The Reviled God of Cooking Tries to Slack Off - Chapter 99

Throughout the competition, the Xiushui brand label was prominently displayed. After all, the name of the event was the “Xiushui Chef Competition,” Jiang Tingzhou’s own promotions—whether soft or hard—never overshadowed the main title sponsor.

Now that the competition was drawing widespread attention, with each round more exciting than the last, it was only natural that Xiushui, as a powerful and wealthy enterprise, would increase its investment.

When Zeng Rong brought up the news, his face was still lit with excitement. “Boss Jiang, this is fantastic.”

And it wasn’t just about the money—he had also heard that Xiushui Group planned to send representatives to watch the next round in person. This alone showed how seriously they were taking the competition and the level of respect they were giving it.

Seeing Zeng Rong’s mysterious look, Jiang Tingzhou asked, “Is Liu Ping coming?”

Liu Ping had only made a brief ten-minute appearance at the finals in a past event, presenting an award. Everyone knew his health had been fragile since his surgery, so public appearances were rare.

Zeng Rong shook his head. “No, Mr. Liu is very busy and unavailable.” He leaned in. “But someone close to him is coming.”

The representative this time was Liu Ping’s nephew, Zhang Xiaocong, who currently served as the general manager of one of Xiushui Group’s subsidiaries.

Zhang Xiaocong had once been Liu Ping’s personal secretary. Though not at Liu Ping’s level, his standing in the company was considerable. He was essentially being groomed as a future successor. This time, he would attend the event as Xiushui’s official delegate.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Zeng Rong said. “Forget the money for a second—this is a great opportunity for this competition and for you. If I remember right, you only recently became a board member in the Yongqing branch of the association, right? And there just happens to be a vacant vice-chairman spot in your branch. You could take it. Honestly, you’re more than qualified for that position.”

Zeng Rong clearly still had high hopes for him, and the message was obvious: through this competition, Jiang Tingzhou had a real shot at advancement.

Jiang Tingzhou smiled and replied, “I have no objection to Xiushui increasing its investment. As for the association and career matters, there’s no rush.”

He had joined the association for the sake of this competition. Promotion was a good thing, but tying that to the event’s success too directly wasn’t necessary.

It might have been a big deal to others, but Jiang Tingzhou didn’t think much of it.

He had plenty on his plate.

The competition had gone through two rounds, and the schedule was already more than halfway complete. Everything was running smoothly, and the people who had tried to interfere earlier had gone quiet. 

As expected, the broadcast of the second episode showed a steady rise in popularity.

That night, the show broke new records in viewership, peaking above a real-time rating of 2.0, ranking first in its time slot—surpassing even rival programs that had recruited big-name celebrities.

The competition wasn’t just a hit—it also brought great exposure to the participants.

Jiang Tingzhou’s already massive follower count kept growing and soon reached five million. Even related phrases like “#Can’tgetaticketfortheChefCompetition” trended high on the hot search and stayed there for a long time.

Some contestants gained fame seemingly overnight.

Ye Shunxin, now dubbed a “genius female chef,” maintained a high ranking and was constantly in the spotlight. Several others followed closely behind. Many contestants saw their fan count increase by over 100,000. Even before the competition concluded, some had already received interview invitations from major media outlets.

In such a thriving atmosphere, many participants began thinking about their future—especially after the last street stall activity.

They’d heard rumors: Jiang Tingzhou intended to select key chefs for special training and future collaboration.

Some planned to join the restaurant operated by the sugar factory as head chefs—reportedly with profit-sharing or equity incentives. 

This was a rare opportunity, far beyond what anyone eliminated in the first round could have imagined.  If they succeeded, they could expect an annual income starting in the hundreds of thousands—far above industry standards.

Even previous gold or silver medalists hadn’t received such treatment.

So even before the sugar factory officially reached out, some chefs took the initiative—including Tao Jintian, a young chef skilled in rural banquet-style cooking, whom Jiang Tingzhou had already taken note of.

Tao Jintian sought out Jiang Tingzhou directly. 

The first thing he said was blunt: “Mr. Jiang, if I win now, will you invest a large sum of money in me?”

He even emphasized: “A large sum of money.”

Jiang Tingzhou: “…Hmm?”

Ordinarily, this might’ve sounded opportunistic, as though he were just looking for a handout. But Jiang Tingzhou had been observing him for a while and knew that Tao Jintian was simply straightforward by nature. 

So he responded honestly: “Yes. I’m optimistic about you and do intend to collaborate—but not in the way you’re thinking. This is a business. There’s a process to follow.”

“I know,” Tao Jintian said. “But the intention is there, right?”

Jiang Tingzhou replied, “Yes. But this isn’t the time to talk about it. If word gets out, it could affect the competition…”

He was gently cautioning him about appearances, but Tao Jintian understood.

“We haven’t signed anything yet, we’re just talking. And I didn’t ask you to reveal any competition topics. I’m relying on my own skills. I know how it works—if that weren’t the case, those three chefs wouldn’t have been eliminated in the first round.” He waved his hand. “Even if you don’t approach me now, plenty of others will. But you play by the rules.”

