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This scene was all too familiar, so much that Jiang Feng even wondered if he was still in the Healthy Stir-fry Restaurant.

“Is your foot better?” Jiang Feng asked.

“Not yet, I can walk, but I can’t move around much. I should be able to come to work in a couple of days,” Ji Yue said, staring gloomily at the digital tablet in front of her.

Jiang Feng noticed that on the digital tablet in front of Ji Yue, there was a drawing of a table and a bowl, which seemed to be a close-up shot of wontons. The table, bowl, and spoon were all completely drawn, even down to the chip in the bowl, the patterns, and the texture of the spoon’s material, yet the actual wontons in the bowl were notably absent.

“Why haven’t you drawn the wontons?” Jiang Feng asked.

“I can’t get them right,” Ji Yue sighed deeply and viciously grabbed her hair. “I just can’t do it; I’ve been trying for days. I’ve finished every other part, but I just can’t get your wontons right.”

“Can’t get the wontons right?” Jiang Feng was somewhat baffled. The pure meat wontons he made were just thick-skinned with little meat, falling apart after being cooked, with the skin and meat separated in the bowl, visibly unappetizing.

“It’s like there’s always something missing. What I draw doesn’t look like the wontons you make. The feeling is always the same when you make them, but when I draw them, they’re different. Do you understand what I mean?”

Jiang Feng shook his head.

“Never mind you, I don’t even understand what I’m saying. It’s just different, something’s missing,” Ji Yue said helplessly.

“How about I make you a bowl so you can draw from that, or maybe you take a bite and then continue drawing?” Jiang Feng suggested.

A look of horror slowly spread across Ji Yue’s face, as if it read, “There’s always some villain out to get me.”

Anyone who ate Jiang Feng’s wontons knew what they were like.

After weighing the options, Ji Yue nodded, agreeing to Jiang Feng’s suggestion.

Jiang Feng was about to go to the changing room when he suddenly remembered to ask, “If your foot’s not better, why aren’t you resting at home? Why come to the restaurant?”

“Mrs. Wang called me over to help,” Ji Yue whispered, “you forgot, Taifeng Building has been open for a month, and now it’s time for the first employee evaluation.”

Jiang Feng suddenly realized.

They were going to lay people off.

Leaving Ji Yue in the lobby to continue her struggle with the tablet, Jiang Feng changed clothes and went to the kitchen to make the buffed-up pure meat wontons.

After about ten minutes, Ji Yue swallowed a mouthful of pure meat wonton and then burst into tears on the table.

Crying with heart-wrenching sobs, as if in unbearable grief.

After the crying fit, she stared at the digital tablet again, her mind blank and at a loss on how to proceed.

“Want another bite?” Jiang Feng boldly suggested.

Ji Yue glared angrily at Jiang Feng, her face full of disbelief.

Looking at Ji Yue’s expression, it was clear she was thinking: ‘They say murder doesn’t go beyond the head, we’ve had no past grievances and no recent quarrels, where did I offend you for you to do this to me!’

“Forget I mentioned it, I’ll take the wontons away,” said Jiang Feng, reaching out to take the bowl.

“Wait,” Ji Yue intervened, her face set in grim determination, “Let me have another bite!”

After the second mouthful of wonton, Ji Yue continued to weep bitterly on the table.

After that, still without any inspiration, Ji Yue bravely went for her third bite.

Watching from the side, Jiang Feng couldn’t help but think: Women really can be ruthless to themselves!

Letting Ji Yue alternate between eating a bit and crying a while on her own, Jiang Feng returned to the kitchen to continue practicing the Yun Chicken.

Finally succeeding once, though he didn’t know exactly why it was successful, it was a victory nonetheless. Jiang Feng decided to follow the same method he used for Jiang Weiming at lunch and copy it a few times, trying to discern the pattern of success.

Twenty minutes later, Jiang Feng’s efforts were gloriously thwarted.

[Yun Chicken (Failed) Grade B]

Looking at the Yun Chicken in front of him, Jiang Feng fell into deep thought.

Apart from being more meticulous and careful this time, the Yun Chicken in front of him was almost identical to the one he had made at noon. He had just tasted it and couldn’t detect any difference in flavor, so why did it fail?

“What’s wrong this time? Didn’t produce the flavor you were aiming for?” Wu Minqi, who had been intently carving a watermelon, saw Jiang Feng staring at the freshly cooked Yun Chicken lost in thought and couldn’t help but ask.

“I think the flavor is not the problem, but there is still something off with this dish,” Jiang Feng said.

Wu Minqi: ???

She had found that the things her boyfriend had been saying lately were becoming increasingly incomprehensible.

