Chapter Text
"And would you leave me, i f I told you what I've become?"
Sweat rolled down his forehead, a trickle mixing with the steamy humidity that filled the empty apartment. Jiang Cheng lifted his arm to wipe his face, feeling the fabric of the white towel dip into his damp skin. His breathing was still irregular, his heartbeat did not calm down, and each breath seemed to shatter in the absolute silence that enveloped the room. The background noise was the constant and almost comforting one of the fan, a hum that seemed to be the sign of a life that continued to turn, even when he couldn't do it. Or at least, not quickly enough.
Every beat, every sigh seemed to echo against the bare walls of his solitude. It wasn't quiet, not really. Silence is a concept that does not apply to those who have a mind inside them that never stops talking, questioning, tormenting themselves.
His mind was a labyrinth of thoughts that could never find rest, a place where the past continued to torment him relentlessly, while the future remained blurry, a shadow he couldn't quite define. Then, in that emptiness, there was the distant ticking of a clock. Such an insignificant sound, yet so fundamental. The constant presence of time that passed, that slipped without stopping. The hands never stop, and yet to him, time had stopped meaning anything.
The clock, that instrument that measures the inevitability of change, seemed like a constant warning that everything is slipping away, but it no longer had the power to push him to react. He looked around, but everything seemed opaque, as if the very air had hardened into a permanent gray. Jiang Cheng's life had become a mechanical repetition, a repeating cycle with no real beginning or end, just an eternal now that never brought anything new.
Yet, Jiang Cheng did not feel that he belonged to the time. He was a stranger to his own life. A figure who looked at his own existence as if it were a film that was being projected automatically. He wasn't really inside it, he wasn't part of it, but he found himself forced to observe it, impassive. He felt that everything around him was moving forward: the world, the people, the food that changed, the fashions that alternated, but he remained there, still, suspended in an existence that he could no longer recognize as his.
When he left his career as a lawyer, he realized that his life had never truly been his. He had lived it to please others, to adhere to a model that did not satisfy him. His own past now seemed to him to be a distortion of what should have been. His family saw him as a failure, his clan treated him with a distance he could no longer bridge. And yet, there was no anger in him, not now. Just a stillness that rang hollow, like the rhythmic beating of his heart, the sign that there was still something that kept him alive, but that couldn't translate into a real feeling.
Every day, every moment that passed felt like a diluted version of the day before, a lighter shadow of a life that had never stopped trying to escape him. The days slipped by one after the other, like pieces of a broken puzzle that he couldn't put back together, pieces that no longer fit together. Every movement, every thought, every word he wrote on his blog seemed like a challenge to the emptiness that had made room in his existence. Every review, every dish tasted, every new gastronomic experience he reported on his blog, Sandu Shengshou: the critic with a question mark, seemed to him more like a physical necessity than an act of pleasure. Writing was no longer a gesture that emerged from passion or curiosity, but from the automation of an existence that no longer knew how to stop.
He was a machine. A food critic. A man who reviewed dishes that had nothing special about them, dishes that failed to awaken any emotion, any spark. Still, he couldn't stop. Because his mind, and his mouth, kept searching for something that was different. They searched for a flavor that he could never define, that slipped between his taste buds without ever stopping. Every dish he tasted seemed like an illusion, a shadow that he couldn't touch, but that he continued to chase, like a dream that never ends.
Home.
The very word sounded strange in his mind. A concept that he could no longer conceive, an idea that seemed to slip through his fingers, like a memory that dissolves. Home wasn't a home anymore. Home was no longer his sister, Jiang Yanli, who cooked with that smile that knew calm and love, with the delicate but sure gesture of her hands that prepared each dish with a care that conveyed security, that said "you are safe here". Every dish she prepared seemed like a declaration of love, a promise that nothing, not even the outside world, could ruin.
But now, Jiang Yanli was no more. And the taste of her cooking, which had once given him a sense of belonging, of a place where he could always return, had gone with her. His sister's death had taken away everything that remained of that serenity, of that stability that she had given him without asking for anything in return. Now, the void was a shadow that followed him wherever he went. He had never been a man prone to regret, but with Jiang Yanli's death something had broken, like a vase shattering into a thousand pieces. Not only his family, but also his soul. His entire identity now seemed to slip through his hands, like water slipping away without leaving a trace.
