Chapter 151: The Attack of Spicy Chicken and Twice Cooked Pork
The sensation was visceral. It was less like smelling food and more like standing before a cage that had just been unlatched, revealing a primal beast within.
The air inside the restaurant didn't just carry a scent; it carried a physical weight. It was an intense, aggressive aroma that seemed to claw at the senses, lingering heavily in the enclosed space.
It wasn't merely the stinging heat of capsaicin that usually accompanied spicy food; it was a complex, layered fragrance—the savory depth of rendered fat, the toasted nuttiness of high-temperature oil, and the sharp, electric tingle of Sichuan peppercorns that danced in the air like static electricity.
Even Hori Kyosuke, a man who prided himself on his laid-back adaptability and worldly experiences, found his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. He sniffed the air theatrically, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
"Ooh... now this is something else," Kyosuke murmured, leaning back slightly as if the scent was physically pushing him. "This aroma is... aggressive. You'd think he was conducting a magic ritual with powerful spices back there instead of just stir-frying dinner."
The aroma was enticing, dangerously so. It triggered a primal hunger, the kind that made your mouth water before your brain even registered what you were smelling. But just as the heavy, spicy scent seemed to dominate the room, a fresh, clear fragrance suddenly cut through it—like a cool breeze sweeping through a humid valley, or the scent of rain after a thunderstorm.
The contrast was stark. On one side, a fiery, aggressive heavy metal concert of spices; on the other, a gentle, soothing classical melody. The duality was genuinely bewildering.
While the Hori family sat there, trying to reconcile these conflicting scents, the sound of wheels rolling against the wooden floor announced the main event.
Ren emerged from the kitchen, pushing a multi-tiered dining cart with a calm demeanor that contrasted the culinary violence he had just orchestrated.
At that moment, the excitement at the Hori table reached a fever pitch. Kyoko, usually so composed (or at least, trying to be in front of strangers), leaned forward with sparkling eyes. Beside her, Yuriko had her hands clasped together, her smile radiant. They looked less like customers waiting for dinner and more like children on New Year's Day, eagerly waiting for their Otoshidama (red envelopes).
Ren brought the cart to a halt beside their table. The steam rising from the dishes was thick and white, carrying the concentrated essence of the meal.
"So," Ren began, his voice calm and steady. "First, for the young gentleman."
He placed a plate of golden, fluffy Omurice in front of Souta. "Since the other dishes are quite spicy and heavy, I didn't make too much for you, Souta-kun. But if you want to try the others, feel free."
Then, he turned his attention to the adults.
Ren picked up the porcelain plates one by one, placing them on the table with deliberate precision. As he lifted the lids, fresh waves of steam billowed out, rolling over the table like a fog bank.
"First, we have Laziji—Sichuan Spicy Chicken. Next is Huiguorou—Twice Cooked Pork. And finally, to balance the heat, Winter Melon Soup," Ren explained softly. "If you need more rice, just say the word. The dishes are all served, please enjoy."
Leaving the Hori family stunned by the visual and olfactory assault of the feast—literally frozen by the aroma—Ren turned and walked toward the counter.
He went directly to Lucifer's side and sat down. Just as he was about to pick up a book to read while the guests ate, he heard the Queen of Hell voice the question that had been bothering her.
"Ren," Lucifer asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why was the flame on the stove so... big just now? I felt a heat coming from the kitchen that felt almost dangerous."
Ren chuckled softly, glancing at the kitchen. "I stir-fried both the Spicy Chicken and the Twice Cooked Pork. Different dishes require different stir-frying times and moments," he explained with a smile. "Stir-frying at that intensity cooks the dishes faster, sealing in the juices, and makes them significantly more fragrant. That's what we call Wok Hei."
Lucifer nodded slowly. Although she didn't fully understand the culinary science behind it, she understood the power she had felt. That intense heat during the stir-frying hadn't vanished. It was trapped.
That heat wouldn't disappear just because the dish was plated. Like a fierce beast, that thermal energy, along with an astonishing aroma, was hidden within the chunks of meat and peppers. It was lying in wait, dormant, waiting for the exact moment the diner brought it to their mouth to fiercely pounce out and deliver a fatal, delicious blow.
Back at the table, the Hori family was faced with a difficult choice.
Three dishes lay before them. Three distinct visual profiles. Three different impacts of taste.
To the left, a mountain of deep-fried chicken cubes buried in a sea of dried red chilies. To the right, glistening slices of pork belly. In the center, a serene soup.
There was no better choice than to simply dig in. But the dilemma was real: whichever one they ate first would likely make them even more eager—and perhaps impatient—for the other two.
However, human nature is predictable. Generally, most people who aren't too familiar with Sichuan cuisine would choose to start with the Spicy Chicken.
Why? Because this was the "beast." It was the source of that aggressive aroma. It was also the most richly colored and visually appealing dish on the table, a vibrant landscape of red and gold.
Laziji—Spicy Chicken—is a dish that defies the uninitiated. It can be said to be a dish familiar to everyone, yet truly known by few. Different regions have different cooking methods, and everyone thinks their way is the "correct" orthodox way, arguing endlessly without ever distinguishing which is truly better. If you were to interject during these arguments and say something definitive about Spicy Chicken, while not necessarily provoking a mob, at least a few people would stand up to debate you.
