Li Ziqing leaned closer with a gentle smile. "It's good to know that LuLu is recovering, Auntie. But why didn't you bring her here? A few days ago when I visited her in the hospital, she was so excited when she heard the restaurant would be opening."
Xu Shuhua's expression softened, her fingers unconsciously tightening around Li Ziqing's hands. "She wanted to come, Ziqing, truly she did. But tomorrow she'll be undergoing another therapy, so we thought it best she rest tonight."
Warmth spread in the air around them. Both Li Ziqing and Li Jianfang nodded in understanding.
"Don't worry, Shuhua," Li Jianfang said with a sincere smile. "Once the restaurant is properly running, we'll host a party just for LuLu. We'll make sure she feels like the star of the evening."
At the mention of the frail yet adorable little girl, Li Jianfang's heart softened. She truly liked Xu Shuhua and her niece; unlike the countless guests she had entertained all evening with a polite, professional smile, here she felt relaxed, as if she was with family.
Just as their conversation reached a quiet lull, the sound of a soft throat-clearing interrupted them. They turned and found an elegant woman standing behind them, wearing a warm, poised smile.
"Jingxian, come here. Let me introduce you," Xu Shuhua said at once, tugging her closer by the arm. "This is the owner of tonight's restaurant, and my good friend, Li Jianfang—and her daughter, Li Ziqing." Then, turning back to mother and daughter, she added, "And this is my sister-in-law, Han Jingxian."
Li Ziqing's eyes flickered with sudden clarity. So that's how Shen Weiyuan got to taste their food early—he was related by marriage to Mayor Han's family. No wonder.
Li Jianfang, too, was caught a little off guard. After all, Han Jingxian and her husband were the most prominent guests tonight, and she had been searching for an opportunity to greet them. She quickly composed herself, her smile gracious.
"I certainly know of Mrs. Shen," she said warmly, extending her hand. "I've been hoping to greet you personally all evening. It's a pleasure to finally meet you—and good to know you share family ties with Shuhua."
Li Ziqing added politely, "Hello, Mrs. Shen."
Han Jingxian waved her hand with a graceful laugh. "No need to be so formal. If you are friends with Shuhua, then you are naturally my friends too. Please, call me Jingxian." Her gaze then fell on Li Ziqing, her eyes lighting with genuine interest. "And I must apologize for earlier. Auntie truly couldn't help herself. You looked so beautiful and elegant—I ended up blurting out questions without thinking."
Li Ziqing chuckled softly, her reply both modest and charming. "It's fine, Auntie. I didn't feel offended at all. In fact, I'm happy. Being praised for beauty by such a beautiful woman… well, that's the best compliment one could get."
Her words made Han Jingxian laugh in delight, her eyes sparkling. Which woman didn't enjoy being flattered sincerely? In that moment, she found Li Ziqing even more endearing.
Li Jianfang, watching the natural familiarity between the two, blinked in surprise. "Wait—you already know each other?"
Li Ziqing nodded. "Yes, we met earlier through Grandpa Mu. It seems fate was kind to let us cross paths twice in one evening."
Before more could be said, the voice of the Master of Ceremonies echoed across the hall. He had stepped onto the central stage, microphone in hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the final and most important event of the evening—the live tasting session!"
A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd, murmurs of anticipation rising like a tide.
"The chefs will be preparing the dishes right before your eyes tonight," the Master of Ceremonies announced, his voice resonant with pride. "Bringing the artistry of Chinese cuisine to an entirely new level. Tonight, you will not only eat—you will witness history reborn."
The chandeliers gleamed brighter as if echoing his words. Guests leaned forward, their breaths caught in expectation.
"Qianyan Pavilion-its name comes from classical literature. In the Book of Odes it was said: 'Words are like jade, delicate and priceless.' Qianyan, meaning 'thousand words' or 'ornate speech,' carries the essence of refinement, culture, and transcendence. Our restaurant honors that meaning, where every dish is a poem, and every flavor tells a story that words alone cannot express."
