Celestial Food Stall: I Set Up a Food Stall in Heaven

The Broom Star Lord nodded and turned to walk towards the main hall of the Yi Ya Sect. He didn't walk fast, but Yi Ya and his disciples automatically made way for him.

There are specific rules to follow when it comes to giving way.

Whether they wanted to or not, she stepped at a point that perfectly caught everyone off guard and disrupted their reaction rhythm.

If you don't give way, it seems like you're blocking the way; if you do give way, it seems like you're the one who should give way in the first place.

The steward shouted in a shrill voice, "Let's move to the main hall for the competition—"

The disciples in white robes followed in a flurry. Some carried the grill, some carried firewood, and some turned back to glare at me.

The chief disciple walked last, and as he was leaving, he looked back at me, then at the still dripping rat-headed fish in my hand, and his lips curled down in a slight smirk.

"Chang Baiwei, what good ingredients do you have? Enough to marinate half a fish?"

The subtext of such words is not to question your ability, but to assume that you have already lost and just want to confirm whether your defeat was humiliating enough.

I ignored him.

I leaned my fishing rod against the wall and bent down to pick up the rat-headed fish from the ground.

The fish's tail flicked, and it almost slipped from my hand.

The water from the fish trickled down my wrist and into my sleeve; it was cool and carried the smell of the mud from the bottom of the pond.

It's about three hundred steps from the pond to the main hall, and I walked very slowly.

We've arrived at the main hall. The main hall of Yiyamen has vermilion pillars and a glazed tile roof. The aroma of incense wafts from the bronze incense burners at the four corners, so thick it seems to be concealing something.

Two grills had already been set up in the square in front of the hall. One was brought by the chief disciple; it had a silver wire frame, a charcoal trough with animal heads, and a gilded oil collection tray underneath.

The other one was an old iron frame that was temporarily moved from the kitchen. One of its four legs was shorter than the other, and a broken brick was placed underneath it.

This bias in resource allocation needs no explanation.

Before the competition even started, the tools had already spoken on behalf of the judges.

I went over and placed the rat-headed fish on the cutting board.

Yi Ya surveyed his disciples. Before he could speak, the white-robed disciples were already stirring. Knives flashed, rolling pins tapped their palms, and some began rolling up their sleeves.

Yi Ya added, "If we defeat him, all sect fees for next month will be halved."

The entire venue erupted in cheers. Half price, not free. But that's enough. The motivation driven by profit is the most honest.

  

They don't want to beat me; they just want to save those half a month's worth of spirit stones.

He casually pointed and selected his chief disciple to fight.

Without a word, the eldest disciple pulled out a half-cooked, pre-cooked grilled fish from his robes. The cuts were even, not made by hand; each cut was spaced the same and was of uniform depth, as if measured with a ruler.

The sauce was ready-made; poured from a small porcelain bottle, its consistency was just right, coating without dripping. The grilling and roasting were done cleanly and efficiently. In moments, a rich aroma filled the air.

The original owner remembered that aroma; it was from the Yi Ya Sect's standardized sauce packet, recipe number three, characterized by a "caramelized aroma with a sweet aftertaste." Every year during the sect's grand competition, at least half of the disciples used this.

The judges couldn't tell the difference because there was no difference to begin with.

The ultimate goal of standardized production is to eliminate differences, while the essence of culinary art is to create differences.

Yi Yamen's system has uprooted the very essence of culinary skills from the very beginning.

I never imagined that even the gods in heaven would eat pre-made food. What I never imagined even more was that these gods would consider this a skill, pulling it out in front of the judges without batting an eye, as if they were pulling out some kind of treasure.

I searched my sleeves and found only a small packet of salt. Three days ago, the old lady complained that her steamed buns were bland, so I stole it from the kitchen. The paper packet was soaked with sweat, and the salt had clumped together, making a rustling sound when I squeezed it.

That's all.

When ingredients are so scarce, cooking becomes a matter of judgment.

All you have is salt, all you have on the fish is its stale smell, and you only get one chance to control the heat. There is no middle ground between right and wrong.

I rubbed salt onto the fish, and I could feel the texture of the flesh with my fingers. It was firm, with the elasticity of fish that had just been pulled from the water.

The open flame licked the fish skin, causing tiny bubbles to form and crackle.

The pair of black, beady eyes on the rat's head squinted slightly as the fire blazed, as if it were dozing. Grease seeped from the knife's edge, dripping onto the charcoal with a sizzle and a wisp of smoke.

The smoky smoke, mixed with the lingering ominous energy in my palm, circled the grill before settling back onto the fish. Salt grains dissolved on the fish skin, seeped into the cuts, and mingled with the oil.

I squatted in front of the grill. The fish skin was in the crucial caramelization stage. Turning it over too early would make it sticky, turning it over too late would make it burnt.

His knee suddenly buckled, an old injury flaring up. His body swayed half an inch to the left, and he almost dropped the roasting fork. Someone in the crowd of disciples laughed out loud, and the deacon's lips curled into a smile.