Several top-ranking contestants had already received job offers and collaboration deals. In some ways, they were becoming as popular as internet celebrities.

Still, Tao Jintian was level-headed.

“I came to this competition because I needed money. I wanted a shot at opening my own place and running my own business,” he said. “Most people just want to make money off me. They don’t really want to work with me.”

Jiang Tingzhou smiled. “Then why come to me?” He was genuinely curious about the answer. 

Tao Jintian paused, then said seriously: “Mr. Jiang, I know you’re different from the others. You’re a good person.”

Tao Jintian might have been simple-minded, but he’d met his share of people and developed a kind of instinct.

Jiang Tingzhou froze for a moment, then chuckled. “I thought you were going to say I was brilliant or something. ‘Good person’ isn’t exactly a compliment in the business world—but sure, I’ll take it.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” Tao Jintian insisted. “By the way, I get along well with the other contestants. When the time comes, I’ll bring you a few capable ones.”

Clearly, he was eager to help, and he happily started naming names, as if he’d already had them in mind.

Jiang Tingzhou thought for a moment. “Do you know Chef Qiu?”

He was the one who made that impressive steamed fish.

“Qiu’s not easy to talk to,” Tao Jintian said, “but he’s really good. You’ve got a good eye. I’ll try again and let you know.”

With that, Tao Jintian turned to leave with a determined look—but after a few steps, he paused and turned back, looking a little worried.

“By the way… You do have enough money, right? I feel like your company’s been spending a lot lately.”

He’d noticed the sugar factory had built out the second phase of the commercial street, was heavily advertising, and seemed to be investing everywhere. He worried Jiang Tingzhou might be overstretched.

Jiang Tingzhou blinked, then burst into laughter. “I have money. If you don’t believe me—look at this.”

He pulled out his phone and showed Tao Jintian his recent chat logs.

He’d been to the sugar factory the day before. Orders were flooding in—so much that Li Shuyan was swamped. Wen Qi, who’d been by his side during the competition, had gone there to help.

This surge in demand was even stronger than during their online sales period. And it wasn’t just one or two hit products—the entire product line was flying off the shelves.

Despite having already expanded their production capacity, the newest snack food production line was still operating around the clock. From e-commerce to supermarket distribution, orders were booked out over a month in advance.

Some clients were even offering extra money to secure products, and sales of other items were soaring too. 

For the factory, it was basically printing money.

Thanks to the competition, Yongqing Sugar Factory had built a strong reputation and had become a household name. Viewers who’d once seen “Yongqing Shortbread” on TV now realized it wasn’t just a handful of suddenly-popular products or a few stores—it was a mature, increasingly well-known brand.

The sugar factory was moving forward exactly as Jiang Tingzhou had planned.

“So don’t worry about money. I can always make more,” he told Tao Jintian. “The third round is coming up—focus on preparing.”

Tao Jintian finally relaxed. Before leaving, he threw out one last line: “I’ll come find you after I win the prize!”

Soon after, the second-round results came out: of the forty remaining contestants, only ten would advance to the finals.

The third round began under intense attention.

It was livelier than ever—dozens of media outlets were there, cameras flashing. 

Zhang Xiaocong, Liu Ping’s nephew, came over to meet Jiang Tingzhou.

In his thirties, Zhang Xiaocong was smooth, adaptable, and approachable. He shook Jiang Tingzhou’s hand, praised his talent, and said the food industry needed people like him. 

Sitting beside Jiang Tingzhou, he watched the contestants enter and naturally shifted the conversation to the competition.

“Mr. Jiang, this round’s about seasoning, right?”

Jiang Tingzhou nodded. “Yes.”

Knife work and heat control were important, but ultimately it came down to taste—the balance of sour, sweet, bitter, and spicy, and the way seasonings were used and combined to create a dish. This round’s “seasoning” could also be seen as “pairing.”

But unlike heat control, seasoning was harder to judge objectively, since everyone’s palate was different.

In past years, this round favored novelty—dishes like tea-flavored pork ribs or crab-stuffed oranges stood out easily. But this year wouldn’t be that simple.

Even before the round began, contestants were already speculating. The organizers had contacted them a day early to have them submit the dishes they planned to make and the ingredients they needed—two dishes: one main and one side. The organizers would prepare everything accordingly.

It seemed polite, and though contestants feared a hidden catch, the ingredient tables were indeed stocked with exactly what they’d requested—even high-quality items sourced to their exact specifications.

Which only made some feel more uneasy.

When the big screen lit up with the rules, most were standard—“No outside ingredients,” “No overtime,” “Must complete both a main and a side dish.” 

But the last rule made Tao Jintian, who had recently praised Jiang Tingzhou, think:—What an evil man.

The last rule read: “At the start of the round, one essential seasoning from each contestant’s planned dish will be randomly removed, and they may not use it directly…”