Many guests nodded in approval at such a thoughtful name.
"What makes Qianyan Pavilion extraordinary," the MC continued, lowering his voice just slightly, as though confiding a secret, "is its menu. A menu unlike anywhere else on Earth. The Pavilion's chefs have revived culinary treasures long thought lost to time. Some of these dishes survive only in ancient texts, described in records but never replicated by modern hands."
A murmur ran through the hall. The MC let the silence linger before continuing.
"Have you heard of the Manchu Han Imperial Feast? Of course you have. But tell me—how many here have actually tasted an authentic dish from that legendary banquet?"
The question hung in the air. Nobody answered.
"And what of the Tang Court Cuisine, once served only to emperors and their chosen few? Or the elusive Western Wind Cuisine of the Sui and Tang eras, said to carry flavors from the Silk Road itself? The Khitan Cuisine of the northern steppes, a legacy lost in the mists of conquest? Or the refined Qing Dynasty Royal banquet cuisine, of which the aristocratic circle in Beijing have been a fan of."
The hall erupted in a wave of incredulous whispers, voices weaving together into a storm of disbelief.
"What on earth is he saying? Manchu Han Imperial Feast? Tang Court Cuisine? Western Wind Cuisine of the Sui and Tang?"
"These dishes exist only in historical records! Not a single person has been able to recreate them. How could these chefs possibly achieve it?"
"Exactly. Even the descendants of the royal chefs from the Qing Dynasty have failed to replicate those lost flavors."
A sharp laugh cut through the murmur. "Did you not hear? They even claim to present the royal banquet of Qing Dynasty cuisine!"
"What nonsense! Even the true heirs of those royal chefs lineages can only attempt a handful of such dishes, and now they expect us to believe a no-name group like Huiheng can summon them back to life?"
Another scoff followed. "Precisely. People wait months—sometimes years—for a chance to dine at that hidden royal-heritage restaurant. And now these people, with shameless bravado, claim they can do the impossible?"
"Absurd. They must have lost their minds. Are they deliberately trying to sabotage their own reputation?"
The voices grew harsher, laced with pity, derision, and concealed glee at the spectacle. Some shook their heads with a sneer, others exchanged knowing glances, while a few frowned in outrage at what they deemed a mockery of tradition.
And yet, at the center of it all, Li Jianfang remained composed. Poised and unyielding, she stood like a mountain untouched by the storm. A serene smile lingered on her lips, her calmness only sharpening the contrast with the restless hall.
Li Ziqing, watched with her heart swelling in pride. In that moment, her mother appeared not merely elegant but unshakable, a figure who carried the weight of conviction with effortless grace. Li Ziqing's eyes flickered across the crowd—the sneers, the doubts, the unkind whispers. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Let them jeer. Let them laugh. Within minutes, every single one of them would choke on their own disbelief.
The Master of Ceremonies faltered for a moment at the murmurs rippling through the crowd, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face. But when Li Jianfang met his gaze, and gestured him to continue, he drew in a steadying breath. A faint, knowing smirk curved his lips as he leaned toward the microphone.
"That," he said softly, his voice carrying with quiet confidence, "is not all."
The effect was immediate. The restless murmurs died.
"Qianyan Pavilion," he continued, his tone resonant, deliberate, "has not only revived history—it has reached beyond it."
A hush fell deeper. Even those who moments ago had scoffed at extravagant claims now leaned forward unconsciously, as if drawn by invisible threads.
"Since childhood," the MC said, his voice lowering, his words weaving through the hall like a spell, "we have all heard stories. Myths whispered by the firelight. Tales of distant isles, of immortal banquets, of divine ingredients spoken of in hushed tones. We were told they were nothing more than legend."
His eyes swept over the audience, sharp as a blade. Then, in a tone barely above a reverent whisper, he declared:
"But tonight, ladies and gentlemen… tonight you will question that belief."