Their family. Aged, distant, unable to recognize the void that had grown between them. A void that grew every day, making their conversations a dialogue between two strangers, two beings who had once shared everything, but now could no longer even be found in words. Now they were just a mass of shadows observing him from afar, as if they no longer had anything to share with him, as if they had never seen the man who had once been a son, a brother. A son and a brother who now seemed like just a blurry memory, no longer fitting reality. Only Wei Wuxian remained by his side. Only Wei Wuxian, who had always been his anchor, even when everything around them was sinking. Even when his family had moved away, even when the bonds seemed to shatter like broken dishes on the floor, Wei Wuxian had never left him.
But even Wei Wuxian could not fill the void left by Jiang Yanli. Her death had been like a cold wind that had swept away everything that was warm, familiar. His older sister, who had always cooked with a tangible love, a love that could be felt in the dishes, in daily gestures. It was love that transformed even the simplest food into something extraordinary, an emanation of warmth that he could no longer find in anything.
There was something strange, unbearable, in that sensation. It was as if a thread that tied him to reality had been broken, leaving him floating without a point of reference. He felt a constant pressure on his chest, as if the entire world was pushing him to a conclusion he couldn't comprehend. His soul had become an empty container, incapable of holding anything significant, anything sincere. The pain of that loss, of that fracture, was not something that could be filled by a dish, by a review, by a new gastronomic experience. And yet, he couldn't stop. He couldn't. He couldn't find peace, nor did he really look for it. His mind kept spinning, constantly hungry for something he could never find.
Jiang Yanli's death was not just the loss of a loved one, but of a part of himself. A piece of home, shelter, heart. When he looked at her, even in silence, in the little things she did every day, Jiang Cheng felt the presence of a love that never needed words, but which communicated in every gesture, in every dish prepared, in every smile she gave him. he gave when he entered the kitchen. And that smile was gone. And that flavor. That delicacy that she knew how to instill in every dish. That warmth that once filled his heart.
When he decided to leave his career as a lawyer, it was as if he had chosen to abandon a version of himself he could no longer recognize. His family turned their backs on him. Everyone thought he was crazy, a man who gave up stability, a career, to chase a dream that had nothing concrete. But Jiang Cheng felt that there was something bigger than himself that was pushing him to change. It was no longer a question of laws, rules, writings to be respected. No, what he needed was more. He had to find a path that could give him back that sense of belonging that he had lost, a sense of home that he no longer knew how to define.
And he found that meaning in the dishes, in the flavors that tell stories of family, of home, of affections that cannot be described with words. It wasn't the luxurious dishes or the most sophisticated recipes that gave him that sense of completeness. It was simple food, the one that had a soul, that spoke of who prepared it, that told a story. Every dish he tasted, every bite he put in his mouth, took him back to a moment, to a memory that he couldn't hold onto, but that he felt slipping away like sand between his fingers. As if food were the only language he had left to talk to the past, to try to fill the void that Jiang Yanli had left in his heart.
Jiang Cheng's blog, "Sandu Shengshou: The Critic with a Question Mark," was not just a collection of food reviews, but an open window into his tormented soul. Every post he wrote seemed like a search, not only for the perfect dish, but also for a way to communicate the emptiness he felt inside. His blog was nothing more than a long reflection on what he couldn't focus on. There never really were any definitive reviews; rather, there was a continuous search, an evolving process. Every dish tasted was analyzed meticulously, but behind his words there was always that question: "Can this dish give me back what I've lost? Can it fill the void that I can't explain?"
Each criticism seemed more like a chapter in a personal tragedy than a culinary review. When he wrote about dishes he thought were exceptional, there was always a hint of nostalgia. Jiang Cheng didn't just write about what he ate, but about what he wanted to eat, about those flavors he lost when Jiang Yanli left. The food she prepared was never just "good", but brought with it an emotion that the critic could not find in any other dish. She did not cook to nourish the body, but to nourish the soul. Each dish was a caress, a silent presence, a hug that spoke of home. Her death had stripped away not only that presence, but also the connection Jiang Cheng had to the world she represented.
When he decided to pursue a career as a food critic, he did so impulsively, as a sort of escape. He no longer wanted to stay in the shadow of his old life as a lawyer, where everything seemed grey, meaningless. There was no happiness in contracts, in laws. There was none of the warmth she felt in Jiang Yanli's hands as she prepared a meal with love. So he decided to give up everything and dive into a world that, at least initially, seemed to offer him an escape route. But it wasn't just about writing reviews, it was a way to search for a part of himself that he could no longer find. Food became a means to communicate pain and regret, to search, relentlessly, for that flavor that would bring back time.
