“Heh, what’s so impressive about that? He just ate a lot, so he picked it up by watching. In the end, it’s your sauce that makes the difference.” William Carter smiled and said, “The liangfen is all sold out, let’s pack up and go. We’re heading the same way anyway…”

Chapter 10: [Those Years, The Fried Rice Noodles We Ate Together]

“Uncle, the people we sent have returned. They brought news about that young man…”

A chubby middle-aged man with an honest-looking face walked up to Henry Collins—the old man savoring kung fu tea in the living room—and lowered his voice.

“He didn’t notice, did he?”

Old Man Collins glanced at the fat man. “Even though I only met that kid once, I could tell he’s got a mind of his own. If he finds out I sent someone to follow him, he probably won’t even want to see me again. If I want to take him as a disciple then, it’ll be tough…”

“Don’t worry, uncle, he didn’t notice.”

The middle-aged man looked at Old Man Collins with a hint of dissatisfaction. “Uncle, that kid actually turned down your kindness. Isn’t he a bit arrogant? I think you should just forget it. If you want to pass on your legacy, don’t you still have me, your nephew? You know, cooking is my greatest passion. When I started my business, I didn’t hesitate to choose the food industry. Uncle, look—”

“Enough, Little Brian, do you think I don’t know what’s on your mind?”

Old Man Collins gave him a look and shook his head. “I know you love cooking. But with your talent, at best you’ll be a mid-level chef in your life. Becoming a top-level chef is out of the question. Brian Foster, it’s not that I don’t want to teach you, it’s just that the ancestors didn’t bless you with that spark…”

“Uncle…”

“Say no more. I’m at least a leading figure in Jingbang cuisine. If I really wanted to take on a disciple, there’d be a line from Cheng’an Gate to Baliqiao of people wanting to kneel and beg. Do you think all those culinary talents in the capital are inferior to you?”

Old Man Collins spared no effort in dashing his nephew’s hopes: “This kid William Carter is a natural-born chef. I’ve set my mind on him—no one can change it! Now, tell me, after that little foodie left here, where did he go? The cinema?”

“He didn’t go to the cinema. That was just to fool you…”

Brian Foster said, “He went to the snack street at the flea market.”

“What, that kid went to the snack street?”

Old Man Collins’s eyes lit up, and he slapped his thigh hard. “See? I knew I couldn’t be wrong! The moment he left the restaurant, he went straight to the snack street. He’s a foodie among foodies—my kind of person!”

Brian Foster rolled his eyes, thinking, I’ve seen plenty of foodies, but do you really need to get this excited just because he went to a snack street?

“Tell me, what did this little friend buy to eat? Looks like the snack street in Chudu is full of hidden talents. For someone who knows food as well as he does to be interested in their snacks, I really should go check it out myself someday.”

“Uh—he just bought a serving of fried liangfen, then chatted with the girl running the stall, and ended up helping her fry liangfen. They say the liangfen he made tasted so good that the customers almost started fighting in line…”

“Fried liangfen… What did you say, William Carter helped the girl at the stall fry liangfen? Did our people buy a serving to bring back?” Old Man Collins was stunned and asked urgently.

“Heh, don’t worry, uncle. I knew you’d ask, so I bought a serving.”

Brian Foster might look honest, but he’s actually a bit sly. Over the years, he’s begged Old Man Collins countless times, but Old Man Collins just wouldn’t truly teach him the craft. This time, since he was in a good mood, he only taught him one dish—fragrant marinated pork.

So just now, he hid the lunchbox with the fried noodles behind his back, not taking it out right away, deliberately making his uncle anxious—a little payback in disguise.

“You rascal, Little Brian, hand it over!”

Old Man Collins glared, walked over, and snatched the lunchbox, then impatiently opened it. “Let me see what this kid… Huh? Crisp on three sides—the highest level of fried noodles!”

“This is… these noodles look amazing!”

Brian Foster hadn’t opened the box after getting it, but seeing his uncle’s shocked expression, he got curious and leaned in. When he saw the pieces of liangfen, golden and green like jade, he couldn’t help but lick his lips and said in disbelief, “Uncle, you can fry liangfen like this? This… this is practically a work of art… No! Every piece of liangfen looks alive.”

Don’t be fooled by Brian Foster’s current chubby, worldly appearance. Back in college, he was a “wet man”—he even published poetry in the school magazine.

This box of fried noodles, as beautiful as poetry, made him feel as if he’d traveled through time, back to his university days, recalling “those years, the fried noodles we ate together”…

Old Man Collins completely ignored him—not to act cool, but because all his attention was drawn to this box of fried liangfen.

His ancestral home was near Yingtian, close to Bianjing, where he grew up eating fried liangfen. He was an absolute expert.