"On our menu," he intoned, savoring each syllable, "we present not only the vanished cuisines of dynasties past, but also the mythical. The Banquet of the Eight Immortals. The Immortal Cuisine of Penglai. And…"—his words slowed, heavy with gravity—"the legendary Snow Phoenix Cuisine."
A collective stillness gripped the hall. For a heartbeat, the gathering of powerful elites, tycoons, and luminaries seemed carved in stone. No one moved. No one dared speak.
Even the skeptics—those who had scoffed loudest just minutes earlier—were struck mute, their arguments vanishing in the weight of the claim.
Shen Waiyuan's brows shot up. His gaze darted to Han Jingxian, his voice a low murmur of disbelief.
"Is that even possible?"
Before Han Jingxian could answer, another voice cut in. Deep, steady, and carrying a weight of truth.
"It's possible, Shen Waiyuan."
Both turned sharply. It was Han Zhiyuan, who until then had remained silent in the background. His dark eyes glimmered with a memory that seemed both distant and vivid.
"The first time I visited the Li family," he continued, each word deliberate, "do you know what they were having for lunch?"
The question hung heavy. Shen Waiyuan and Han Jingxian exchanged a glance before nodding, urging him to go on.
Han Zhiyuan's lips curved faintly, not in amusement but in reverence.
"Snow Phoenix Cuisine. I cannot tell you if such dishes grant immortality… or have the power to revive the dead. But I can tell you this: what I tasted that day was unlike anything of this world. Divine. Otherworldly. Beyond the reach of ordinary comprehension."
Shen Waiyuan's breath caught. He knew Han Zhiyuan. The man was not prone to exaggeration, and he would never—could never—speak such words lightly. Yet how could this be? Could the food of folklore, the cuisine of dreamlike legends, exist in reality?
The child within him—the one who once listened wide-eyed to those bedtime stories—stirred with an impossible longing. Every child might have dreamed of tasting such dishes. But to actually stand at the edge of that dream becoming real… it was unthinkable. And yet, here it was, unfolding before his very eyes.
Behind him, Adrian Lim's astonished gaze lingered on the Li family as well, his usually calm demeanor shadowed with curiosity and a flicker of unease. Who exactly were these people?
The murmur of disbelief was about to rise again, outrage and skepticism threatening to shatter the spell—when the sound of heavy hinges echoed.
The wide kitchen doors swung open.
One by one, waiters emerged in a perfectly measured procession, each carrying a tray covered in polished silver domes. The clinking of fine porcelain, the soft shuffle of synchronized footsteps—it was a performance in itself.
The trays were laid upon a long table, already set with gleaming stoves, elegant utensils. When Silver domes opened it revealed the prepared ingredients.
Steam rose, fragrant and faint, curling into the air like a whisper of the divine. The waiters moved with solemn precision, their movements almost ritualistic, as though they were unveiling not dishes, but relics.
Within minutes, the first preparation table stood ready, gleaming under the lights like an altar awaiting a sacred ritual.
The MC did not allow the audience even a heartbeat to chatter or doubt. His voice rang out, firm and commanding:
"Ladies and gentlemen, our first presentation—the Manchu Han Imperial Feast and the Tang Court Cuisine."
The murmur of voices stilled. Eyes widened. Forks of curiosity froze midway.
"These two are not merely meals," he continued smoothly, his tone carrying both reverence and pride. "They are the pinnacles of Chinese culinary history. The Manchu Han Imperial Feast, created during the Qing Dynasty, was once the grandest banquet in the empire—spanning three days and six meals, with over 300 dishes prepared for emperors and nobles alone. It symbolized the unification of Manchu and Han culture through food."
He allowed the words to settle, then gestured toward the second. "And then, the Tang Court Cuisine, famed for its refinement and artistic elegance. During the Tang Dynasty—the golden age of China—this cuisine was enjoyed by scholars, poets, and emperors. It emphasized not only taste but poetry, presentation, and philosophy within every dish."
