Morning Congee, Morning Heart
Congee has a legacy stretching over four millennia—a humble yet profound part of Chinese culinary heritage. As the times evolved, so too did the styles and methods of preparation. In Chaozhou and Shantou, coastal cities fondly referred to as the "kingdom of the sea," the locals turned this modest dish into a seafood masterpiece: clay pot congee.
As Qing Dynasty gourmet Yuan Mei once wrote, "When water and rice are perfectly mixed, soft and smooth, it is called congee."
At the break of dawn, Zane had already begun the meticulous preparation. Water was added in a single go and brought to a rolling boil. Soaked Wuchang rice—a premium variety prized for its slight sweetness and sticky texture—was added next, along with a touch of peanut oil. The oil prevented overflow, while Zane's continuous stirring released the starch from the rice grains, thickening the broth without causing it to clump.
Once the grains had "bloomed," he reduced the heat and added layers of flavor: dried scallops, sliced mushrooms, slivers of ginger, and cracked crab claws. After a few minutes on medium heat, he lowered the flame further and gently folded in sliced abalone, shrimp, preserved vegetables, a small spoonful of lard, and just a dash of fish sauce.
No longer stirring vigorously, he let the congee bubble softly, the seafood slowly surrendering its essence to the pot. Just before serving, he sprinkled a few leaves of cilantro over the top.
The aroma that rose from the clay pot was as rich as the sea breeze after a storm.
A Taste That Could Make You Cry
"Erina," Zane called out. "Come down quickly and have breakfast."
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from above. A sleepy-eyed Erina descended the staircase, her golden hair slightly tousled. Dressed in a silk nightgown, her elegance had a spontaneous charm, fresh like a flower that had just unfurled.
Without a word, Zane handed her a bowl of steaming congee.
She blinked, still foggy with sleep, but the scent tugged at her hunger. She took the spoon, blew on the surface, and gently tasted the first bite.
Her golden eyes widened.
The warm, delicate congee melted in her mouth. It was not bland like the rice porridges she'd known but luxuriously smooth. The sweetness of the rice mingled with the umami of the shrimp, the tenderness of the crab, the chewiness of the mushrooms, and the subtle sharpness of the preserved vegetables. Each spoonful carried a harmony of sea and earth.
Even the clay pot had lent its own earthy depth to the dish.
It was so good, she found herself taking another bite—then another. Before she realized it, the bowl was half-empty.
"Not exaggerating, I could eat three bowls of this…" she murmured.
But even more surprising than the flavor was the emotion welling inside her.
As a bearer of the God Tongue, Erina had tasted delicacies from all over the world. Yet none of them had moved her heart like this. None of them had ever made her eyes sting with tears.
Why? Because this wasn't just food—it was care.
The Weight of a Morning Meal
Erina's heart softened. Her mother, Mana, had left home over a decade ago. Since then, her breakfasts were left to Hisako or served as formalities during judge events. There had never been that element of warmth.
But Zane—he had woken up early and made this just for her.
He had prepared it with attention to detail, without any desire for praise or prestige. He simply wanted her to eat well.
And that, more than anything, brought tears to her eyes.
Zane noticed.
"You're crying?" he asked, surprised. "Was it that bad?"
"No!" Erina shook her head quickly, rubbing her eyes. "Something just… got in my eye."
She tried to hide her emotions, but the way she clung to his hand betrayed her true feelings.
Zane froze for a moment, feeling her slender fingers hold his hand against her cheek. Her flushed face and glimmering eyes told a story she couldn't yet speak aloud.
The Rice That Speaks
"Chaozhou clay pot congee usually tastes similar," she muttered, attempting to shift the topic. "So why does yours taste so much better?"
"I used Wuchang rice," Zane replied with a calm smile, allowing her to escape her vulnerability.
"Isn't that common?" she asked.
"Not really. True Wuchang rice has very demanding growing conditions—sunlight, temperature, rainfall. It used to be imperial tribute. It's soft, sticky, and sweet—perfect for congee, especially when soaked before cooking."
"And you stir it thirty-six times?" Erina asked.
"Exactly. Clay pots help prevent sticking, but good congee still needs care. The key is even stirring and perfect heat control."
"Got it," she said, nodding. "Rice you can feel, not mush. I'll remember that."
She finished the last spoonful, every bite still warm and delicious, each taste deepening her appreciation—not just for the dish, but for Zane himself.
Sorry, Hisako… she thought.
During this vacation, I don't need you to make my breakfast anymore. I belong to Zane now.
Meat Lover's Mission
Meanwhile, Rindo Kobayashi entered the tavern, clearly on a mission. She didn't bother looking at the menu.
Instead, she locked eyes on a steaming platter: a crispy-skinned, deep-fried chicken leg, cut into pieces larger than ping-pong balls. The juicy interior steamed with each bite. A faint hint of lemon juice cut through the richness.
"Ahh… so satisfying…" Rindo sighed contentedly, licking the tips of her fingers.
Then, her eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Zane, do me a favor?"
Zane looked up from wiping his knife. "What now?"
Rindo pulled a burlap sack onto the table and opened it.
Inside lay a juvenile crocodile—bound, taped, and still very much alive.
Zane: "…"
Rindo grinned. "Can you handle this like you did with the bear paw last time?"
Crocodile Chaos in the Kitchen
The tavern exploded into chaos.
Customers screamed. A few backed away in fear.
Zane raised an eyebrow. "This is a tavern, not a slaughterhouse. First bear paw, now crocodile? What's next, venomous snakes?"
"Oh! Great idea! Snake soup next!" Rindo clapped excitedly.
Zane sighed. "Fine, but this is the last time. Don't bring me any more live animals."
"Deal!"
Zane secured the crocodile on the cutting board. Though it was young and relatively small, its sharp teeth and rough scales still made it look fearsome.
Without hesitation, Zane used a swift, practiced motion to cut the windpipe and drain the blood into a bowl of fragrant rice—preserving the iron-rich flavor in the most traditional way.
Sonoka, a French cuisine expert nearby, paled at the sight. "He… he killed it right there?!"
The room went silent except for the rhythmic sound of the knife.
Slice. Slice. Slice.
Zane gutted the crocodile cleanly, removed the offal, cut the tail and head, scraped the belly scales, and prepared the meat.
Less than five minutes later, the beast was fully processed.
Even Rindo was stunned. "That fast?"
She had handled rare meats herself, but Zane's precision, confidence, and speed far outclassed her.
The Taste of the Wild
Crocodile meat, often dubbed a "living fossil," had long been praised in ancient texts like the Compendium of Materia Medica. Its medicinal properties included strengthening bones, improving qi, and dispelling dampness.
Though not commonly found on modern menus, it could be cooked in nearly every traditional Chinese method: stir-fried, deep-fried, braised, red-cooked, or even used in hotpot.
Taste-wise, it was somewhere between chicken, pork, and a hint of firm white fish. Tough on the outside, but delicate when cooked well.
Zane's next challenge? To turn this exotic protein into a tavern dish worthy of his growing legend.