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“Ah, xiansheng! What would you like to eat?”
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“To get to know a city is to get to know the food,” had been a throwaway line in some enterprising gourmet-adventurer’s debut and only travelogue. While in its time it had sold fifty-some copies, most of which were tossed to a corner or, if even less fortunate, a wastebin, and thus lost to time and the trash, this one line had somehow stuck, weathering the ages and travelling across Teyvat—as its speaker once had—through the mouths of gourmets, chefs, and tour guides alike.
It follows that he who knows the city best must know best the food and restaurants and chefs. And in Liyue Harbour, there is one person who fits this definition.
One trailing ponytail. One gold-trimmed tailcoat. The sight of him in the doorway of one’s restaurant induces a variety of emotions—weariness, joy, dismay, trepidation. Often, a conflicting blend of all-of-the-above. Sometimes referred to, in jest, as the Terror of Liyue Cuisiniers.
This person is, of course, none other than the esteemed consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour.
“Good day, Lin-shifu,” says Zhongli, “I’d like a Chicken Tofu Pudding, please.”
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In his opinion, he does not “care excessively” about food. He cares about food as much as he cares about everything else. If his amount of care happens to be “excessive” for a human, then…
Well, he’s human now, and so not so blind to their viewpoints anymore—or so he hopes—and he knows his meticulousness sets him apart. Specific he is indeed. “Abhorrently so,” according to the young funeral director. “How do you have the time for this?” she asked once, throwing her hands up. Like he was the odd one for deciding to mine the gold for a new tie-pin himself. He didn’t need very much, and he wanted a specific grade of gold, found in a specific, difficult-to-reach area. This simply made the most sense.
“Hmm.” He’d earnestly considered it before he realised that she meant it in exasperation.
The answer: If there was anything that he could afford nowadays, with his disappearing wallet and penchant for the luxurious, it would be time. In the bustling, fast-moving Liyue Harbour, he may as well be the only one.
The parlour is quiet. At this hour, the director is most certainly still asleep. Zhongli refills his cup. The mellow fragrance of A-grade longjing tea diffuses through the office.
It is a rather significant day.
The Rite of Descension… would have been held today, if not for him deciding a year ago that tossing the Exuvia off the clouds at the Rite was a sufficient way to kickstart his retirement. A rash decision, but still one he’d pondered on for a long, long time.
A year. What a perfectly human measure of time, a perfect 365 sunrises and sunsets, a perfect 730 lunches and dinners. Most of his meals of the past year were financed by that very generous pet of the Tsaritsa—and were, consequently, some of the best meals he’d had in a very long time.
To gods, food is little more than experiences—sometimes enjoyable, sometimes… less so. He’d not indulged until Childe had asked him, Liyuen thick in his mouth, whether he’d be interested in sharing a meal. It was only so easy for breakfast, lunch, dinner to worm its way into his schedule then. For food to take a seat at the infinitely large table of Zhongli’s mind.
It’s a… hobby, now. Yes. More affordable than one-of-a-kind antiques.
In one year, he’s dined his way across the city, through high-class restaurants with month-long waitlists to stalls-on-wheels that change location every day, eating through heavyweight paper and chalk-on-blackboard menus alike.
The spoonful of minced chicken melts on his tongue. His eyes slip shut. It’s perfect, the flavour strong yet weightless on his tongue. Another bite. This one with a Snapdragon petal, retaining its crisp and mild taste with the low flame over which the dish is cooked.
Lin’s Pot is a newer restaurant, but the married couple have been kind and receptive to his feedback, and willing, to a point, to indulge him in some of his more specific requests. Natlan cinnamon, green apples over red, rock sugar over powdered? With pleasure. Wild Violetgrass?… Well, the exchange of glances was telling enough.
As he finishes his meal, he thinks of Wanmin Restaurant’s little shifu, Xiangling. During the Rite of Passage, when he’d been too busy to sit down at a restaurant with Childe every day, the little diner had seen his face often. Once, at his request, Xiangling had located a cut of Chilled Meat for chili pork. And despite being fried and doused in fermented soybean paste and Jueyun chili, the nip of the source had cut through, bright against the spice. It had been exceptionally fresh—so fresh, that… He’d glanced up from his plate, and a spear and the striped pelt of a Dragonspine boar in the corner caught his eye.
It was then, there, confirmed: her zeal for ingredients unmatched in Teyvat, even by him, a particularly zealous man.
He thinks back to that chili pork.
Wanmin, he thinks. Perhaps I’ll go there for dinner.
