"Elder Li, you have a discerning eye," Li Xu admitted frankly.

"HAHAHAHA!" Instead of being surprised, Elder Li was delighted and burst out laughing. "Excellent! Excellent! Such audacity! *This* is a true An Gong Bezoar Pill! The ones made with substitutes like Buffalo Horn concentrate powder are far too weak!"

To someone of his status, regulations like banned substances and compliance were insignificant compared to genuine efficacy and saving a life.

Rules were made to bind ordinary people.

And people like them could, at times, place themselves above those rules.

"This is a true life-saving Immortal Pill!" Elder Li caressed the pill, unable to put it down. He carefully placed it back in its box, then solemnly handed it to the nanny standing beside him.

"Nanny Zhang, put this away! Keep it by itself in the small drawer at the very back of my nightstand."

He instructed her carefully, "Remember, if one day I suddenly can’t speak, or if one side of my body becomes paralyzed, don’t hesitate for a second. Immediately dissolve this pill in warm water and force it down my throat! Got it? This will be more effective than any emergency call!"

"Yes, I’ll remember, Elder Li," the nanny quickly replied.

After seeing to the An Gong Bezoar Pill, Elder Li’s gaze fell upon the several bottles of "Dragon Bone Powder."

"And what treasure is this?"

"This is the latest product from our Ding’s Pharmaceutical Factory, called ’Dragon Bone Powder,’" Ding Aiguo explained with a smile. "The formula was also provided by Doctor Li. Its core ingredient is genuine Dragon Bone."

"Oh? Made with Dragon Bone?" Elder Li’s interest was piqued even more. He picked up a bottle and examined it closely. "Not bad, not bad at all. This is what it means to return to the source, to not forget one’s origins. So many modern Chinese medicines have been altered to save costs, getting rid of the wonderful things our ancestors left us. It’s putting the cart before the horse."

He opened a bottle, poured a little out to taste, and nodded in praise. "Cooling, sweet, and soothing. The medicinal properties are gentle, and it melts in the mouth. Wonderful stuff! Doctor Li, you’re a walking treasure trove! Anything you produce is bound to make waves!"

Li Xu smiled humbly.

Just then, the nanny came out from the kitchen. "Elder Li, all the ingredients are prepped. When should we start cooking?"

"Excellent! Let’s go! I’ll let you all have a taste of my cooking today!"

Elder Li, in high spirits, rolled up his sleeves and strode into a kitchen so spacious and bright it could rival a professional one.

He had Ding Aiguo and Li Xu sit at the rosewood eight-person table in the living room to await the feast.

Before long, Nanny Zhang served the first dish.

A massive blue-and-white porcelain tureen held a pool of clear, golden broth. A few specks of vibrant green scallion floated on the surface, like emeralds dotting a jade sea.

Submerged in the broth were countless strands of shredded tofu, each as fine as a silk thread. They were long, distinct, and pristine—it was nearly impossible to spot a single broken piece.

Nestled among the tofu threads were equally fine shreds of chicken and ham, along with a few plump, pink, translucent fresh shrimp and thinly sliced chicken gizzards.

The colors of the dish were harmonious, creating an image of refined elegance. A rich, complex, and savory aroma wafted toward them, instantly whetting their appetites.

"Come, try my ’Shredded Tofu in Chicken Broth,’" Elder Li said, taking off his apron and sitting down, his face beaming with pride. "This is an authentic famous dish from Yangzhou. It’s the ultimate test of a chef’s knife work and control over the heat."

Ding Aiguo gazed at the bowl of what could only be described as "Braised Shredded Tofu" artistry, overwhelmed with emotion.

He picked up his chopsticks, carefully lifted a small bundle, and exclaimed in admiration, "Elder Li, your knife work is simply sublime. You can find this dish everywhere these days, but it’s a world apart from what it used to be. Leaving aside the flavor, just look at the knife work—most versions are a mangled mess of broken bits and pieces. Where else can you find such exquisite, distinct, thread-like strands? The taste is usually bland and watery, too."

"That’s hardly surprising." Elder Li picked up some of the shredded tofu with his chopsticks, placed it in his mouth, and savored his own creation. "How many restaurants today are willing to use top-grade Jinhua Ham and fresh river shrimp? They just use chicken powder and MSG to create an artificial savory flavor. Only the century-old, time-honored establishments still manage to maintain the standards of the past!"

Ding Aiguo personally poured Elder Li a full cup of tea and drifted into reminiscence. "Speaking of which, when I was a child back home, I mostly ate a kind of stewed tofu strips. The firm tofu was first sliced, deep-fried, then simmered in a spiced soy brine. My happiest memories were of going with my dad to the old teahouse in town for morning tea. The adults would order a pot of strong green tea, a dish of the stewed tofu strips in sauce, and a big platter of steaming hot crab roe shumai. They’d eat and chat with their tea friends about anything and everything."

His gaze grew distant, as if he had returned to his carefree childhood.

"I remember there was a thin, elderly regular at the next table who had a particular air about him. Every time he came, without fail, he would order just one pot of fragrant tea and a serving of the spicy stewed tofu strips. Nothing else. He would use the very tips of his chopsticks to methodically lift two or three strands to his mouth, chewing and sipping slowly, perfectly calm and at ease. He’d cradle a tiny Zisha clay teacup in his palm, taking a small sip now and then. His leisurely contentment was enough to make even Immortals envious. I knew from that moment that there was a profound charm to these seemingly simple tofu strips!"

After listening, Elder Li let out a hearty laugh and began to enthusiastically share his process for making the dish.

"You’re absolutely right! The charm of the tofu strips lies in their subtle inherent flavor and their ability to absorb a hundred others. To make a top-tier bowl of this dish, you can’t be careless with a single step."

He held up one finger. "First, ingredient selection. Early this morning, I went to the market myself, to a tofu stall that’s been in the same family for three generations, to pick out the best pressed white tofu curds. The curd has to be elastic and resilient. When you fold it in half in your hand, it can’t break or crack. Only then does it pass the test."

"Second is the knife work." A look of pride spread across his face. "Once you get the tofu curd home, you first have to slice it into paper-thin sheets with a sharp knife, each one of uniform thickness. Then you stack the sheets and julienne them into extremely fine threads. The shredding is the most crucial part. You have to be precise, ’one cut right after another,’ all in one fluid motion, with no hesitation. Only tofu strips cut this way will be perfectly uniform and won’t break apart in the pot."

"Finally, there’s the broth and the other ingredients." Elder Li pointed to the soup in the tureen. "I made this broth by simmering a whole stewing hen with ham and dried scallops over low heat for four hours to draw out the flavor. Not a single pinch of MSG. As for the ingredients, you need more than just fresh shrimp; you also have to use ’kaiyang.’"

"Kaiyang?" Li Xu asked, curious.

"That’s right. Kaiyang are sea shrimp that have been boiled, sun-dried, and shelled. Good kaiyang are a vibrant red, dry but still elastic, and have an intensely savory flavor. Now, there are two ways to use it. If you’re aiming for the ultimate flavor experience, you should shred the kaiyang and mix it in with the tofu, allowing its savory essence to completely meld with the broth. But if you want the dish to be visually appealing, you do what I did today—use the kaiyang whole to dot the dish. The contrast of red and white is quite beautiful."