Chapter Eighty-Two: GOOD

The group of Wolfdog’s brothers stood with their shirts wide open, arms crossed, each wearing a fierce and menacing expression. This was his confidence; it was also the very foundation upon which the two bosses before him sought his partnership.

“Alright!” Feng Weizhi extended his hand and broke into a smile. With two shares in hand, he could secure an overwhelming advantage in the North District—this was a calculation he understood perfectly well.

“A pleasure to work together.”
“A pleasure to work together.”

Wolfdog and Gou Weidong also reached out to shake hands. The three clasped hands, then burst into hearty laughter together.

The next day, the grand reopening of the restaurant drew even more crowds than the day before. On one hand, it was the word of mouth effect—there weren’t many topics for gossip in these days. Nanyan Restaurant’s reopening, the membership cards, the delicious food—all became the focus of everyone’s chatter. Especially those who had dined there the previous day felt compelled to brag to their friends and neighbors.

On the other hand, the shills and waitstaff redoubled their efforts, having received red envelopes from Chen Huajiang the day before. Their spirits were high, their enthusiasm evident.

Some shills even put on performances that went well beyond the script—claiming, for instance, that after eating fried chicken legs, they felt twice as strong and brimming with energy. It was only Chen Huajiang who stopped their improvisation; otherwise, things might have devolved into a farce of “cures-all-ills.”

After all, in these times, peddlers hawking miracle pills and plasters were everywhere.

Yet by the afternoon, a commotion flared up.

“A foreign devil!”
“It’s a foreign devil—looks just like a white monkey!”
“So that’s what a foreign devil looks like? Even his hair is white. I thought they were supposed to have blond hair and blue eyes?”

Customers queued in a long line outside the restaurant when suddenly a stir broke out. An elderly white man stepped out from the Nanyan Hotel, immediately surrounded by a crowd of excited onlookers.

Nanming City was not a coastal place, and even in coastal cities, foreigners were a rare sight in those days. Spotting one was about as likely as seeing a giant panda at the zoo.

This was the same elderly man from before—Smith. He wore an indifferent expression, long since used to being stared at like a rare animal since coming to China.

Earlier in the hotel, he’d caught a whiff of a guest eating fried chicken legs, a scent much like what he remembered from KFC back home, and it awakened his craving.

It was the same shop as before, but with a fresh, modern decor and the addition of his favorite dishes—fried chicken legs and fries.

After waiting in line, Old Smith soon entered the restaurant.

“There’s that foreign devil again. Damn, he must be here to cause trouble!”
“Boss Chen, don’t step in today. If he dares to insult my cooking again, I’ll bash his head in.”

As fate would have it, Head Chef Wang, who had been in the kitchen, happened to step out just as Smith entered and immediately recognized him.

Chen Huajiang felt exasperated—Head Chef Wang’s temper was truly something else. But since he was the restaurant’s main chef, Chen could only force a smile and nod. Otherwise, if things escalated, Wang might just walk out.

Smith ordered two portions of fried chicken legs and a serving of fries, which Head Chef Wang prepared without issue.

“Wait a moment.”

But just as Wang Cuihua was about to serve the food, Chen Huajiang stopped her.

“Zhao Xuebing, add a bit more—toss the chicken legs with red sauce. Be generous with it, make it thick,” Chen instructed his apprentice. The “red sauce” was, of course, his own recipe for tomato ketchup, loaded with high-fructose syrup.

He avoided calling it ketchup, as the four chefs had influenced him. In Nanming City, even at the time he’d crossed over, most people still called tomatoes “western plums.” Ketchup was also called “western plum sauce”—a mouthful, so they simply called it “red sauce.”

“Boss Chen, you’re just up to tricks again. But since you’re tricking the foreign devil, I’ll let it slide,” Head Chef Wang scoffed, always disparaging Chen’s red sauce, finding its cloying sweetness an insult to any chef’s craft.

Yet he had to admit, Chen’s dipping sauce was excellent—mildly sweet, delicious, and perfect with fries. Over the past couple of days, many customers—especially children—were huge fans.

Chen simply smiled and said nothing. Syrups like these were originally the creation of the “bald eagle” nation, where capitalists swapped corn syrup for cane sugar to cut costs. Ever since, syrup had swept through their country, and after its rise, obesity rates soared—half the population became overweight, the kind whose body fat wobbled with every step.

Zhao Xuebing, looking disgruntled, slathered the fried chicken legs with another layer of red sauce before plating them for Wang Cuihua.

As Wang Cuihua carried out the tray, the four chefs in the kitchen grew curious too. Cooking forgotten, they all crowded at the door to watch.

“Head Chef Wang, I bet the foreign devil spits it out after one bite. I tried a bit last time and nearly gagged—so sweet it’s sickening.”

“Exactly, I almost puckered up my mouth. Don’t know what the boss was thinking, making stuff like that.”

“Thank goodness it’s not for regular customers. Otherwise, I’d quit on the spot—it would ruin my reputation! If people said that sickly sweet stuff was made by me, where would I put my face?”

The chefs chattered on, eagerly awaiting the foreign devil’s embarrassment, especially Head Chef Wang, who was hoping for revenge after their previous conflict.

But soon, to their utter astonishment, something entirely unexpected happened.

“Good, good,” Smith said, savoring the chicken leg with relish, nodding and clearly enjoying himself. He didn’t forget to give the chefs an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Chef, is he insulting us?” Zhao Xuebing asked, puzzled, since the foreign devil didn’t look angry at all—if anything, he seemed to be praising them.

“Idiot, you should read more books. Don’t you know ‘good’? In their language, it means delicious,” Head Chef Wang corrected him with a knock on the head.

“I think last time scared him straight. This time, even if it’s not tasty, he doesn’t dare speak up.”

“As expected, imperialists are nothing but paper tigers. Come on, he has no guts, let’s not pick on him.”

Head Chef Wang simply couldn’t believe anyone could praise such an overwhelmingly sweet concoction, finally chalking it up to the foreign devil’s fear.

And so, under the watchful eyes of the crowd inside and out, Smith contentedly finished off two chicken legs and a pack of fries. Upon leaving, he even bought another two chicken legs and a pack of fries to take away.