Chapter Sixty-Four: The Buddha Is a Foodie

After inspecting the kitchen of the Duke of Tang’s household, Yun Hao gained a new understanding of just how scarce food was in the Sui Dynasty. Tomatoes? None. Chili peppers? None. Sweet potatoes? Not a trace. He couldn’t even find a single ear of corn—good heavens. Even beggars in later generations enjoyed better fare than the highest aristocrats of the Tang; at least, they could have a bowl of tomato and egg noodles.

Fortunately, autumn had only just arrived, and the weather hadn’t yet turned cold. There were still some seasonal vegetables and fruits to be found. What was this thing as big as a bowl? Dare they call this a watermelon? It looked as though it was grafted with a grape! The apricots were fine, yellow and free from worms. He grabbed a couple to eat. Why shouldn’t he eat the plums? What nonsense—just because they’re called “Li” doesn’t mean the Li family can’t eat plums!

The head cook was on the verge of despair. Where had this young master sprung from? Not only was he impossibly picky, but he also had a foul temper. For such a little fellow, his temper was astonishingly bad—one wrong word and you’d get kicked. Granted, a child’s kick didn’t hurt, but the sting to one’s dignity was worse than a slap. And yet, one had to smile and welcome him, even offer up the other cheek for another kick if need be, just to keep the little lord happy.

If Chai Shao weren’t standing guard at the door, the head cook would have strangled this brat long ago.

“Out, out, all of you!” Yun Hao snapped as he looked at the gathering of kitchen hands, his anger rising. They were just freeloaders. He grabbed the head cook and told him to slice some cucumbers, but the man sliced them thicker than pig’s ears. Even a dropout from a vocational school would do better. How had this man managed to keep his position until now?

A child’s small hands struggling with a cucumber as thick as his arm—no matter how one looked at it, it was awkward. Yun Hao’s own knife skills weren’t great, but they were leagues ahead of the head cook’s. He heard someone sucking in a sharp breath and turned to see a bald monk—one of the two monks who had come with Hongren.

“Little brother, are you planning to slice then julienne these? I could help,” the monk offered.

If someone was willing to help, so much the better. Yun Hao immediately handed over the task. The knife and chopping board began to ring out in a rhythmic “thwack, thwack, thwack”—the sound of a true master at work. Without even looking, Yun Hao knew the cucumber would be sliced perfectly thin and even. This monk, clearly, was a fellow food lover.

“Little donor, once these cucumbers are sliced, how do you plan to prepare them?” the monk asked as he worked, still able to chat despite his swift, precise movements. Such skill was rare—not something you’d learn without several years of culinary training.

“Cucumber and scrambled eggs. Master, may I know your name? With knife skills like yours, you must be a culinary expert as well.”

“I am Huineng. I hardly deserve the title of master. But if you’re making scrambled eggs with cucumber, these slices are too thin. Allow me to redo them.”

A connoisseur! Though cucumber and scrambled eggs is a simple dish, it is also among the hardest to perfect—it requires just the right heat so that the cucumber is cooked but the eggs remain tender and yellow. The striking colors—green cucumber with golden eggs—are a feast for the eyes. The so-called harmony of color, aroma, and taste; a chef’s skill is evident even in the most ordinary dish.

Wait a minute… Huineng? The legendary Sixth Patriarch of Zen Buddhism? Good heavens, this culinary master was actually a spiritual master of the highest order. Yun Hao suddenly remembered: wasn’t Huineng the one who said, “Bodhi is fundamentally without any tree, the bright mirror is also not a stand. Originally there is not a single thing—where could any dust alight?”

He hurriedly looked up to study the legendary figure. Small eyes, flat nose, wide mouth, and most noticeable of all—prominent, protruding ears. Was this the Buddha himself, or the guardian of the temple’s kitchen?

Though Huineng was unremarkable in appearance, his knife skills were extraordinary. In no time, a thick cucumber became an even pile of slices, and he humbly inquired whether they should now be julienned.

Who’s ever heard of scrambled eggs with julienned cucumber?

Yun Hao was thoroughly disgruntled about this meal. He’d been invited to treat a patient, and by tradition, even without a red envelope, he should at least be treated to a decent meal. Instead, the doctor had been turned into the cook. Did they really think wielding a scalpel was the same as handling a kitchen knife?

The Li family didn’t eat plums? Well, then he would make them a dish with plums! As for carp, he’d skip it—too many bones, and if Li Yuan choked, it would be more trouble than it was worth.

Few people used plums in cooking, but actually, fruit dishes could be quite marvelous—and delicious, too. Yun Hao often used various fruits in his cooking; some of his creations bordered on the bizarre, but others were genuinely tasty.

For this dish, he chose large, nearly black plums—dark purple, almost black. He peeled and pitted them, then stuffed each with a peeled chestnut at its center. After battering, he fried them in oil until they were golden. The resulting plums were fluffy and tender, the chestnut inside retaining a bit of firmness, creating a sweet, crisp bite. One taste would have you devouring your own tongue.

With the plums fried, the lamb was ready. Yun Hao calmly tossed a stick of pine wood into the stove—a secret trick he wouldn’t let others see. There were two keys to perfect lamb ribs: first, using pine wood; second, salting only after the meat was cooked.

The lamb thus prepared was tender and richly flavored, with a natural, fragrant aroma—succulent without being greasy.

Well, well! Li Yuan truly lived up to his aristocratic status—there was even pepper in the kitchen. Yun Hao didn’t hesitate to add a dash. He tasted the lamb broth—it was absolutely divine. If only he’d had tomatoes; a few slices would have added a hint of tartness to the broth and made it even better.

Meanwhile, Huineng couldn’t resist grabbing a hefty rib and gnawing at it hungrily by the stove.

In no time at all, Yun Hao had prepared four side dishes: scrambled eggs with cucumber, chilled pig’s ear salad, stewed lamb ribs, and deep-fried plums.

Huineng’s small eyes gleamed as he eyed the four dishes in the serving box, eager to try them. Yun Hao looked at him with disdain—was this really the Buddha himself? He’d eaten half a pot of lamb already, with no fear of bursting.

“Hey, I was just checking to see if it was cooked through—just a taste, that’s all!” Huineng protested, reaching for the fried plums. Those fluffy, tender things were the best!

“Whack!” Yun Hao rapped his knuckles with a bamboo chopstick. “That portion is for me. If you dare reach for it again, I’ll use this kitchen knife on you,” he growled, baring his teeth like a dog guarding its food, just short of letting out a warning bark.

“Ah! Greetings, young master!” Huineng suddenly saluted toward the doorway. Yun Hao turned to look, but there was no one there. When he turned back, he saw Huineng’s cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s.