Chapter 37: What Happened to Ronan in Provence?

Before dinner had even begun, the braised beef was already gone.

The Provençals had polished it off, pairing every bite of meat with a sip of wine. Vieri, the youngest of them, even cradled the plate to lick up the remaining crumbs. Many others at the table were itching to do the same, but only the underage Vieri could get away with it without appearing uncouth. In that moment, they completely forgot to save a taste for their host, Louis, who had returned home late.

"No dumplings, and I missed the braised beef too... Am I just not fated to enjoy Chinese cuisine?" Upon hearing the bad news, Louis sighed and slumped onto the sofa.

"No, no, no! Ronan prepared two dishes today, and there is one still cooking. You will be able to taste authentic Chinese food any moment now." Freddie’s mouth still lingered with the savory aroma of the braised beef. Although he had never had Chinese food before, he decided that anything this delicious was, by definition, authentic. He swore that for a long time to come, no matter where he went, he would talk about this magical "Chinese culinary journey"—it was the duty of a true gourmet.

Louis couldn't resist sneaking into the kitchen to check on the progress of the next dish, only to be sternly shooed out by Leah at the doorway. "Stop sneaking in to snack! No one is allowed in the kitchen until dinner is served!" Their constant pilfering had severely hindered the chefs; she couldn't even turn around without bumping into someone.

Louis sat back on the sofa, indignantly warning the others, "No one is allowed to fight me for Ronan’s dish later. Careful, or I’ll stab you in the eyes with my fork!"

Old Karl lit a cigarette and looked toward the kitchen with anticipation. "We can only promise to leave the first bite for you. After that, it’s every man for himself. Fine food is like a woman—if you miss your chance, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life."

Louis grew even more expectant. What would this dish called "Saliva Chicken" taste like?

...

In past gatherings, once the first cold appetizer was placed on the table, everyone would move from the lounge to their dining seats, chatting and drinking while waiting for the main course. But today, even with eight cold dishes—including cheese, flatbread, salad, and olives—laid out, no one budged from their seats. They appeared relaxed, laughing and talking, but their ears were pricked, waiting for Ronan’s signal.

"The Saliva Chicken is ready." Ronan’s voice sounded like music to their ears.

Vieri was the first to sprint out, followed by the long-expectant Louis, and then the equally predatory Freddie. As the three reached the dining table, they hesitated in unison.

"Is this what Saliva Chicken looks like?"
"It looks like the chicken drowned in oil..."
"Isn't there any chicken that isn't soaked in this red sauce?" Louis looked troubled.

The obesity rate in Provence is the lowest in France, and France itself has one of the lowest rates in Europe. This isn't because the French live on wine or have high metabolic rates from drinking excessive coffee; the secret lies in their diet. The French don't eat fast food. While Americans fill up on pizza, hot dogs, corn chips, and french fries during short work breaks, what are the Provençals eating?

A cup of coffee, a flavorless salad, or perhaps a piece of bread torn off by hand... that is a meal. Of course, eating simply doesn't mean the French disrespect food; on the contrary, they spend at least two or three hours a day at the dining table. Once a Frenchman sits down to dine, the deficit from the earlier meals is immediately compensated for, but they generally dislike overly greasy foods. Deep-fried items like french fries rarely appear on their tables.

The others arrived at the dining room one by one, their reactions mirroring the first three—curiosity, apprehension, a desire to taste, and a reluctance to be the first guinea pig.

"What is that red stuff on top?" Louis mustered the courage to pick up his fork.

"It’s oil infused with specific chili peppers and Sichuan peppercorns," Ronan said, his mouth already watering.

"Chili peppers? That many?" Louis quickly put his fork down. The most common "chili" on a French table is a bell pepper, as they simply cannot handle spicy food. By any measure, Ronan’s Saliva Chicken was hitting every red flag for the French.

Alain and Karl took their seats and began eating their salads and sausages, clearly intending to steer clear of the chicken. Freddie and Louis looked at each other, both hoping the other would show some "manliness" and act as the human poison-tester.

"Try it, Louis. You’re not much of a man if you can’t even handle a little chili."
"Freddie, aren't you the one who loves dipping baguettes in olive oil? Are you afraid of just this little bit of oil?"

Ronan was secretly delighted that these ignorant Provençals had no interest in the Saliva Chicken; he hadn't had enough of it himself the night before. *Mine, all mine!*

But soon, Ronan’s dream was shattered.

A brave fork moved. How could Vieri let his idol's cooking go unappreciated? Even if it tasted like rotten eggs, he would finish the whole plate just so he could brag about it at school tomorrow. *I ate food made by Ronan—a whole plate, made just for me!* His classmates would be green with envy!

Vieri closed his eyes as if going to his death and shoved a piece of chicken dripping with red sauce into his mouth. Beside him, Louis and Freddie watched his expression with bated breath.

Vieri’s face contorted as he chewed a few times, as if enduring immense pain. Then, he suddenly opened his eyes wide and began looking for water in a panic. "Water! Water! Get me water!"

Louis and Freddie dropped their forks simultaneously. Vieri’s reaction said it all. This Chinese dish was simply not for the French.

Before the two could even settle back into their seats, Vieri, having finished his water in the kitchen, "ran" back in. From three or four meters away, he was already brandishing his fork in an "attack" stance. The table of adults looked at the strangely behaving young man, some faster than others.

Suddenly, seven or eight forks plunged into the Saliva Chicken at once.

Ronan stomped his foot in heartbreak. *Oh no! So close... he was almost about to devour the whole chicken by himself!*

...

In Paris, Feng Zhen had been restless all night, thinking of her son thousands of miles away.

"Lao Luo, do you think Ronan has finished making the braised beef and Saliva Chicken?" she asked her husband in standard Mandarin, the language they used exclusively at home.

Luo Tianhai sat staring straight at the TV, letting out a dismissive snort through his nose. "Don't worry about him. He’s in a new environment and doesn't know how to act. Those French are incredibly picky eaters... Thinking he can use food as a social tool to make friends? I can't believe he came up with such a half-baked idea."

Feng Zhen pushed him, annoyed. "He’s your own son. Can't you wish him some success?"

Luo Tianhai snorted again. "He chose to go and suffer, what does that have to do with me? Provence will never accept a Chinese immigrant! Just you wait—in less than six months, he’ll be back in Paris with his tail between his legs because he couldn't integrate."

*Ring-ring-ring—*

Feng Zhen muttered under her breath as she went to answer the phone, "Who could it be at this hour?"

She picked up the receiver, and three or four unfamiliar voices erupted from the other end at once.

"Ronan’s mom and dad, the Chinese food you taught him is so delicious!"
"Can you teach him a few more dishes? Preferably something spicy like the Saliva Chicken—the taste of Chinese 'red oil' is amazing!"
"I love China, I love Chinese food! Awoo—"

Amidst the chaotic Provençal dialect, they struggled to make out one desperate shout in Chinese: "My friends are drunk! But we won this Chinese food battle! Comrades, these white folks even drank the sauce!"

Feng Zhen and Luo Tianhai looked at each other in shock. Ronan had friends in Provence? And he won a culinary battle? What on earth had he been doing in Provence?!