The only one who supported him without judging, without telling him that he was doing something crazy, was Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian who, despite his apparent carefreeness and rebellious attitude, was a constant presence in Jiang Cheng's life. If there was anyone who could capture the essence of that "hole" that Jiang Cheng carried within himself, it was him. Wei Wuxian didn't give him easy answers, didn't try to console him with empty words. He didn’t even try to make him understand that the pain he felt would pass with time. No, Wei Wuxian just stood there, like a rock. Not to turn off the pain, but to stay beside him as he tried to deal with it.
He was the only one who, among all the people Jiang Cheng had met, could tolerate his silence, his fury, his expressions of frustration. He was also the only one who really listened to him when he talked about his blog, his reviews, his attempts to grasp something that was always eluding him.
“Have you ever thought that you are looking for something that no longer exists?” Wei Wuxian had told him once, over a noodle dinner, while Jiang Cheng was frantically writing a review.
Jiang Cheng hadn't responded immediately, but his hands had trembled as he stirred the noodles on his plate. Wei Wuxian hadn't insisted, but there was a silent understanding between them, as if they both understood that Jiang Cheng's "past" would never return, that his quest would never have a satisfactory conclusion. But that research, just like the blog, was the only way Jiang Cheng could still breathe. It was his obsession, his way of keeping alive a flame that he knew would fade sooner or later.
Every now and then, Wei Wuxian enjoyed giving him "gifts", so to speak. They were never valuables, but rather suggestions of new places to try. The most hidden restaurants, the small trattorias, the strangest and most unexpected dishes. Wei Wuxian knew that, even if Jiang Cheng never admitted it, his spirit was nourished by these discoveries. They were flashes of light in a life that seemed to slip away. But Jiang Cheng could never find that perfect dish, that dish that gave him back everything he was missing.
Jiang Cheng's fame was a slow rise, imperceptible at first, but inexorable. He was a feared, respected, yet not fully understood critic. His pen was sharp and his palate, sharp as a blade, was known to be unforgiving of even the smallest faults. Every review he wrote seemed to reveal the hidden truth behind each dish: the care, or lack thereof, the passion, or the indifference. There was no way out. His sincerity was a double-edged sword: for restaurateurs, a blessing or a condemnation, never something colorless.
For some, his opinion was a blessing that could turn an unfamiliar cuisine into a shining star. Being reviewed by Jiang Cheng meant, for some, entering the gastronomic elite. There was nothing more desired, nothing more sought after. When a restaurant was rated by him with at least three stars, the whole world seemed to give it the utmost respect. The kitchens were crowded, the customers were flocking, and the name of the restaurant became a brand of quality recognized throughout the country. It was a recognition that, for some, repaid years of effort and sacrifice.
The owners were preparing to face the review with a beating heart, but with a certain pride. That evaluation, however harsh, made them feel legitimized. They would have responded with statements, with articles written specifically to counter his criticisms, perhaps trying to justify their actions. In some cases, Jiang Cheng's criticism became a starting point for deeper reflection on their culinary art. They were preparing to defend their dish, of course, but they also knew that, without his opinion, their cuisine would remain in the shadows.
Yet, there were also those who received his review as a stab. Restaurateurs who, rather than improving, found themselves crushed by the weight of his analysis. To them, his words were nothing more than a condemnation, and the fragility of their work was exposed for all to see. The reputation, built with sweat and sacrifice, collapsed at once under the weight of his pen. Those restaurants, incapable of recovering from the blow, were forced to change or, worse, closed their doors, abandoned by an unforgiving public.
There were those who, unable to accept the truth of the criticism, made accusations against him. But the truth of Jiang Cheng was never negotiable. Every written word had the weight of sincerity, and that sincerity hurt, both for the restaurateurs and for Jiang Cheng's heart himself.
The emptiness that Jiang Cheng felt, however, was not only due to the solitude that his fame had imposed on him. His frantic search for the perfect dish, for that something that could finally fill the void left by the death of Jiang Yanli, dragged him into a spiral of dissatisfaction. Every dish he savored was a wasted opportunity, an opportunity in which his heart opened, but he never managed to find what he was looking for. The perfection he described in his reviews, the beauty of the dishes he praised, was only a distorted reflection of what he really wanted.
Sitting at his table, in the loneliness of his home, Jiang Cheng wrote and wrote without ever stopping. His hand never stopped running over the keyboard, as if words could solve everything, as if every criticism could give him back what he had lost. Yet, there was no dish, no ingredient that could awaken him from the torpor of his soul. Even the most delicious dishes, the ones that would have made anyone's mouth water, left him with a bitter sense of lack. It wasn't the taste of food he was after. By now he knew that. It was something deeper, something that could not be tasted with the tongue, but only felt with the heart.