He paused just long enough before delivering the final words with a flourish:
"Tonight, you will witness both traditions reborn before your very eyes."
The kitchen doors swung open with quiet precision.
Twelve chefs entered in perfect formation—six men, six women—all in their twenties, none older than thirty. Their presence alone commanded attention. If not for the culinary theme, one might have mistaken the scene for a couture runway: tall, poised, and radiant, each one carried an air of artistry. Though their features were distinct—sharp eyes, graceful smiles, noble bearing—there was one thing they shared: a beauty so striking it silenced the room.
The chefs took their stations at the long table and, without a single word, began their work.
Knives flashed like silver lightning. One chef sliced Peking duck with movements so fluid they seemed choreographed, each cut precise and even. Another carefully stir fry crystal dumplings, her hands moving with such elegance it looked like a dance. A young man in white robes prepared shark fin soup, his ladle gliding with practiced grace, steam spiraling upwards like drifting silk. Even the simple act of stirring broth seemed elevated into art—measured, rhythmic, hypnotic.
The hall was spellbound. It no longer looked like a kitchen—it looked like a theater of divine craftsmanship.
And then, it began.
Aroma.
A fragrance so rich, layered, and intoxicating unfurled across the hall like a living tide. The sweetness of glazed meats, the mellow depth of aged broths, the refreshing brightness of herbs—all blending, swirling, invading every sense at once.
Someone gasped softly. Others inhaled greedily, eyes fluttering closed as though tasting with their very breath.
Even before the dishes were plated, the colors and textures dazzled. Golden roast duck skin gleamed like amber. Steaming dumplings sat translucent as if sculpted from jade. Glossy soups shimmered under the light, while intricate garnishes turned platters into paintings.
When the chefs began their final touch—the presentation—the audience could scarcely contain themselves. Each dish was not merely food, but art: arranged with geometry, balance, and grace. Peking duck was served with condiments laid in symmetrical arcs. A plate of shrimp was decorated with carved phoenix wings. A broth was crowned with lotus petals that floated serenely on the surface.
The effect was breathtaking.
Soft whispers broke the reverent silence:
"Heavens… is this even food? It looks like a treasure painting come to life."
"That aroma—my stomach can't take it, I feel like I'll faint if I don't taste it soon."
"I've dined in Michelin-starred restaurants in Paris, but this… this is beyond anything I've ever seen."
"The duck skin glistens like gold leaf. I swear, I can hear it crackle in my mind."
"Those dumplings… look at the way the light shines through the skin! You can see the filling inside—it's mesmerizing."
"If they don't serve it soon, I might jump over the table and steal a bite."
"Forget art museums. This is where art truly lives."
And the wait was not long.
The moment the Master of Ceremonies announced that service was to begin, a team of servers moved with fluid precision. Plates were arranged neatly upon rolling trays of polished silver, gleaming under the soft chandeliers, and were pushed into the hall with ceremonial grace.
Yet, no matter how refined the gathering was supposed to be, the poised elegance of high society crumbled in an instant. Men and women who were accustomed to waiting for delicacies to be served to them suddenly surged forward like ordinary townsfolk at a village fair. Their curiosity was too great, their hunger too sharp, and their dignity too easily forgotten when faced with food that shimmered with such divine allure.
The room was filled with gasps, cries, and sighs. Every person, after tasting the first bite in grand hall erupted in stunned disbelief. Men and women who had thought themselves jaded with Michelin stars and rare wines now found their very foundations shaken.
Song Renshu had been enduring shock after shock that night. Everything he believed about refinement, taste, and class seemed to be rewritten before his eyes. Though his original purpose in attending this banquet had been to meet Shen Weiyuan personally, that thought now felt distant. The desire was still there, yes—but no longer urgent. For the first time, he found himself content simply to be present. If fate allowed, he would cross paths with Shen Weiyuan. If not, he would seek another chance.