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For dinner, a hearty Crab Roe Tofu. It’s wonderful, silky and salty with just the slightest sweet-bitter from crab roe and the smell of the sea. Not enough to stir up unpleasant memories. Not enough to stir up many memories at all. Chef Mao had taken his order and cooked it as Zhongli watched from the window.
Xiangling hadn’t been in.
He imagines her Crab Roe Tofu; sea salt made from brine from the Guyun Stone Forest, and tofu handmade, surely. One spoonful to have imaginary salt sting at his eyes. Another to feel the sea breeze flick through his hair, as unruly and free as He who is sealed beneath the stone forest.
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LEARN TO COOK WITH MAO XIANGLING
7 DAYS, 7 DISHES
LIMITED SLOTS, SIGN UP AT WANMIN!
He catches sight of Marchosius toddling into Wanmin as he contemplates where to get lunch. Where Marchosius is, Xiangling must be, he reasons, and makes his way toward the diner. Though it’s he who sees her first—kneeling by the sign out front, replacing the poster—she notices him eerily quickly, spinning around before he’s made himself known.
“Mr. Zhongli!”
“Shifu,” he greets. “I was wondering if you were in.”
“For you, xiansheng, I always am,” she says. “Whatcha having?”
Wanmin has no menu when Xiangling’s in the kitchen. You tell her what you want, and she cooks it. “I’ve been in the mood for Dragon Beard Noodles,” he says, lacing his fingers. Marchosius offers him lemon water. “Thank you,” he says to the bear, who chirrups in reply.
“Gotcha! How would you like the egg?”
“Over hard, if you would.” He glances at her stack of posters. “I hope I’m not disrupting your work.”
“Ahaha, no way! Cooking is my work!” She follows his gaze. “Oh, but those? I was planning to put those up ‘round town, but no rush, no rush. Ya want one?” Marchosius brings him one before he has the chance to say yes or no.
“A cooking class?”
“Yep. Apparently, lots of people in Liyue Harbour don’t know how to cook. Though this brings us customers, in the long run people should know how to cook for themselves!”
Zhongli hums.
The oil lights up, and then the kitchen’s too loud for any proper conversation.
In one wok Xiangling sears scallion and garlic and sliced ginger, fragrance pouring out into the street. She adds spoonfuls of marinated minced meat, skin-on chicken breast, fermented bean paste, a splash of oyster sauce, a handful of chashugu and dried scallop—dousing it all with a ladle of chicken stock and then letting it simmer as she pulls out another wok. Spinach, xianggu, a few bowls of water, and the noodles, pulled 4096 times, thin as a single hair from a dragon’s beard. Though it isn’t quite accurate—a hair from the Exuvia’s mane is as thin as a human hair, more or less—the verve and skill of the human chef is still to be admired.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here, hasn’t it, Mr. Zhongli?” Xiangling has to yell to be heard. “I hope it wasn’t the food that drove you away!”
“Not at all. I simply didn’t want to tire of your delightful cooking.”
She laughs, turning around to waggle her finger at him. “I’m not going to be tricked into giving away discounts just like that, xiansheng. Alright, here you are!”
A cloud of steam to the face, then—
Dragon Beard Noodles. Thin to the point of translucency, twirled into the bowl, quivering in the oily broth. Bits of minced meat, scallions, diced browned garlic, and chashugu scattered about. Placed gingerly on top is sliced chicken breast, skin golden-crisp; a pair of xianggu; and one perfect fried egg.
“Enjoy!”
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“I’ll put it on Wangsheng Funeral Parlour’s tab?”
“Yes, thank you. Also, would you please sign me up for that cooking class?”
=
The first class: Seagrass steamed egg.
It’s little more than, well, egg, beaten with water and salt. “Sea salt!” Xiangling corrects, holding up a bag. A touch of his pinky finger, a taste—and there it is, sea salt from the shores of the stone forest. She catches his eye, and beams.
The Seagrass is added for texture, because steamed egg is just steamed egg, smooth and warm and only that. You place the bowl into a pot of water until the water boils and the egg firms. A pinch of shredded scallop. A splash of soy sauce and sesame oil, a spoonful of a seafood stock.
Scallion for colour.
It’s all so deceptively simple.
Though the egg is a little tough on account of him being too stingy with the water, and though he cut the scallion into larger pieces than intended, and though he may have been too heavy-handed with the soy sauce—it is warm, it is salty, it is comforting, yielding easily under the edge of his spoon.
He arranges a bite with a little bit of everything: egg, Seagrass, scallop, broth.
Zhongli brings his spoon to his mouth, and—
Oh.
