Chapter Forty-Three: The Abundance of Rations Managed by the Palace Provisioner

Looking back, he saw a fat man. The man's nose was covered with blackheads as large and dark as burnt black sesame seeds. He appeared to have a natural case of uneven eyes, and even his mouth was crooked. Judging by his attire, the man's white uniform trimmed with gold was of a much higher grade than Ming Tian's, whose white uniform was edged in black, the standard for kitchen staff. This man must be a Master of Cuisine, the head chef of the Imperial Kitchens.

"What are you staring at? Go pour me a glass of water," the fat man said impatiently, coming over with the clear intention to kick Ming Tian.

Ming Tian was already injured. Chefs stood on their feet all day and night, and even if their strength was not quite that of a trained martial artist, it was far greater than most ordinary men. If that kick landed, he would end up bedridden for ten days or half a month, and any hope of saving the princess would vanish—he might as well go herd sheep on a vast green prairie.

Fortunately, Ming Tian was not entirely defenseless. He quickly sidestepped and avoided the kick.

Thrown off balance by his own weight, the chef nearly fell, his belly—large and quivering like a water sprite—sloshing audibly.

"You little brat, how dare you dodge when your superior tries to kick you? Do you have any idea who I am?" The chef's face twisted in rage as he grabbed Ming Tian by the collar in front of an audience of kitchen staff, many of whom turned to watch.

"Master Chef, please calm down," Ming Tian said, knowing that direct confrontation would be unwise. "I... I was sent here by Lord Wang Jingze. Today is my first day, and I was just looking for someone to report to. If I've offended you, I beg your pardon."

Sometimes, one must learn to smile at those one dislikes. Ming Tian was no stranger to the ways of the world. In his youth, he had bristled at every slight and suffered for it many times.

His conciliatory words softened the chef's expression a little, but a look of contempt still flickered in the man's eyes.

"Oh, so you're one of Lord Wang Jingze's recommendations—a man of connections," he scoffed, raising his voice so the whole kitchen could hear. "I thought you were some prodigy, but you're just a kid."

The other chefs began to size Ming Tian up, most of them, especially the assistant chefs, casting glances of disdain. In this profession, skill usually came with age. None of these chefs were under forty, and even the youngest kitchen attendants were in their thirties. Each of them, if they were to open a restaurant elsewhere, would attract wealthy patrons and famous officials from all over the land—they were all top-tier chefs in their own right.

Ming Tian, in this body, was only nineteen. Worse, he was so impossibly handsome that he looked barely sixteen. To these veteran chefs, he must have seemed like an infant.

"Listen, brat, do you see this?" The chef released Ming Tian and pulled out a gold medal from his pocket, on which the character for "Taste" was inscribed.

Showing off, he raised his head and declared, "This is the Emperor’s own Delicious Taste Gold Medal. Since the founding of Qi, besides me, only three chefs have ever received one. Do you know what that means?"

What could it mean, really? It meant he was showing off, of course. Ming Tian wondered who had invented the art of boasting—why was it so fashionable, even in such ancient times?

"Chefs awarded this medal are granted the rank of First Grade, by imperial favor. So I don't care who recommended you. From now on, if I tell you to go east and you dare go west, I'll chop you up. Do you understand?"

So, he was a big shot after all. No wonder he was so arrogant. Ming Tian couldn't help but wish the fat man would stop spitting when he spoke.

Still, it was true—receiving the Emperor's Delicious Taste Gold Medal meant the chef ranked far above his peers, second only to the Imperial Food Commissioner. He could afford to ignore almost everyone in the Imperial Kitchens.

"Understood," Ming Tian replied, wiping the fat man's spittle from his face, too disgusted to show any other reaction.

"Hmph, remember my name—Qian Shanduo. In this Imperial Kitchen, I am your father. If you ever cross me, I’ll make you regret it like a father teaching his son a lesson. Do you understand?!"

Qian Shanduo shouted arrogantly, his crude words unfiltered. Clearly, he was no time-traveler.

