Chapter Seventy-Three: Let Us Witness a Miracle Together (Part One)

Cheng Xiaoyu ordered two vegetarian dishes and one meat dish at the cafeteria, with just a modest portion of rice. He had recently lost a bit of weight and was determined to keep it up.

Many people find it awkward to eat alone in a crowded place, but not him. He had always cherished his moments of solitude.

So, savoring each bite of delicious food, with melodious music drifting in his ears and the sight of many beautiful girls to admire, he found even this simple life worth remembering. At times, such uncomplicated moments filled him with a lingering sense of contentment.

It made him start looking forward to his university life.

Meanwhile, at the entrance to the Chang'an Club, Wang Dongliang felt a bit out of his depth. Though he had worked in the capital for years, he was well aware of the city's four most prestigious clubs.

"Beijing's Four Great Clubs"—the Chang'an Club at No. 10 Chang'an Street, the Huaxia Society, a historic club frequented by numerous national leaders, the Beijing Club, which called itself "China's No. 1 Club for the Wealthy," and the global chain, the American Club.

The Chang'an Club sat on the immensely valuable Chang'an Avenue, just a stone's throw from Tiananmen Square.

The Chang'an Club's reputation was resplendent, its threshold dauntingly high. As a humble office worker from a small county, Wang Dongliang was genuinely nervous. When he stepped through the grand entrance, his heart was pounding as if he were awaiting his college entrance exam results.

As the doorman opened the door for him, he was greeted by a dazzling replica of the imperial throne room, with priceless rosewood screens and ornaments adding to the sense of grandeur. The club's opulent, majestic, and regal palace style was Wang Dongliang's first impression.

Inside, a row of hostesses, each with a model's figure and a celebrity's face, bowed to him in unison, making him almost want to turn and leave—had he not brought a young lady with him. He started to worry if Cheng Xiaoyu had arranged everything properly, and whether that black membership card would be of any use.

But then, the first manager to his left, tall and graceful in a burgundy suit, white blouse, and black pencil skirt, with gentle and refined features, called his name without hesitation. "Good evening, Mr. Wang. Your table is ready. Would you like to dine now or relax in the café for a while?"

Her voice felt like a spring breeze. Wang Dongliang thought to himself that Cheng Xiaoyu's arrangements were indeed reliable. His nerves instantly melted away, and he feigned familiarity, replying, "We'll dine directly, we're a bit pressed for time."

The manager's white blouse bore a round metallic badge, and a name tag was pinned to her chest. Wang Dongliang didn't dare look too closely nor felt comfortable asking how she recognized him.

As a top-tier club, luxury was a constant theme, but it was their exceptional service that truly set them apart. Allowing members to arrange meals for non-members was a perfect opportunity to showcase the club’s image.

As long as a member provided the name of their guest, the club would see to all the details. Knowing every member's name and dining preferences was routine; they would also try to investigate the guest's background, appearance, and interests ahead of time, striving to earn universal approval and praise.

The elegant female manager led them to the elevator and pressed the button for the ninth floor. Wang Dongliang and Yang Siqi were too nervous to chat in the elevator, so the manager took the initiative to introduce the newly renovated eighth floor.

It would soon house one of the best Chinese restaurants in the capital, "Qingzun Red Candle," which was also the largest and most lavishly decorated venue in the club. The grand hall boasted a huge oil painting titled "The Drunken Concubine," along with various pieces of antique furniture and lighting fixtures. A collection of rare rosewood screens elevated the aura of imperial elegance to its peak. The restaurant served exquisite Cantonese cuisine and specialties from across the country. Additionally, it boasted dozens of private dining rooms with evocative names: Supreme, Double Happiness, Triple Blessing, all the way up to Nine Like Jade and Ten Perfections.

Their destination, the ninth floor, featured the "Nihonbashi" Japanese restaurant and the "Naples" Italian restaurant. The Japanese eatery included a sushi bar, a grill house, and two authentic tatami rooms. The head chef from Japan had once cooked for the royal family, while the Italian restaurant offered a range of genuine Italian dishes and wines.

