementary.

The receptionist had a strong Northeastern accent—clearly from his hometown. He grumbled, “Can you really make that call?”

She replied, “Of course. I’m the store manager.”

She looked young but was obviously competent. While handling the front desk, she chatted easily with him. 

Liu Rui suddenly felt she looked familiar.

He glanced at her nametag and froze.

“Your last name’s Cai… Wait—Cai’s Restaurant? You’re from there?” he asked.

The Cai family was well-known in his hometown for their Northeastern restaurant chain. Famous, authentic, a decades-old brand.

The girl smiled. “Yes, my father and brother run it. I trained there for a few years and came here to try my luck. Our chef is an old friend of my dad’s. Yongqing’s market is big, and I believe in our hometown flavors.”

Liu Rui forced a smile. “That’s great. Good to see young people exploring.”

There was no more conversation after that. The store was still packed, the door had a long queue, and the manager quickly disappeared into the crowd.

Liu Rui returned to his car with his assistant, quiet all the way.

When they finally sat down, he said, “Don’t upload it. We’re not posting this video.”

“Ah?” The assistant was stunned. “But we signed a contract. If we don’t post it, we’ll have to pay a penalty.”

That meant not only did Liu Rui make nothing from this job—he’d have to pay a hefty fine.

“I know,” Liu Rui gritted his teeth. “But we can’t post it. If we do—it’ll blow up. This isn’t one of those places we can just bully like before.”