“Huh?”
Everyone was stunned by the sudden shift in his tone. Niu Deshui, especially puzzled, asked, “Master Gu, what do you mean by that?”
Gu Quanfu let out a long sigh before replying, “Whenever people talk about imperial cuisine, they think it’s all about extravagance—every dish has to feature exotic delicacies from the mountains and the seas to be worthy of the title. They even slap on some ridiculous names that sound like gibberish. It’s all just for show! But here’s the truth: back in Emperor Qianlong’s time, the palace frequently used ingredients like northeastern pheasants, wild hares, beef, mutton, and venison. Everything revolved around those!”
Everyone exchanged doubtful looks. It sounded unbelievable. Chef Jiang, who stood nearby, frowned. “Master Gu, are you serious?”
Gu Quanfu replied, “Some things need to be cross-checked. I once heard a university history professor mention something he found in Qing dynasty palace records. He said that during Qianlong’s reign, the Korean kingdom once sent sea cucumbers as tribute. But do you know what the emperor did? He gave all of it away to his subordinates. Why? Because sea cucumbers weren’t even part of the imperial menu!”
“Qianlong is too far back? Fine, let’s talk about Empress Dowager Cixi. Now she really knew how to indulge herself—never one to skimp. And yet, her daily meals? Stir-fried pork slivers with spinach, pickled vegetables with water bamboo, shredded duck with red and white vegetables, fresh shrimp balls, braised duck kidneys. Sure, she liked to use bird’s nest, and it showed up often in her dishes. But other than that? All household fare. Even when shark fin appeared, it was only among the final small dishes—not some extravagant centerpiece.”
This time, everyone looked even more skeptical. It just didn’t sit right. Cixi, of all people, eating that?
Wasn’t being emperor all about eating the rarest things—what flies in the sky, swims in the sea, or roams the mountains?
Was Gu Quanfu joking?
He could tell no one believed him, so he pressed on: “Why didn’t they eat sea cucumber, abalone, and all those so-called delicacies in the beginning? Because the Manchus came from beyond the Shanhai Pass. They’d never eaten those things before, so naturally they didn’t make it into the early imperial menus! Only after Emperor Qianlong went on several southern inspection tours did things change. The officials receiving him in the south tried everything to please him—offering all kinds of rare ingredients. He grew fond of the southern fish, and only then did shad and perch start appearing on the court menus. Later, ingredients like shark fin followed. But these were additions—they didn’t define imperial cuisine from the start.”
That made some sense. Niu Deshui began nodding thoughtfully. “Right, Master Gu’s point holds water. The Qing emperors came from the northeast. They were used to that food. Even if they became emperors overnight, you can’t just change a man’s stomach like that.”
Gu Quanfu continued, “Many so-called Manchu-Han banquets being passed around today are probably just Jiangnan banquets. Back then, when the court traveled south, local officials went all out. Everything was top-notch. Scholars wrote it all down and mistook it for the real Manchu-Han banquet.”
Suddenly it all clicked. So those elaborate dish names came from there?
Gu Quanfu added, “Even those southern banquets didn’t have anything bizarre. A proper imperial court seeks dignity and tradition, not novelty. Toss in some abalone, sea cucumber, and the best fresh southern ingredients—perfectly fine. But things like monkey brains? That’s pure fantasy. The court valued symmetry, order, and propriety. They would never serve some grotesque, incongruous mess.”
Now Niu Deshui really understood. He slapped the table. “You’re right, Master Gu! There’s that saying—‘One conversation with a wise man is worth ten years of study.’ Now this is clarity!”
But Gu Quanfu wasn’t done. “Don’t go thinking the imperial table was shabby just because the dishes had simple names. Imperial cuisine was about refinement. Even common ingredients, once plated and presented properly, became a statement.”
By now, Niu Deshui was full of admiration. He respectfully asked, “Master Gu, what would you suggest for the banquet we’re preparing for the Hong Kong guests? What dishes would best represent the caliber of Yuhuatai Restaurant? We’ve got to show them what mainland cuisine is really made of!”