Cheng Xiaoyu had reserved Japanese cuisine for them. As the manager led them into Nihonbashi on the ninth floor, they were greeted by a beautiful young woman in kimono, Sakai Dai, who spoke Chinese with an obvious Japanese accent and would be serving them.

Though this was the ninth floor of a grand building in China, once inside, it felt like stepping into a classic Japanese courtyard, steeped in an ancient and tranquil atmosphere. Yet, just outside the vast floor-to-ceiling windows, the solemn Tiananmen stood in stark contrast to the serene, Zen-inspired interior.

It created a strange sensation, as if one could slip through the cracks of time. Sakai Dai led Wang Dongliang and Yang Siqi through this magical space, softly explaining that the watermill hut and other items on the left were all Edo-period antiques, transported intact from Kanagawa. In front of the hut, a well as large as a millstone brimmed with clear water, while unruly bamboo shoots lined the pebble path on both sides. The only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the kimono-clad attendants’ wooden clogs.

Wang Dongliang was left speechless by the spectacle. Perhaps these things were unremarkable in Japan, but when gazing at Tiananmen outside while seated in such a refined, ancient courtyard, the impact was overwhelming.

Yang Siqi clung to Wang Dongliang’s arm, a little frightened by the opulent, dreamlike surroundings, as if she’d stepped into another world.

Sakai Dai guided them to a traditional tatami room.

Inside, a Tang Dynasty lacquered rosewood five-string pipa, once gifted to the Japanese emperor, hung on the wall, alongside a calligraphy scroll of “On Music and Righteousness” by Empress Kōmyō (701–760), a devout Buddhist and daughter of Fujiwara no Fuhito and the Tachibana family.

Of course, Wang Dongliang didn’t recognize these national treasures of Japan; he simply felt that everything today was a miracle.

Sakai Dai handed him the menu, but Wang Dongliang found no prices listed, nor did he know if there were any rules he should observe, fearing he might make a fool of himself. He passed the menu to Yang Siqi, asking if she had any preferences.

Yang Siqi only glanced through it—the kaiseki starters and soup courses made no sense to her—so she asked Wang Dongliang to decide.

With a smile, Wang Dongliang asked Sakai Dai to make the arrangements.

Kneeling on the tatami, Sakai Dai replied in the gentle manner unique to Japanese women, inviting them to wait a moment, then bowed and withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.

Soon after, she returned with two other kimono-clad girls, less striking in appearance, who served the dishes and carefully explained each one.

They were served kaiseki cuisine: seven intricate appetizers, a soup course, sashimi, fried dishes, simmered dishes, grilled items, and finally, rice or soup.

Each dish was prepared only after the guests ordered, ensuring maximum freshness and flavor. Because everything was made to order, there was always a wait after ordering—typically ten to fifteen minutes for the first course, and five to ten minutes between each subsequent dish.

(A brief aside for the curious: there are many misconceptions about kaiseki cuisine in China. Most domestic sources repeat misunderstandings, from the tale that monks pressed rocks to their bellies to stave off hunger, to the claim that kaiseki is just simple temple fare; some think it’s an extravagant set meal built on foie gras and caviar, while others mistakenly lump Michelin-starred sushi or puffer fish restaurants under “kaiseki.” In truth, the name “kaiseki” comes from a line in Laozi’s Daodejing: “The sage wears coarse cloth but cherishes jade within.” Outwardly plain but inwardly rich—a concept perfectly aligned with the Japanese tea ceremony’s spirit of wabi-sabi, which values understated, enduring beauty. Japanese cuisine, unlike Chinese, avoids heavy seasoning and ornamentation, emphasizing fine ingredients and simple techniques—“knife work leads, cooking follows,” to highlight the ingredient’s true flavor. Kaiseki originated as light fare to prevent guests from getting drunk on tea at tea ceremonies. As the tea ceremony spread to the nobility, kaiseki evolved from simple snacks into a full meal of soup, sashimi, simmered, and fried or grilled dishes.)