Lu Qin used a wok spatula to portion five servings of fried rice noodles into separate boxes, while Master Old Zhan also ladled three servings into round plastic containers.
At that moment, Master Old Zhan slightly turned his head and glanced at Lu Qin's five portions of fried rice noodles. His eyes flickered.
Experts saw the finer details.
Old Zhan had been frying rice noodles for nearly thirty years. He could tell whether a serving would taste good with just one look.
With that glance, judging by the color, how loose and non-sticky the noodles were, and the wok hei aroma, he determined that the fried rice noodles next door could not possibly taste bad.
For a plate of fried rice noodles, flavor accounted for thirty percent, while texture accounted for seventy percent.
When masters competed, it was mainly the texture that mattered.
With Old Zhan's fried rice noodles, one bite with the chopsticks was exactly one bite's worth—neither tangled nor sticky.
But with ordinary fried rice noodles, one grab of the chopsticks would lift a fist-sized clump that needed shaking apart. That was the difference in skill.
He had not expected Lu Qin's fried rice noodles to reach that level as well.
Only then did Old Zhan give Lu Qin a proper look. He had not expected this young man's skills to be so solid.
All that could be said was that even among the best, there were differences. I chose Lu's!
Old Zhan's fried rice noodles and Lu's fried rice noodles came out of their woks one after another.
The phone camera shoved close to the two dishes, sliding back and forth for close-ups as it began a careful comparison.
These two were practically the ceiling of the fried rice noodle world.
Everyone had seen it. While