Gu Quanfu thought for a moment. “I’ll put together a menu later. Just a few authentic imperial dishes—well-known names from the Manchu-Han banquet, but all made with everyday ingredients. No need to fuss with rare items like bird’s nest.”
Niu Deshui nodded eagerly. “That sounds perfect! The Hong Kong star visiting us is a big name over there. If he enjoys our food and spreads the word back home, we not only earn honor for Yuhuatai Restaurant, but we also reclaim the reputation of true Manchu-Han cuisine. The Japanese? Always making films and shows about their ‘Manchu-Han banquets’—as if they have any right! We should call out their nonsense and show them the real deal.”
Niu Deshui, now in his fifties, had lived through the war with Japan as a teenager. The memories were still vivid. For men of his generation, “the Japanese” was a phrase that always brought clenched teeth.
Peaceful times or not, diplomacy or not—some rivalries ran bone-deep.
Gu Quanfu nodded. “I’ll do my best. I’ll draft a seasonal menu today and show you tonight.”
“Perfect! Let’s do it!”
On the way home, Gu Shunhua couldn’t help but feel a rush of admiration. Her father could speak with such clarity and confidence, citing university professors and ancient court archives alike—it was truly impressive.
As for that Manchu-Han banquet from Hong Kong? Listening to her father made it obvious. They were just flying a fancy banner to sell a name.
And frankly, it worked.
She couldn’t help but think of that future venture between Luo Minghao and her uncle—their own Manchu-Han banquet hotel. Wasn’t it all the same game?
“Dad,” she said, “once the country opens up, there’ll be no end to people using the name of ‘imperial cuisine’ to drum up business. But we—we should be the ones to stake our claim first. If we build a name for authentic imperial cooking, we could gain so much from it!”
As they stepped off the bus, Gu Quanfu kept his hands tucked into his sleeves and walked slowly, not even sparing her a glance. “Thinking up more weird ideas again, are you?”
Gu Shunhua grinned. “Weird ideas? More like vision. Those who don’t know a thing slap together nonsense and still dare call it Manchu-Han. Why shouldn’t we? Our grandfather cooked for Empress Dowager Cixi, after all! I’m thinking I’ll collect all the stories and write them down—start a book about imperial cuisine and the Manchu-Han banquet. I’ll call it House of Imperial Feasts, starting with Grandfather’s story!”
At that, Gu Quanfu sighed helplessly. “You youngsters, always dreaming big before your wings are even strong.”
But Gu Shunhua responded earnestly, “That’s not fair, Dad. You’ve got skills and stories by the dozen, but you’ve been out of the trade for ten years now. When you first joined Yuhuatai Restaurant, people didn’t even take you seriously. Why? Because you don’t boast. You let others take the credit while you quietly work in the background!”
Gu Quanfu paused, visibly taken aback.
She continued, “You can’t just know how to cook—you’ve got to know how to talk. You’ve got to put your flag out there and let it catch the wind. Let it flap loud enough that people see it from miles away—that’s how you make your name!”
He looked at his animated daughter and sighed again. “Fine, fine. I won’t argue with you. Old folks have their ways. You young ones have yours.”
Still, once home, Gu Quanfu couldn’t help but begin explaining the stories behind each dish. Crafting food was one skill—but understanding its origins, traditions, and etiquette was another altogether.
Finally, he rummaged through the old chest, reached beneath the stack of clothes, and pulled out a plain box. Nothing special—except the paper beneath it. At first glance, it looked like nothing, but when he unfolded it, the yellow paper shimmered with a dragon motif, and the characters—clearly woodblock prints—stood crisp and formal.
“This,” he said, handing the paper to Shunhua, “was hidden away after the Four Olds were purged. Hardly anything survived, but this did—tucked away at the bottom of a trunk where no one would think to look. It’s an imperial menu from the time when the last emperor, Puyi, was still in the palace. These dishes were all part of the Manchu-Han banquet. Let’s recreate a few for Yuhuatai Restaurant. That alone would do us proud.”