But my fingers didn't loosen. I lifted the roasting fork half an inch, and the flames licked the fish belly again, the fish skin puffing up a fine, charred crust in the open flames.

Just then, a fishy, ​​foul smell suddenly burst out from the fish's belly.

The fish wasn't bad; it was just that this rat-headed fish had been lurking at the bottom of the sect's pond for countless years, and its belly was filled with turbid energy from the spiritual energy.

As the fire was brought to the surface, foul odors surged out from the blade, smelling like rotten mud.

Some of the disciples watching covered their noses, while others took a half-step back. The chief disciple's lips curled upwards, and he slowed down the pace of flipping the grill.

The deacon sneered from the side, "Is that all you've got?"

I ignored him. I stared at the fish for a couple of breaths.

I fished for three days, squatting by the pond every day watching it, and I knew something was wrong with it. The area about three fingers' width from its tail fin was a darker color than the rest of its body.

The boning knife was in hand, and it cut open the spot. A black bead, about the size of a little fingernail, rolled out, still hissing and emitting grayish fumes. As soon as the bead hit the ground, the stench dissipated instantly.

As the fire licked it again, the true flavor of the fish was finally brought out. It was the freshness of just being out of the water, mixed with the smoky aroma of charcoal, and the saltiness seeped into the oil, clean and without a trace of impurity.

I flipped the grilled fish over.

The chief disciple stopped laughing. He looked down at the evenly browned, pre-cooked fish in his hand, and paused in his hand as he flipped it.

Two grilled fish sat facing each other on the table, their aromas clashing. The entire room held its breath.

The Broom Star Lord picked up her chopsticks. She tasted the chief disciple's first, taking a bite, chewing twice, her brows furrowing slightly, but she remained silent. Yi Ya smiled slightly, and the steward took half a step forward.

Xingjun picked up another piece of my food with his chopsticks, put it in his mouth, chewed, and paused. His gaze wasn't like he was tasting the food; it was like he was recognizing a flavor he hadn't tasted in a long time. No one in the room dared to breathe.

She put down her chopsticks and wiped her mouth.

"Try it yourself. The fish from your school is better with sauce than with fish; the fish from Chang Baiwei's school is better with sauce than with fish. This one salt-baked fish, has anyone in your school, Yi Yamen, ever tasted it in all these years?"

Yi Ya's face turned deathly pale.

"Today's competition is about cooking," Xingjun said in a low voice, yet it was so powerful that no one dared to breathe. "It's not about who has the most sauce packets in stock."

Yi Ya said nothing. After a long while, he took out a yellowed scroll of immortal documents from his sleeve and placed it on the table.

The movement was so slow that when the roll of paper was placed on the table, it made no sound, as if a layer of skin was being peeled off.

He turned and left, never looking back.

The deacon stood frozen, his lips still twitching. The chief disciple looked down at his evenly browned, pre-cooked fish; the charcoal crackled, but no one bothered to turn it over.

When I walked out of the main hall, no one saw me off. Behind me, I heard the stewards shouting and the disciples gossiping, but I didn't turn around.

That fishing rod, broken and tangled again and again, was left by the pond when I left. Oh well, never mind. The days of fishing with a straight hook are over.

In a quiet corner of the Heavenly Street, I landed steadily. I opened my baggage and found an iron pot, a charcoal stove, a few bottles of seasonings, and a nanmu wood cutting board that had been scorched by heavenly fire.

I pulled out a piece of coarse cloth from the bottom of the bundle. On it were four large characters, written stroke by stroke over three days using charred charcoal. The writing was crooked and uneven, and there was a hole burned into the corner of the cloth.

A cloth flag is hung on a bamboo pole, which is then inserted into the cracks in the cloud-patterned bricks: an anti-ancient and unusual dish.

I brought out a long table made of camphor wood that had been burned by heavenly fire, with an old knife mark on its surface. From now on, this scar will be my trademark.

The stove was lit, and the pot was boiling water. I sat down at the stall and stirred the charcoal.

The remaining luck in the palm is still there, grayish-white with black threads wrapped around it, like charcoal that hasn't been fully burned in a stove.

The Broom Star Lord said this is "inauspicious luck," which cannot harm people but can protect them.

What she didn't say was that this luck seemed to protect her more than just; it could also force out the murky things in the ingredients.

No rush, this stall has just opened, there's plenty of time to figure things out.

The stove was burning, and the water in the pot was boiling. I stared at the bubbles on the surface of the water and suddenly remembered that panel, which had remained silent ever since I arrived in Heaven.

Of the six directions, I clicked "Up" and arrived at Heaven. What about the remaining five? Down—could it be the Underworld? And what do forward, backward, left, and right lead to?

I don't know. I don't have time to think about it right now. The panel only gives you one choice; once you choose, that's it. This celestial street beneath my feet is the entire territory from now on.

The first table of guests will be arriving soon.