The Reviled God of Cooking Tries to Slack Off - Chapter 38

At first, Jiang Tingzhou was fairly relaxed. He chatted with Aunt Deng for a while, stood in the kitchen eating shortbread, and watched as customers gradually began trickling into Zhou Lifen’s shop.

At that moment, two unfamiliar schoolgirls suddenly approached and asked, “Are you the older brother?”

Jiang Tingzhou: ?

He immediately turned around to check if someone else was nearby. He thought these girls were talking to someone else—but they were clearly looking at him.

“I mean, you’re the brother from the video, right?” The girls held up a phone showing one of An Xiaoping’s videos. “It’s really you! You look even better in person. I love the episodes with you in them. The ones with Xiao An are great too.”

Jiang Tingzhou usually wore a cold expression that kept people at a distance, but this time, he instinctively nodded. The two middle school girls stood before him, chattering away happily like little sparrows, eagerly expressing how much they liked him.

“Brother, can we take a photo with you? I really, really like you! Your cooking looks amazing! And it’s awesome how you beat up the bad guys.”

“I’m so excited—I have to tell my friends you’re here!”

“Ahhhh, I never thought we’d run into you!”

Jiang Tingzhou had no idea how to handle a situation like that.

He had never experienced anything close to “popularity.” He didn’t use his phone much, and never paid attention to comments online. An Xiaoping had told him that many people liked him, but he always thought: how long could that last?

He knew how fickle the internet could be. One minute people praised you, the next they turned on you. Anonymous compliments meant little to him.

But now, that felt different—more real.

Aunt Deng smiled, clearly enjoying the moment. She even helped the girls take a photo with him.

Jiang Tingzhou didn’t refuse. He could feel their simple, genuine joy, though he still looked a little stiff in the photo. Once it was done, he quietly slipped through the side door into Yongqing Pastry Shop and finally exhaled in relief.

“Don’t be nervous,” Aunt Deng said, still smiling. “Isn’t it nice to be liked? Young people like you are rare these days. Old Deng and I like you too.”

At first, Jiang Tingzhou seemed aloof and unapproachable. But after a few days, anyone could see he was a meticulous and hardworking person. In his yard, he carefully planned the layout of every vegetable, and even paved an orderly bluestone path. After some renovations, his yard was as neat and calming as his home—so much so that even someone with OCD would have been satisfied.

People like him excelled at everything.

Aunt Deng also knew all about Zhou Lifen’s situation. She saw clearly how much Jiang Tingzhou did behind the scenes to help her, from pushing for her shop to quietly supporting her decisions.

But she had one question she couldn’t help asking: “You’re such a good cook—why not open your own restaurant?”

“Me? I can’t,” Jiang Tingzhou replied. “I don’t want to be part of that rat race anymore. And I’m not short on money.” He paused, then added, “You wouldn’t understand, Aunt Deng. Back when I was still working, I was way more stressed than I am now. I don’t want to go back to that. These days, I just plant a little in the yard.”

Aunt Deng didn’t quite understand what “rat race” meant, so Jiang Tingzhou patiently explained.

Back then, he was busy fighting for everything that should have been his—competing fiercely in the high-pressure world of elite chefs. If he hadn’t died suddenly in his previous life, he probably would have become the so-called “king of the rat race.”

But thinking back on it only made him feel tired. He didn’t want to live like that anymore.

Now Aunt Deng understood.

She usually didn’t argue with anyone, always wore a warm smile, and was skilled in business. But when she heard Jiang Tingzhou say that, she offered a different perspective.

“If that’s the case, then yes, you were pushing too hard. It was exhausting. But that doesn’t mean you should just stop doing everything. Old Deng and I made enough for retirement years ago. Our kids are grown too. But we’re still working—not because we have to, but because we can’t just sit still. Doing something with our hands feels better than doing nothing,” she said. “You’re young, but in that way, you’re just like the two of us old folks.”

Jiang Tingzhou claimed he was resting. But if he really were resting, it’d be fine. The truth was, he just didn’t know how to stop. He wasn’t as naturally sociable as others. When he first moved in, he kept to himself, quietly tending his one-acre garden.

Aunt Deng continued, “I know many of our old customers—most of them used to work at the sugar factory, and many are our neighbors now. Sometimes, we sit together in the yard, sipping tea, eating shortbread, reminiscing. They always say the taste hasn’t changed, and that makes me happy.”

Yongqing Pastry Shop hadn’t raised prices much in years. Their most basic sesame sugar filling cake, palm-sized, had been one yuan for a long time. Later, when raw material prices rose, they added fifty cents.

The cake itself didn’t have much flavor—just the light fragrance of rice and oil from the earthen stove. But it paired well with anything. The sugar factory declined, but the shortbreads it gave birth to remained.

Jiang Tingzhou learned for the first time that even shortbread had evolved. At first, fillings were simply sandwiched between two layers of dough. Later, the filling was mixed and baked into the cake itself.

The Dengs even used different doughs for sweet and savory versions. Sweet dough was chewier, while savory ones were crispier. Even the thickness and baking times varied. But the best ones were always fresh from the oven.