He added with a chuckle, “All that talk about ‘Eight Treasures of the Imperial Banquet’—pure fantasy. The old court couldn’t even pull together eight true rarities. Outsiders just imagined the emperor drew water with a golden ladle and dined on extravagance daily.”
Shunhua eagerly took the yellow paper and scanned it: Four hotpot dishes, eight large plates, eight medium plates, and six small ‘viewing’ plates.
The ‘viewing plates’ were really just small portions—what modern folks might call appetizers.
After a quick look, she said, “Dad, we probably can’t make all of these—some ingredients just aren’t feasible now. But this menu—just displaying it would be meaningful.”
Gu Quanfu smiled. “Exactly. Let’s work from this. Some of these you should be able to make yourself. You’ll take the lead.”
She was startled. “Me? Dad, am I ready?”
“It’s an important event. I wouldn’t just hand it off completely. You’ll do the cooking—I’ll stand by your side and guide you. You won’t go wrong.”
Shunhua finally relaxed. She asked which dishes she’d handle, and he reviewed the menu again, assigning her a few. Then he taught her the secrets of each dish—the knife work, the timing, the heat. Everything, down to the finest trick.
He also asked her to copy the yellow menu sheet by hand.
By the time they finished, her head was full. She was excited too—after all, she’d only been learning for a short time, and now she had the chance to contribute to such an important banquet.
She was determined to master these dishes. For her father’s sake, for her own future. She had to do well.
With that excitement came a tinge of anxiety. Hugging the precious yellow menu to her chest, she tiptoed back to her room to begin copying.
In the back room, Ren Jingnian and Gu Yuehua were still reviewing schoolwork. Yuehua now admired his future brother-in-law with unreserved admiration, tagging along behind him with a constant, starry-eyed refrain: “My brother-in-law is amazing! No one compares!”
Gu Shunhua ignored the chatter. Your brother-in-law may be impressive, but he’s still your sister who brought him here.
She grabbed a small stool, sat cross-legged on the floor, and lifted her bedding to find a firm surface. Then, pencil in hand, she began copying.
Not just the menu—she included everything her father had just passed on. In the old days, these things were never written down—only passed on by word of mouth. So if he remembered something, he’d say it; if she remembered it, great. If not, it was lost.
So she made up her mind: House of Imperial Feasts wasn’t just a passing thought. She had to make it real.
She would write about her grandfather, her father, and even herself. Three generations of imperial chefs, interwoven with the decline of the Qing, the chaos of the Republic, and the rise of New China—a family saga reflecting an era’s transformation.
As she thought about her family history, her heart stirred.
Compared to her grandfather and father, she’d been born into a better time. If she could truly master her father’s skills, the future held endless possibility.
Head down, lost in her writing, she didn’t notice when Ren Jingnian came into the room. Seeing her so focused, he didn’t dare disturb her and quietly sat to read.
Shunhua paid him no mind, continuing her work.
In the quiet room, only the soft scratch of pencil against paper and the occasional whisper of pages turning could be heard.
After a while, her fingers began to stiffen from the cold. She’d worked quickly, driven by passion, and hadn’t noticed the chill. By the time she did, her hands were already numb and barely able to hold the pencil.
She could only stop and rub them furiously for warmth.
Ren Jingnian saw this and sighed softly. “If I’d known you’d be writing at home, I would’ve lit the stove earlier.”
Since both Gu Shunhua and the children had been out, he’d joined Gu Yuehua in the back room and sealed off the stove to save coal briquettes—not expecting Shunhua to come home and start copying documents.
Gu Shunhua rubbed her frozen hands and breathed warm air into them. “It’s nothing urgent.”
Ren Jingnian walked over and gently took her hands, slipping them into his padded coat. “Let me warm them for you.”
The moment her hands slid in, a wave of warmth enveloped them.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a naturally strong build that radiated heat. Her hands nestled against his chest, separated by only a thin inner shirt, and she could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath it.
She blushed. After all, this was a crowded compound, the kind of place where even a cat couldn’t keep secrets. She quickly glanced toward the window and the back room. The door was shut, the windows closed, and outside there was nothing but the faint rustle of dry branches in the wind.