It is not a "must-eat" delicacy in the realm of high-end cuisine, but it is a dish that, once eaten, you will definitely not regret.
Unlike other stir-fries, the preparation of Spicy Chicken involves more than just tossing ingredients in a wok; it first goes through a frying process.
Kyosuke picked up his chopsticks, his eyes locked on a piece of golden chicken amidst the sea of red.
Just like its name implies, if you were to describe the taste of Spicy Chicken with the most suitable four words, they would be: Numbing, Spicy, Salty, and Fragrant. These four words are the absolute best description and summary of its soul.
The fried chicken carries a unique oily aroma inherent to fried foods. Fried lightly, the chicken takes shape; the tender meat becomes slightly firmer, gaining structure. The chicken skin curls slightly, crisping up. But don't worry, this dryness is just a temporary appearance.
After being fried to about 70% doneness, the chicken retreats to the background. Now comes the ingredient more important than the chicken itself in this dish: the lazi, or chili peppers.
It's a peculiar cooking method. For a stir-fried dish, what's stir-fried first isn't the main ingredient or the side dishes, but the seasonings. Various dried chilies, Sichuan peppercorns, and a whole series of aromatics are thrown into the hot oil. This process alone is enough to fill the air with that fragrant, choking, wonderful aroma—this is the beast being unleashed.
When the oil is infused and the beast is roaring, the chicken that had retreated makes its reappearance. This time, it regains its tenderness in a bath of fresh, spicy broth and oil.
The chicken never changes; no matter how crispy the skin gets, the tender texture of the meat inside remains. The beast that was previously unleashed is now hidden in the fresh broth absorbed by the meat, and everything appears calm on the surface.
"Here goes," Kyosuke whispered, placing a piece into his mouth.
Crunch.
But when you take a bite...
The tenderness of the chicken, the electric numbing sensation of the peppercorns, the smoky heat of the chili, and the chicken skin—which has become springy yet retains its salty, fragrant flavor after being fried, then stir-fried, and finally bathed in the broth—everything explodes directly on your tongue.
"Mmph!"
Your whole being rejoices with your taste buds. The spiciness is satisfyingly intense; it's a rush of endorphins. This is the information fed back by your tongue to your brain: Pleasure. Heat. Satisfaction.
The entire dish can be said to use a lot of oil—it's practically swimming in it—but you don't feel a trace of greasiness. It's neither oily nor dry. It is numbing and refreshing, with smooth and tender chicken. The sugar used in the seasoning provides a subtle sweetness that follows the initial wave of numbing, spicy, and salty tastes, rounding off the edges.
A sprinkle of "horse-ear" (sliced diagonally) scallions on top adds a few bright, eye-catching hues of green to the predominantly red landscape of the Spicy Chicken. Everything is perfectly coordinated, making it incredibly appetizing.
Spicy Chicken is never a 'must-eat' dish in the sense of rare luxury, but the saying 'you will definitely not regret eating it' is absolutely true.
When that bite of tender, smooth chicken, infused with numbing, spicy, and fragrant flavors, is eaten with white rice... when you chew it, allowing that tender, springy chicken and the fragrant, sweet starch of the rice to mix in your mouth... it's very good.
"This is..." Kyoko mumbled, her mouth full, hurriedly scooping more rice. "This is dangerous."
This beginning is very good because you can't stop.
The Spicy Chicken immediately opened the appetite. You eat spoonful after spoonful, enjoying the pleasure on your tongue, completely unable to stop. Even if you occasionally eat a piece of chili by mistake, it's fine, because you might find that the crispy, oil-soaked chili is even more delicious than the chicken itself.
But it is only when you are immersed in the onslaught brought by the Spicy Chicken that your eyes drift to the second dish.
When you suddenly eat a bite of Twice Cooked Pork, you will understand why this dish is so famous.
Kyosuke's chopsticks hovered over the second plate.
Compared to the vibrant, aggressive red of the Spicy Chicken, the Twice Cooked Pork has less vivid color and less stimulating flavor. It looks almost rustic. But its fragrance... you will truly know it the moment it enters your mouth.
It was an irresistible flavor. Although visually it looked like it had distinct fatty and lean parts that might be heavy, one glance told a different story. 'Rich but not greasy' was a description tailor-made for this dish.
The fatty parts were translucent, soft with a slight elasticity, shimmering under the light. The lean parts promised a chewiness with a hint of tenderness.
Taking a bite, as mentioned before, it could be summarized in one word: Fragrant. Incredibly fragrant. Exceptionally fragrant.
With this dish, there was no 'I prefer fatty' or 'I prefer lean'—no need to worry at all. Because if you ate just one part, separating the layers, it wouldn't be Twice Cooked Pork anymore.
You have to eat it all in one go. Forget everything else; the moment you encounter Twice Cooked Pork, your calorie control goes out the window.
Just eat it.
With its alternating lean and fatty layers, vibrant red color from the bean paste, and accompanying side dishes of green garlic sprouts, there's no reason not to fall in love with something like this.
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