Aunt Deng handed him another piece—this one with coconut filling. He took a bite. The crispy, fragrant coconut burst out with a sweetness that was perfect, totally different from the spicy ham filling earlier.

That was the Dengs’ life’s work—their livelihood and pride.

She said gently, “In Yongqing, people call earning a living ‘finding a meal.’ These days, everyone has enough to eat. But aside from eating, people still need to do something meaningful, right? I remember you said your goal is just to live longer. Well, I’ve seen a lot of long-lived people. The happiest ones all have something they love doing. That’s the secret to longevity. I don’t know what happened to you before. Maybe you just hadn’t found what truly made you happy. But you’re a good kid. I hope you can always look forward.”

She and Uncle Deng were always in high spirits. Though already over fifty, they looked barely forty.

Jiang Tingzhou was quiet for a moment, then said, “Aunt Deng, I’m not like you. Everything I used to work so hard for now seems meaningless. I don’t have the strength to chase after something new.”

Aunt Deng smiled. “But you’ve already done it.”

Jiang Tingzhou was stunned.

Just then, another student from a nearby cram school arrived—heading straight for Zhou Lifen’s stall.

Morning Market Street wasn’t a usual stop for students, but that day was different. A few bicycles pulled up in front of the shop, and kids started placing orders.

“I want fried rice—with a scoop of the special ham sauce!”

“Four more to-go, please!”

Some students were like food runners, delivering meals to classmates—ordering multiple servings at once.

A line started forming in front of the shop. Zhou Lifen responded and immediately got to work.

Jiang Tingzhou stood quietly in the doorway, watching her.

She was working hard, but she looked bright and full of energy—completely different from the gloomy, defeated woman she had been.

He could hear the students chatting as they waited.

“I’m telling you, it’s really good.”

“This sauce goes perfectly with rice. Who came up with it? Genius.”

“I just had some from my deskmate’s box—now I want to finish all my homework.”

“Come have tea and cakes with us tomorrow,” Aunt Deng said with a smile. “Some of the old neighbors will be there. You don’t need to be planting vegetables every day—you’ve already planted enough. Let them grow on their own.”

Jiang Tingzhou thought for a moment and nodded.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.

At that point, Zhou Lifen didn’t need him to say anything. She was getting the hang of it herself. That was her path now—it had nothing to do with him.

But what Aunt Deng said sounded nice. Maybe she just wanted to make him feel better.

Still, her words lingered.

Jiang Tingzhou thought about them even after he left—and also thought about the student who said they liked him, and the many things Chef Wang once told him when he was learning how to cook.

—In this profession, your words don’t matter. Only when the customers approve do you get recognition. That’s why, if you have the skills, aim to be the best. Then, naturally, people will like you.

It sounded reasonable. But in Jiang Tingzhou’s experience, that had been a lie. He didn’t blindly believe in a few phrases anymore.

But that day, thinking about it all, he started to develop some thoughts of his own.

The sun had been strong during the day, warming people’s skin—but come nightfall, rain began to fall outside.

It wasn’t heavy, just a sudden, steady drizzle. Some people fell asleep easily to the sound. Others couldn’t sleep at all.

Lu Baiyu had a rough night.

Restless and anxious, he barely dozed off by midnight—and when he did, he had a strange, vivid dream.

He usually didn’t dream, but that night he had been thinking about Jiang Tingzhou nonstop, so he dreamed of him.

The Jiang Tingzhou in the dream sometimes resembled the one in his memory—and sometimes didn’t.

At first, they were close. Tingzhou stood beside him, eyes full of love. Everything felt natural, like they were meant to be.

Even when he neglected him because of work, Tingzhou didn’t complain.

But then the dream shifted.

Tingzhou was standing at the door of their apartment, suitcase in hand. He turned back with red eyes and said “Go back to your work. I don’t think we need to have this kind of relationship anymore.”

More scenes flashed—scattered fragments of memories. It was still Jiang Tingzhou—looking at him from different places. All the fragments blurred together.

On one side, Tingzhou was smiling, rushing forward to hug him, saying, “It’s great to have your help,” he says.

In another, they were arguing. “Lu Baiyu, I’m not your pet or your puppet.”

In one scene, he pleaded, “If you’ve changed, let’s make up—we seem truly inseparable.”

In another, he shouted, “You don’t love me. You’ve never loved me. All you have is the urge to control and possess me!”

Everything blurred together until it settled on one final image—Jiang Tingzhou sitting on a hospital bed, hand bandaged, injuries all over his body. He stared at him and said, “I get it now. That’s all there is to it.”

“It’s not what you think, Tingzhou,” Lu Baiyu heard himself say—his voice choked, panicked like never before. His words were a jumbled mess. “It’s always been me—I’ve always liked you. I’m sincere. I’ve already changed. I can change again. You have to believe me. I really want to be with you. It’s not what you think, it’s me—”

He jolted awake.

The dream was fragmented, chaotic, yet vividly clear. He could barely piece it together—but one sentence remained, etched in his mind.

“It’s me who can’t leave you.”

He repeated it aloud in the empty room, just like the echo of his heart.