But when the chefs began to unveil their creations, even Song Renshu—who had prided himself on his composure and discernment—lost control for a brief instant. The arrangement of the plates, the elegance of the trays, the way the dishes glowed under the warm golden lights—everything exuded a brilliance he had never witnessed. He had dined in the world's most illustrious restaurants, savored menus designed by chefs who were legends in their own right, yet not once had he felt such an overwhelming compulsion to eat. He had to forcibly restrain himself, clenching his hands behind his back as the first trays rolled out and the crowd swarmed like children eager for candy.
Thankfully, his patience was rewarded. Another tray passed near him, and the server, with practiced grace, plated a selection before offering it to him with a respectful bow. Song Renshu barely registered how quickly his fingers closed around the porcelain dish, how eagerly his gaze devoured the colors and scents.
Hesitant for only a breath, he raised the spoon to his lips and tasted the Dragon Phoenix Soup—a shimmering broth brewed with rare mountain pheasant and delicate strands of snow carp. The moment it touched his tongue, his eyes widened.
"Heavens…" he whispered, voice trembling.
The broth was light as morning dew, yet rich as though the essence of mountains and rivers had been simmered into it. The warmth flowed down his throat like liquid silk, spreading through his body in waves, tender and profound. It was absurd—he felt as though his very soul was being nourished.
He reached for the next dish: Mandarin Duck with Osmanthus Sauce. The moment he tasted it, he nearly gasped aloud. The sauce was exquisite—sweet as blossoms kissed by sunlight, with a faint tang like spring rain. It lingered delicately, teasing and vanishing all at once, leaving him yearning for more.
Then came the Imperial Jade Dumpling. Its translucent skin glistened under the candlelight, delicate as carved gemstone, and the fragrance alone made his pulse quicken. He bit down—and staggered. Juices burst forth, rolling across his tongue in cascading layers of flavor: savory, mellow, and fragrant, like a thousand flowers blooming all at once inside his mouth. For a heartbeat, he nearly forgot where he was.
Around him, he could hear the crowd reacting no differently. Gasps filled the air, mingling with reverent murmurs.
"It's… like eating the very essence of life itself…" a man whispered, trembling.
"I swear, I saw colors explode before my eyes with that bite!" another exclaimed.
"If heaven serves food, it must be this," a woman murmured, clutching her chest.
"Compared to this, everything I've ever eaten is nothing but ash."
Even those who had yet to taste were enraptured, their eyes fixed on the plates as though watching miracles unfold. Their mouths watered, hands twitched with impatience, but none dared to break decorum—though it was clear every soul in the hall was on the edge of losing themselves to hunger and desire.
For Han Jingxian, it was no different. Before the banquet, she had scoffed at her husband, Shen Weiyuan, for exaggerating the food so much, and even more for acting on impulse—leaving behind countless important matters just to attend the opening of some unknown restaurant. In her mind, it had been foolish, even reckless.
Yet, the moment the first bite touched her lips, her world shifted. Her mind emptied of skepticism. The banter, the chatter, the music in the hall—all faded into silence. In that instant, there was only her and the dish, as though she had been allowed to taste a fragment of paradise.
For the first time in her life, she understood what it meant to crave not just food, but transcendence.
Before she could complete relishing this plate another announcement rang and another table was being prepared. The cycle repeated for the entire evening one after another. But the real shock was when actually The Banquet of the Eight Immortals, The Immortal Cuisine of Penglai and the legendary Snow Phoenix Cuisine were actually presented. Even the most stoic faces betrayed trembling lips and wide eyes.
Li Ziqing, standing quietly in the corner, smirked as the once-boisterous voices dissolved into gasps of astonishment. This was precisely the reaction she had anticipated. Now it was time for her final move—the one that would seal the evening's success. She cast a glance at Zhou Yichen beside her. He immediately understood, gave a curt nod, and said, "Got it," before striding away.
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Thank you for power stone Kulsum_Bano and maritel🥰🤗❤️