Setting Up Stalls – Chapter 275

Pagoda Meat¹

As the owner of a small food stall, Sun Miao didn’t actually have too many types of kitchen knives at her stall. Most of the time, a single, simple, unadorned blade was all she needed. It was the same this time. Pagoda Meat, a dish that put one’s knife skills² to the ultimate test, required only a single kitchen knife.

To put it bluntly, Pagoda Meat was just a variation of Braised Pork Belly with Preserved Mustard Greens.³ It was just fancier and a greater test of knife skills. The name said it all—you had to stack slices of meat layer by layer to form a pagoda. The dish was actually quite common. You could find it in almost any restaurant, and it might even show up among the pre-made dishes.⁴

People could always invent shortcuts, like creating a pagoda-shaped mold, arranging the meat pieces inside, and then flipping it over to finish.

But Pagoda Meat made that way wasn’t authentic at all. What did authentic Pagoda Meat require? It required perfect layers of alternating fat and lean, a completely uniform thickness, and a single, unbroken slice of meat. Only then could the final product be truly layered, looking like a real pagoda stacked piece by piece.

It was a far cry from the pre-made version, where the meat just collapsed into a shapeless pile, devoid of any aesthetic beauty.

This was where the test of knife skills came in. Pork is notoriously difficult to cut. The grease on top makes it slippery, and it’s all too easy for the blade to go crooked, resulting in uneven slices.

Even someone like Sun Miao had to train her knife skills for two straight months. For those two months, she did nothing but practice cutting. It wasn’t just meat; she also had to cut vegetables and fruits. The System even taught her how to make Raincoat Cucumber.⁵

Raincoat Cucumber wasn’t actually that hard. Once she mastered the rhythm, Sun Miao could do it with her eyes closed. The real challenge was Wensi Tofu⁶ which she also had to learn.

By the end, it was all muscle memory. The moment she picked up a cucumber or a block of tofu, her hands knew exactly what to do.

Watching Sun Miao’s progress, the System couldn’t help but sigh with emotion. In this world, there truly are geniuses. It’s just that most of them are buried and overlooked. On the path of cooking, Sun Miao was an undisputed genius.

Sun Miao had put in an effort in the System Space that few could ever hope to match. But without talent, she never could have learned so many exquisite dishes, let alone master each one until her stove fire was pure green⁷ .Talent and effort were a case where lacking one is not permissible⁸. In fact, more often than not, talent was the deciding factor.

Regardless, this genius was learning everything at a blistering pace. Her progress was so fast that even the System couldn’t have predicted it. When it first bound with Sun Miao, it figured it would take at least eight or ten years for her to graduate. But Sun Miao was just too incredible. In less than a year, they were already about to part ways.

If Sun Miao knew, she’d probably be devastated. The reason they had to separate so soon was, ironically, because she was too capable and learned too fast.

When Sun Miao presented the bowl of Pagoda Meat she had made to perfection, the System once again sighed internally at her talent. This dish truly had it all: color, aroma, and taste.

The moment the three months were up, the System ejected Sun Miao from the System Space.

When Sun Miao woke up, Su Ruixi had already left for work, leaving her heart feeling a little empty. Su Ruixi had no idea the System was going to whisk Sun Miao away to study today. If she had known, she probably would’ve tried to take the day off again. And today, Sun Miao especially needed her comfort.

Sun Miao rolled around in bed a few times before calling Su Ruixi. Cradling the phone, they chatted for a good while. She told Su Ruixi about learning to make Pagoda Meat and also about the System leaving. The truth was, Su Ruixi really disliked the System. She always felt like it was competing with her for Sun Miao’s affection.

Besides, the System was always pulling Sun Miao into that little black room⁹ for long stretches of time and occasionally adding surprise missions to their trips. It would’ve been strange if Su Ruixi did like it. She didn’t just eat the System’s vinegar¹⁰; she was even jealous of the little food cart.

But she could hear the disappointment and reluctance in Sun Miao’s voice. She knew Sun Miao was fond of the System. So, in that moment, Su Ruixi chose to be the bigger person. She didn’t say anything that would poke a person’s lung-pipe¹¹, like, “Good riddance!” Instead, she comforted her.

“I can find someone to modify your little cart in the future,” she said gently. “And don’t worry about the paperwork or anything else.” She said so much, but her thousand words and ten thousand phrases¹² all boiled down to one thing: “Don’t worry, Miaomiao. You still have me.”

That one sentence warmed Sun Miao’s heart. The listlessness she’d felt over the System’s departure eased considerably. “Mhm, I have you.”

She hadn’t even thought about any of that. The food cart was nothing compared to the news of the System leaving. But the System had taken note. The moment Sun Miao hung up with Su Ruixi, it immediately popped out to declare: 【There is no need for the Host’s girlfriend to worry about the System’s food cart. Even after I leave, the Host can DIY the food cart herself in the System Space. Just like in a game, you can select and assemble parts, and the cart will refresh at midnight.】

It’s actually quite considerate.

Sun Miao sighed, then said sweetly with a smile, “Thank you, System.”

The System found this very pleasing.