It was a winter afternoon, and the tiny window let in only a sliver of sunlight. That beam of light fell across her cheek, allowing Ren Jingnian to see her face in detail.
Her lashes drooped slightly, casting a soft crescent shadow on her smooth skin. A natural flush colored her cheeks, like rouge gently rubbed on with the palm of a hand—delicate and even.
Ren Jingnian looked at her closely, remembering when he first met her. Back then, she had been just a girl of fifteen or sixteen, bright and bold like the first peach blossom of March—so stunning it was hard to look at her directly.
Seven or eight years had passed. They had weathered the days side by side—through wind and dust, raising a child together. She was still beautiful, though no longer as tender or delicate as she once was.
He had spent the entire day thinking about her—turning things over in his mind. He realized that she had been pushed too far, forced into doubt and anxiety. But what had driven her to that point? The hard life in the mines, the struggle to return to the city, the constant worry over their household registration and housing… and those slights and humiliations brought on by Chen Lu. It was all of it.
A tight ache rose in his chest. He couldn’t help but pull her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her cheek, her eyes, the tip of her nose. Holding her close, he murmured, “Shunhua, we’ll have a good life—I’ll work myself to the bone if I have to. I’ll make sure you and the kids live well.”
She leaned into his chest, resting her head against his shoulder, and replied softly, “Mm… As long as no one steals your heart away, of course we’ll live a good life.”
With a united family, Gu Shunhua felt she had nothing to fear. Everything would be all right in the end.
Ren Jingnian, full of guilt and tenderness, now felt both touched and amused by her words. He patted her head gently. “Then we’ll read more books together. I’ll study with you.”
Gu Shunhua immediately understood what he was getting at. She raised her head and gave him a sharp look. “Oh, please! Keep your warm hands to yourself—I don’t need them anymore!”
She tried to pull her hands back.
But Ren Jingnian didn’t let go. He carefully continued to warm her hands and bent down to coax her, his voice low and soothing: “Alright, alright. My fault. Don’t be mad.”
In truth, Gu Shunhua wasn’t really angry. She was just putting on a show to tease him. Her hands were frozen stiff—having someone warm them wasn’t such a bad thing.
Ren Jingnian gently pinched her cheek. “In a few days, I’ll get you some Snowflake Cream. Once we’re done with all this wind and sand, you’ll only get prettier.”
She reached up to bat his hand away. “Look at you, now you’re—”
Before she could finish the sentence, he leaned in and kissed her, silencing her mid-word.
She immediately let out a muffled protest and glanced toward the window, nervous.
Ren Jingnian spoke in a low voice, “Don’t worry. Yuehua went out earlier to play basketball with his friends. Your dad’s asleep in the front room. And everyone else in the courtyard’s at work. There’s no one around.”
Gu Shunhua understood what he meant. She had, truthfully, thought about it that morning too—but it was still broad daylight now. Naturally, she felt both nervous and flustered. If anyone heard anything…
But Ren Jingnian had already scooped her up in his arms and laid her down on the bed. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it against the small window, blocking out the light.
The room fell into near darkness.
She heard the soft rustling of cotton clothing, his breath thick and low, and then he pulled her into his embrace.
It had been a long time, and at first, they were a bit awkward. But soon, everything became familiar again—each movement, each breath full of memory and longing.
Just when she was beginning to lose herself in the moment, Gu Shunhua realized something was off: the wooden bed creaked noisily.
She pushed against his chest and whispered, “Stop—we can’t. It’s too loud!”
But by then, there was no turning back.
Ren Jingnian let out a low, muffled groan, lifted her again, and gently shifted her position so she was standing against the wall, his arms firmly around her waist.
This way, there would be no noise. The wall was solid and wouldn’t give them away.
Gu Shunhua had never experienced anything like this. The cold air against her skin, the rising heat between them—it overwhelmed her, filled her with shame and disbelief.
But in the next moment, all those feelings were swept away by the surge of passion that consumed them both.
Author’s Note:
The dialogue reflects character perspectives and does not represent the author’s personal views. The content was written in the context of the story and is purely fictional.