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Day 2: Shrimp dumplings. Scratch that, an Inazuman dish—Miso Soup. A chef-friend of Xiangling’s shows up with the Crux’s supply drop, bringing with him a veritable mountain of authentic Inazuman miso.
Thoma is gentle and warm. Thoma is the retainer-housekeeper of the illustrious Kamisato Clan, and he has to leave early, but returns after his errands and he makes the class a pot of his special Miso Soup with homemade miso, carrot, and butter, which leaves Zhongli feeling…
Comforted.
Yes, that’s the word.
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Day 3: Lotus Flower Crisps. He forgets one in the pot of oil, and when he does notice eventually and fish it out, it is scorched black and crumbles between his chopsticks.
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Day 4: “We’re switching it up today!” Xiangling announces, hands on her hips. “We’ve been making all hot dishes so far, and it’s pretty warm today, so let’s make something cool!”
Pretty warm is an understatement. It’s a scorcher of a day. Zhongli is staring off at the blue ocean, wondering if he should’ve left his customary jacket at home.
Day 4 is a coconut osmanthus jelly.
It’s simple, Xiangling says, for the nth time that week. Zhongli has learned to take it to mean that it will not be simple at all.
Water, sugar, agar—combined in a pot and heated until the sugar melts. The osmanthus flowers are dried, a little damp with all the humidity in the air, loosely packed into a box. Even still, the scent…
He shakes his head and drops the directed ‘generous handful’ of osmanthus flowers into the pot. The movement clears the air.
Then coconut milk, stirring until it boils. Pour it all into a bowl and wait for it to firm up—they wait around, sipping chilled cider. In the summer heat, nobody quite wants to move, soaking their feet in the shallows or sprawling out in the pockets of shade. Xiangling, however, is energetic as always, humming as she twirls around the Wanmin kitchen, mixing this, boiling that, plates scraping and bowls clanking in the washbasin.
It’s a strangely familiar sort of heat. Zhongli finds a seat outside the restaurant, in the shade that the lip of the roof provides, sun prickling across his skin. He folds up his sleeves, and stares at the lone cloud in the otherwise clear sky.
“Aren’t you hot, xiansheng?” Xiangling pokes her head out to ask. He blinks, giving a little half-shrug half-smile in response. “Like, whew! The layers…”
In thirty minutes, the jelly has firmed up nicely, and though removing it from the bowl yields slightly less-nice results, it’s nothing that slicing off the edges can’t mend. To serve—because presentation, as he’s learned, is inevitably baked into a diner chef’s habits—nothing more, nothing less than cold osmanthus syrup drizzled over-top.
“Bon appétit! That’s Fontainian for ‘enjoy.’”
Armed with a spoon, enjoy he does. It’s only then, jelly cold on his tongue, that he realises how, why, where this–this familiarity comes from.
“Morax,” he remembers. Light-coloured hair and light-coloured eyes. “Aren’t you hot?”
Summer days at the Guili Assembly were hot in a way he’d never felt before then and since then. The sun made the white stone and sand hot and bright, difficult to look at and difficult to touch. Clear blue sky above from horizon to horizon. Not a cloud in sight. No sign of rain.
She settled in beside him, in delicate hand a bowl of… something. She caught him looking. “Want some? The people were begging Marchosius for something to stave off the heat.”
He remembers—opening his mouth. He doesn’t remember what he was going to say. Either way, she hadn’t waited for his response (but when had she ever?) before bringing the spoon to his lips.
Back then, he’d been little more than the force behind his spear. Not one to eat. Not one to feel hot, or cold—or anything, for that matter. So he’d never had jelly, or honey, or milk, or osmanthus flowers.
It’s a bit like that now.
Like he’s a new, fresh god. It’s a hot summer day, he knows nothing, and his mouthful is impossibly light on his tongue and impossibly heavy on his heart. Head lowered, he brings a hand up to his face, clasping it over his mouth.
This is Liyue Harbour.
There are no sun-burned bricks or the flowering vines wrapped about the columns carved from said white brick. There is no Guili Assembly. There is no Guizhong.
He swallows.
He stares at the jelly, and grips his spoon.
=
There’s no strict end time to the class. They finish their cooking, some staying to eat, some needing to be places.
Zhongli is never urgent to leave.
If there’s anything he has in excess now, it’s time.
And it seems to bleed away today, like water in cupped hands, like Mora in the pocket of a particularly particular funerary consultant, like the recollection of memories in the mind of a god. But as moments must end and become memories to remember, there is no bottomless bowl, and soon it too is empty.
He stands.
Looks up at the cloudless blue sky.