Sun Miao ate something simple for breakfast and lunch. She didn’t deliver a meal to Su Ruixi, deciding instead to make her a fantastic dinner. After breakfast, she headed to the wholesale market, bought the necessary ingredients, and came back to make her first batch of Pagoda Meat.

Pagoda Meat required a whole slab of pork belly. First, she used a kitchen torch to singe the hairs off the skin, then scrubbed the surface clean with a brush. Next, she placed the whole piece of pork into a large pot, added large spices¹³, and began to simmer it. Among the spices was a relatively uncommon one: red yeast rice powder¹⁴, which would color the meat and enhance its fragrance.

Partway through simmering, she opened the lid and added a splash of yellow wine¹⁵ to remove any gaminess.

This step was just for coloring, so she scooped it out once it was about done. Then, she coated the skin with a thin layer of raw starch—just enough to cover the surface. She placed the entire slab of pork belly into a wok of hot oil, pressing the skin-side down firmly to pan-fry it until set.

Once that was done, she inverted the pork belly onto a plate, weighed it down with something heavy, and put it in the refrigerator to freeze. This step was a clever trick to make the pork firm, which would allow her to cut long, thin slices more easily. The System would never have allowed her to do this in the System Space, but in the real world, it permitted shortcuts.

While the pork was freezing, Sun Miao kept busy preparing the filling. The pork belly formed the outer walls of the pagoda, but the inside needed to be filled with something else. This filling was made with preserved mustard greens.

In truth, different regions used different fillings, and there was even a dispute over the dish’s origin. Some claimed it was a dish from Hangcheng, a modern variation of Dongpo Pork¹⁶. Others insisted it was from Xianning¹⁷ in E Province,¹⁸ an indispensable part of any rural banquet.

It was a case of the husband says the husband is right, the wife says the wife is right¹⁹. To this day, no one could agree on which culinary tradition it belonged to.

However, Hangcheng was often called a food desert²⁰, and since this dish was more about presentation than substance and leaned toward the sweet side, Sun Miao felt it was probably a Hangcheng creation.

In Hangcheng, they typically used bamboo shoots and supplemented them with stir-fried preserved mustard greens. The System’s recipe also included bamboo shoots, so Sun Miao had bought some. She soaked the preserved greens until they were rehydrated, washed them clean, and gave them a rough chop. She diced the bamboo shoots and set them aside. Finally, she prepared a sweet and savory red-braising sauce and set that aside as well, waiting for the pork.

The pork needed about six hours to freeze solid. Fortunately, Sun Miao had gone shopping early, so it was ready by the afternoon. She had also bought a mold. While using a mold was a bit of a cheat—the System certainly hadn’t given her one during training—it was undeniably more convenient.

Besides, she wasn’t just going to arrange random pieces of pork in it. She still had to cut that single, long, continuous strip.

Sun Miao took out the frozen pork and trimmed the edges. She then inverted the special Pagoda Meat mold onto the slab and cut out a perfect square matching its size. The leftover scraps of pork were diced, ready to be stir-fried with the bamboo shoots and preserved greens.

Then came the most crucial part—cutting the pork. This was the ultimate test of her knife skills.

She stood the perfectly square block of pork on its end. Gripping her knife, Sun Miao stood before the cutting board. She placed her left hand flat on top of the pork block, positioned the blade at the very edge, and sliced straight down. The slice was incredibly thin. For Pagoda Meat, the thinner, the better.

The blade hugged the pork, gliding downward with steady pressure. Just as it reached the bottom, she stopped, careful not to apply too much force and sever the slice completely. With her left hand, she gently nudged the block, causing it to roll slightly. Her right hand followed the motion, smoothly cutting around the corner and onto the next face.

Her left hand guided the pork as it rolled, while her right hand remained perfectly steady, maintaining only the downward cutting motion.

The process was almost like peeling an apple, only infinitely more difficult.

The further she went, the harder it became, as the block of pork grew smaller and smaller. At first, she could cut for a while before needing to turn it, but near the end, she was constantly rotating it. The corners were always the trickiest part. But Sun Miao’s muscle memory had long since taken over. She was completely focused, and before she knew it, the entire block of pork belly had been transformed into a single, continuous, long strip of meat.

The slice was so thin that when she held it up, she could see the color of her own skin through the pale red meat. It looked even thinner than the slices used in Lizhuang White Meat²¹. What’s more, the entire strip was perfectly smooth, with no unevenness at the corners and no lumpy bits at the end.

Lying on the table, the long strip looked as if it had grown that way naturally.

With the cutting done, it was time to arrange it in the mold, stir-fry the filling, and steam it. Sun Miao took the long strip of meat and coiled it back up, squeezing it gently until it resembled its original block shape. She then placed it into the mold, where it fit with tight silk joining the seam²². Of course it did—she had cut it to the mold’s exact dimensions.

Next, she pressed her finger into the center of the coiled meat and gently pushed down. The layers of meat compressed inward, and the shape of a pagoda began to form. After that, she stir-fried the filling, packed it into the base of the pagoda, and placed the whole thing directly into the steamer.

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