His reviews, though perfect in their objectivity, were like faded photographs of an unattainable dream. The dishes he admired for their craftsmanship always seemed to lack that "I don't know what", that sparkle that he had found in his sister's preparations. Jiang Yanli, with his delicacy and his love infused in every dish, knew exactly what it meant to cook with the heart. Every time Jiang Cheng ate, he found himself craving the taste of home, the feeling of being wrapped in a familiar embrace. But that feeling was no longer there. His search was infinite. And every dish he reviewed seemed only a pale imitation of what he would have liked to find.
His fame was growing, but his dissatisfaction grew with it. Every review he wrote separated him further from the possibility of feeling complete again. The restaurateurs respected him, but he could never find the respect he sought from himself. He couldn't give himself the peace he hoped for. And while the comments continued to arrive, making his blog a point of reference for millions of readers, Jiang Cheng felt more and more trapped in a dead-end labyrinth.
Jiang Cheng found himself looking out the window of his apartment, lost in thought. The city lights of Shanghai twinkled like distant stars, yet he could find no peace. The solitude he had built for himself felt like a weight that was crushing him, yet it seemed like the only companion he had left. The sound of the metropolis that pulsated beneath him was a constant murmur, like a distant memory, which entered his ears but failed to wake him from the torpor that enveloped him.
His apartment, a small studio with a large window overlooking the city panorama, was the reflection of his life. Sparsely furnished, with few pieces of furniture and decorations that reflected his indifference towards the world around him, everything in that environment spoke of efficiency rather than comfort. The colors were dark, black, gray and a deep brown predominated, which faded into each other as if the apartment was immersed in an eternal twilight. The light that filtered through the window was weak, yet it gave rise to soft shadows on the walls, like a chiaroscuro that underlined the solitude of those who lived there.
With an automatic movement, Jiang Cheng took the wet towel off his head and threw it on the sofa next to him. He looked at himself for a moment, as if trying to meet his eyes in the mirror in front of him, but found nothing he liked. There was nothing to tell him who he was, other than the food critic that the world knew, but that he himself could no longer recognize. He felt like a stranger within his own skin.
Wei Wuxian, his brother, was the only link he had left to a past he couldn't forget. Despite their differences, despite their conflict and misunderstanding, Wei Wuxian had always been there for him. He was the one who had convinced him to give up his career as a lawyer to follow a completely different path. A food critic. A profession that Jiang Cheng had never dreamed of, but which had been sewn onto him like a suit that, although not perfect, suited a simplicity that he was unable to reject.
Wei Wuxian, with his unstoppable spirit, had taken it upon himself to organize all the stages of the restaurants to be reviewed, managing his work from behind the scenes like a cunning manager. He was the engine that moved everything, while Jiang Cheng stayed behind the keyboard, writing words that could make the difference between success and failure.
Yet despite his rise and fame, Jiang Cheng could not feel a sense of fulfillment. People loved him, hated him, revered him, but no one really knew the weight he carried inside. His blog, "Sandu Shengshou: The Critic with a Question Mark," had become a legend in the gastronomic world. But that question mark, that symbol of uncertainty, always accompanied him, like a stain that he couldn't remove. His fame gave him no satisfaction. His life no longer had a clear direction, and as he thought about the path that had brought him here, he couldn't find an answer.
With a sigh, Jiang Cheng moved away from the window and plopped down on the sofa. He ran a hand through his wet hair and looked at the phone, now on the coffee table in front of him. He scrolled through it absentmindedly, until he stopped at a comment. It was one message among dozens he received daily, but something about that comment struck him. It was short, but with a sincerity that surprised him:
@FoodieFanXichen: Have you ever tried the "Lán Héyuán - Blue Lotus Garden" restaurant in Suzhou? Its cuisine is as elegant as it is mysterious. If you're really missing something, this might be the right place to look for it.
The name "Lán Héyuán" struck him like a shock. It wasn't a name he'd ever considered before, but something about that phrase attracted him. Mysterious, elegant, something that might be missing. It was like the comment was the answer to a question he didn't even know he had. As if, somewhere, someone had sensed his emptiness, his search.
With a quick gesture, Jiang Cheng opened his browser, his heart beating faster than he would have expected. His mind was filled with thoughts and questions, that feeling of having reached a crossroads that, although familiar, felt new. His finger slid across the keyboard, searching for the name that had now entered his mind like a small seed of curiosity.
