Chapter Eight: The Pride of the Queen of Culinary Battles

“Was that... Uncle Sun, the shift-head chef, on the stretcher just now?” Watching the stretcher and the angels in white recede into the distance, a look of confusion appeared on Zhuang Xiaoyuan’s face. Why would Uncle Sun, the head chef, be injured? And it seemed quite serious.

“Yes. It was him.” Feng Guoqing’s brows were tightly furrowed. He had seen clearly: the person on the stretcher was Sun, the head chef scheduled for this week.

Because of the population, to appease dissatisfaction, many positions had been adjusted in the city, and these adjustments had been in place for several years, their basic pattern already fixed. For example, in the logistics group’s military canteen’s main kitchen, there were three head chefs, six sous-chefs, and thirty to forty kitchen workers, the number varying.

Under the normal system, each head chef would lead two sous-chefs and a variable number of kitchen workers, rotating shifts weekly. Sun was the head chef for this week.

Head chefs nowadays were quite different from those in the past. Previously, they resembled the head chefs on Earth: managing the kitchen, contributing a few signature dishes, while the sous-chefs or kitchen workers handled most of the cooking. Their jobs were relatively relaxed.

Now, with the fluidity of positions, most kitchen workers were laymen, capable only of basic tasks like washing vegetables, cleaning dishes, delivering food, and tidying up. Cooking was out of the question; even if asked to chop vegetables, they could hardly manage a neat cut.

Sous-chefs were a bit more competent; their recruitment required a certain level of culinary skill. Sun’s two sous-chefs were his apprentices, each with a few specialties. Still, in the main kitchen, those few specialties were far from enough for dinner service. Moreover, even their best dishes were barely on par with the simplest of the head chef’s ordinary fare.

Thus, during meal times, the head chef was always the busiest. Most of the cooking was done by the head chef with the help of the sous-chefs, some dishes even prepared solely by the head chef. Not just anyone could fill this role, though the salary was generous.

So, injury to the head chef meant paralysis for the main kitchen. The logistics group’s military canteen had more than just the main kitchen—there were ten secondary kitchens and countless tertiary ones—but the hierarchy was clear: the head chefs of the secondary and tertiary kitchens were nowhere near the calibre of the main kitchen’s staff, their skill only slightly better than the main kitchen’s sous-chefs, and their food not much tastier.

There would be no issue if something happened to another kitchen, but the main kitchen must never fail. It served the elite frontline squads and the top leaders in the command center. If subpar dishes were served to these heroes who risked their lives every day, criticism would rain down from the upper echelons and the frontline units alike. Even Feng Guoqing himself, being from the frontline troops, would find it intolerable.

It wasn’t that the frontline heroes craved luxury or couldn’t handle a bad meal; this was simply their due. Failing to provide them what they deserve would be a dereliction of duty for the logistics group.

“What happened?” Striding into the main kitchen, Feng Guoqing’s sharp gaze swept over the sous-chefs and kitchen workers, who were sunk in gloom. His expression was stern as he spoke.

“Chief, Head Chef Sun was injured.” Among the sous-chefs, Zhou’s eyes brightened upon seeing Feng Guoqing, but quickly dimmed again. Though the chief had arrived, he doubted the situation could be changed; after all, Feng Guoqing wasn’t a professional head chef.

“I know he was injured—I saw it myself. I’m asking how it happened. And, have you contacted the other two head chefs?”

“We’d finished prepping the ingredients and notified Head Chef Sun. As he was coming down the stairs, his prayer beads slipped from his hand. He accidentally stepped on them and tumbled from the second floor straight to the first.” The younger sous-chef, Li, stole a glance at the unfamiliar girl with orange hair standing behind the stern-faced Feng Guoqing as he explained.

“Tumbled down…” Feng Guoqing was speechless at such an explanation. So careless. He didn’t mind Sun’s superstitions—how he always meditated and prayed before cooking—but perhaps that needed to be limited now. So much devotion, and yet it had caused a major problem.

“The other two head chefs have been contacted. Chef Qian is at the parade hall today; even if he rushes over now, it’ll take over an hour—far too late.” Zhou’s head dropped lower as his voice grew smaller. “As for Chef Liao… um… his friend answered and said he was drunk last night and still hasn’t woken up. With Chef Liao’s tolerance, even if we rouse him, he won’t be able to cook at his usual level…”

Hearing their explanations, Feng Guoqing’s brows twitched—a sign of barely contained anger. He was known for his composure now, though once hot-tempered; after many experiences, he’d learned to remain calm, at least not venting his anger on innocent sous-chefs. Besides, rage was useless now—the priority was finding a solution.

“Uncle Feng, don’t be angry. I’ll help you solve this. It’s not impossible.” Just as Feng Guoqing was suppressing his temper and searching for ideas, a rather awkward voice sounded from behind.

Why awkward? Because the words were spoken in two distinct tones—the first, quick and breezy, fit Zhuang Xiaoyuan’s usual style. Then, it shifted into something shy yet proud—a classic tsundere.

“You? You can’t even tell sugar from salt, can you?” Pushing aside his idle thoughts, Feng Guoqing looked at the girl behind him, skepticism in his eyes. He acknowledged her palate, but her actual cooking skills were another matter.

“How rude—you doubt me, commoner? Doubting the queen of culinary duels, the possessor of the divine tongue?” At Feng Guoqing’s skepticism, Zhuang Xiaoyuan crossed her arms and wore an expression of disdain. Anything else, perhaps, but when it came to cooking, Erina Nakiri possessed absolute confidence and pride. Faced with Feng Guoqing’s doubt, a defiant spirit surged within Zhuang Xiaoyuan, manifesting now as this queenly posture.

“When did you get such an over-the-top title as ‘queen of culinary duels’?” But her queenly pose lasted only a few seconds before Feng Guoqing’s words shattered it.

Zhuang Xiaoyuan’s face flushed red; she glared at Feng Guoqing in annoyance. “If you don’t believe me, then try it for yourself—use your own tongue to experience my culinary kingdom.”