Such idiocy could only exist in ancient times—if this were the modern world, someone so brazen would have long since ended up dead in some filthy ditch.

"Yes, understood." Ming Tian had no wish to argue and just wanted to get to work.

The sooner he started, the sooner he could learn the Emperor’s and Crown Prince’s tastes, and the sooner he could save his beloved. There was no time to waste on such fools.

"Good. That’s more like it," Qian Shanduo said, his tone softening slightly, though his contempt remained. "Since you’re new, go to the Yellow Station and start chopping vegetables."

"Chopping vegetables?!" Ming Tian was stunned.

In the Imperial Kitchens, not only the chefs but even the workstations were ranked: Heaven, Earth, Man, and Yellow. The Yellow Station was responsible for the very first step—washing and chopping vegetables.

Usually, kitchen attendants handled cleaning and fetching ingredients, while the Yellow Station was for kitchen aides to do the preliminary prep for the other stations. The Man Station focused on cold dishes, handled by the lower-ranking kitchen assistants.

As a kitchen attendant, Ming Tian should at least have been assigned to the Earth Station for soups or knife work. Even being sent to the Heaven Station to assist the sous-chef with main courses would not have been out of place.

But to send a kitchen attendant to the Yellow Station to wash and chop vegetables was an insult.

Worse, if he wanted to slip poison into food, he’d need access to the Man Station. The Yellow Station was a waste of time.

He pointed to his black-trimmed uniform. "Master Qian, I’m a kitchen attendant..."

"So what if you are?" Qian Shanduo’s face darkened as he shoved Ming Tian roughly. "If I tell you to go, you go! If not, get out!"

He jabbed a fat finger toward the Yellow Station, his beady eyes bulging.

Fine, if you want to play hardball!

Ming Tian was no saint. Faced with such blatant humiliation and obstruction, anyone would have lost their temper. Straightening his collar, he said nothing more to the damned fat man and strode toward the Yellow Station. The situation being what it was, he could only look for an opportunity to move up to one of the other stations.

As for Qian Shanduo—if anything happened to Xin Zhu because of him, Ming Tian swore he would see his entire family wiped out.

At the Yellow Station, Ming Tian picked up a paring knife and a water bucket and began to process the black-boned chickens on the table. Though not pleased, he set to work.

In both the North and South, people still ate two meals a day at this time, so breakfast was relatively late. As for the other royals and concubines, their breakfast was handled by the main kitchen, which had nothing to do with Ming Tian’s section.

Chicken was a common ingredient in both Eastern and Western cuisine. Before traveling through time, Ming Tian had cleaned and prepared at least two thousand chickens himself. Sometimes, when the boss wanted chicken soup, he wouldn’t even let his private chef do it—he’d insist Ming Tian handle it. In terms of butchering chickens, his knife skills were on par with any professional chef.

Even the black-boned chickens were not much different.

In less than half a minute—perhaps only twenty-five seconds—he had broken down a chicken into breast, thighs, tenderloin, and other essential cuts, leaving the breastbone stripped clean.

At the Yellow Station, staff never knew exactly what the other stations would need. For example, if the Heaven Station required chicken, the sous-chef would merely say "chicken" without specifying which part. So, the Yellow Station had to prepare all the possible cuts.

It was an extremely inefficient system, but typical of ancient times, where every opportunity was seized to showcase one’s status, even in the kitchen.

If the Yellow Station failed to prepare properly and the Emperor was dissatisfied with the dish, the blame would never fall on the sous-chef for not specifying the cut, but on the kitchen aide at the Yellow Station.

Therein lay the injustice.

Fortunately, Ming Tian’s technique was not only precise but astonishingly fast. Even veteran butchers had praised his skill before his time-travel. While his speed was not remarkable by this kitchen’s standards, considering he was only nineteen, it was enough to draw curious glances from the aides nearby.

"Young man, you’re pretty deft for someone so young," remarked a skinny kitchen aide next to him after Ming Tian had processed ten chickens.

"My name’s Zhao Ke. What’s yours?"