The page opened before him like a window revealing itself to the world, and Jiang Cheng's eyes were immediately drawn to the name of the restaurant: Lán Héyuán - Garden of the Blue Lotus. His mind began to do a quick calculation: the name evoked purity and majesty, but it was also a hint of the duality that he had begun to perceive in the work of whoever had opened that restaurant: the union of an ancient art with a future that he didn't know yet.
It was a Michelin-starred restaurant, but there was something more that caught Jiang Cheng's attention. Lan Xichen's minimalist cuisine, based on the purity of flavors, attention to detail and essentiality, was a call that was difficult to ignore. Customer reviews, mostly praiseworthy, spoke of dishes that told stories of balance, delicacy, yet full of unexpected complexity. Each review felt like a poem that slowly revealed the hidden nuances behind each course.
But there was one review in particular that made him stop. The words were elegant, but it wasn't the tone that struck him. It was the description of a dish, which someone had defined as «an interpretation of cuisine that transcends tradition, while maintaining its essence». A statement that seemed to want to awaken a part in him that he had long since stopped looking for, a part that was now awakening, timid and uncertain.
A thought flashed through him as fast as lightning. Could this be... the right restaurant? A place where he would finally find the flavor that he had been missing for too long. A flavor that he felt was inherent in his childhood, in the dishes that his sister Jiang Yanli prepared with love, that his heart could not forget. The scent of that house, of those dishes that smelled of home, of affection and roots. But now he was no longer there, and Jiang Cheng felt that absence every time he sat down at the table, every time he tasted something that didn't give him that feeling of completeness.
He paused to think for a moment, his heart racing. It wouldn't have been easy. For some time now, every search for a dish that would satisfy him had seemed in vain. Every restaurant, every chef had something they were missing. It was as if, unconsciously, he was searching for a promise that no dish could keep. But this? This Lan Xichen restaurant looked different.
Jiang Cheng gripped the phone, a strange feeling of hope coursing through him, a glimmer of possibility that seemed almost elusive. Will this be the answer?
With a rapid scroll, he found the address. Suzhou. Not too far away. His mind started working, planning. He would not allow himself to be overwhelmed by another vain search. He would have tried. He would have gone there, he would have savored every dish, every flavour, every detail, with the hope that, finally, he had found the answer to that question that had tormented him for years. What's missing? Where did that taste of home get lost?
Jiang Cheng remained still, the phone still clutched in his hands, but his eyes staring into space, as if he were trying to read something that wasn't there. His fingers trembled imperceptibly as he reflected on that moment of suspended stillness. His apartment, small and basic, seemed to breathe with him.
The sofa, a dark blue almost black, seemed worn by time and his many hours of reflection, of nightly research on new restaurants and dishes to review. The room was a haven of solitude, with walls that went from gray to black, fading into a darkness that no longer bothered him. Everything had its place, but nothing had a real purpose other than to serve as a side dish to his life which now seemed locked in a circle of criticism and dissatisfaction.
His body, which had been stiff for a moment, relaxed a little as he walked towards the window. He rests his hand on the cold glass, feeling the subtle vibrations of the rain pattering on the windows, as if the world is trying to enter his solitude. His breathing became deeper. I want to be different, I was different. The words were buzzing in his head, but they seemed empty, meaningless. The critic who couldn't smile, the man who couldn't smile even at the dishes he reviewed. And yet... I want to believe it. I want to hope there's something worth finding.
His life was made of judgments, weights and measures, ruthless comparisons with the expectations of others. A 5 star dish was supposed to be perfect, but it rarely was. And every time he closed his eyes and thought of his sister's cooking, of how she knew how to immerse every ingredient in affection, his heart ached. There wasn't a dish that could touch him like that, bring him back. Perhaps, he thought, it was just a fantasy, something that belonged only to a now lost past.
He turned, walking over to his small table. A corner of paper, a notepad, and a pen. The blog. "Sandu Shengshou: the critic with a question mark". His name, now known to all, but never fully understood. Why a question point? Why not a certainty? Why not answer all the questions that arise, if instead every dish you taste gives rise to a new one? He had always wondered if there was a meaning behind his own name, if it had been some kind of refuge from his own expectations. A way of saying, "I'm not an absolute judge, just someone who searches." But was he really looking for it?
He closed his eyes, a moment of peace. For the first time in a long time, he thought that maybe there was something to discover, something to feel. That restaurant, that dish that perhaps would be able to give meaning to everything he had searched for and had never found.