Maybe all the cooking had scrambled his brains.

Wu Minqi set down the half-carved watermelon, washed her hands, picked up a new pair of chopsticks, and tasted the Yun Chicken.

“Better than the ones you made before,” Wu Minqi remarked. “The ones before were too sweet; this is slightly more normal.”

Wu Minqi put down her chopsticks and turned to look at Jiang Feng, “So what taste are you actually trying to achieve? Is it for children or for adults?”

Jiang Feng himself didn’t know.

He hadn’t figured out why the Yun Chicken at noon had accidentally turned out successful, while this batch, which should have been no different, remained a B-rated failure.

While Jiang Feng was mulling this over, Jiang Weisheng cheerfully walked into the kitchen.

“Feng, has my master come yet?” Jiang Weisheng asked, his demeanor as sly as a thief’s.

“No, Granduncle Weiming should still be resting at the teahouse; he’ll come in about an hour,” Jiang Feng replied. “If you’re looking for Mr. Jiang, you can go directly to the teahouse.”

“No need, no need, just asking,” said Jiang Weisheng, starting to look for ingredients to prepare his specialty, the bizarre-tasting soup.

Ever since Jiang Weisheng’s bizarre-tasting soup had been added to the menu, he had stopped hanging around the kitchen to learn whenever someone was practicing dishes.

He was well aware that with his talent, learning too many new dishes would be biting off more than he could chew. It’s just that before, he had no clue what to focus on so he dabbled a little here and there, wanting to learn everything he saw.

Ever since his bizarre-tasting soup was on the menu, Jiang Weisheng had found a goal to strive for. He might not have had the skills of Jiang Weiming to turn the ever-changing Hundred-Flavor Soup into a set-ingredient, set-flavor bizarre-tasting soup, but that didn’t stop him from expanding and continually refreshing his own soup.

Recently, he had figured out a new flavor, which he’d planned to let Jiang Weiming try after some time. But tomorrow was Jiang Weiming’s birthday, and Jiang Weisheng could only work hurriedly as if driven by an emergency to practice more, hoping to surprise Jiang Weiming the next day.

“Mr. Jiang, are you preparing to make the bizarre-tasting soup?” Jiang Feng asked.

“Yes, I thought of a good combination recently,” Jiang Weisheng replied. “I don’t have my master’s skill in making Hundred-Flavor Soup to suit each customer’s palate. I can’t even make Hundred-Flavor Soup with different ingredients and flavors, so I can only keep trying some fixed ingredients and seasonings that taste quite nice together.”

“But my master said that my bizarre-tasting soup is also quite good, not inferior to his Hundred-Flavor Soup!” Jiang Weisheng said proudly—it was one of the few dishes Jiang Weiming had approved of in his life.

“Granduncle Weiming can make soups according to a customer’s taste?”

“Of course. Our state-run restaurant used to have many regular customers. My master used to say that a dish like Hundred-Flavor Soup, which changes ingredients a lot, is the most suitable type to tailor to a customer’s taste,” explained Jiang Weisheng, after some thought. “But actually, we only had those few regulars. Besides our family, we usually didn’t have the leisure to get to know our customers’ tastes that much.”

Jiang Feng was stunned.

He felt like he knew how to make an A-rated Yun Chicken now.

Jiang Feng looked at Wu Minqi.

He knew her taste well: strong-flavored, spicy, but also fond of the sour and sweet snacks most girls liked. She would go to the cake shop for desserts with Ji Yue once a week, mostly choosing Napoleon cake.

She liked sweet and sour flavors, not too sour and slightly sweet, yet not too sweet.

Seeing Jiang Feng staring at her suddenly, Wu Minqi wore a slightly confused expression.

Jiang Feng shifted his gaze and started preparing the next Yun Chicken.

A Yun Chicken tailored to Wu Minqi’s taste.

Twenty minutes later, the Yun Chicken came out of the wok.

[Yun Chicken A-rated]

Just as he thought!

Jiang Feng understood that, until his culinary skills reached level A, the Yun Chicken could only be a custom dish.

A dish exclusively for family and loved ones.

The original goal of Cao Guixiang in making this dish was to cater to Zhang Zhiyuan’s taste, to fool him—the dish existed because of Zhang Zhiyuan and was only for Zhang Zhiyuan.

“Qiqi, come and taste this. How is the flavor?” Jiang Feng said.

Wu Minqi set aside the watermelon in her hand again, washed her hands, picked up the chopsticks, and grabbed a piece of Yun Chicken.

“Delicious,” Wu Minqi didn’t skimp on her praise for Jiang Feng, smiling.

“As long as it’s delicious.”