Authentic white-cut chicken was not boiled; it was cooked by soaking it in hot broth.
After being soaked in ice water, the fat beneath the chicken skin became as bouncy as Guodong.
The skin was crisp, the meat silky, and it tasted so good that it did not even need seasoning.
Vincent skillfully picked up the most tender chicken leg with his chopsticks and placed it in Hermione's bowl.
She skillfully picked it up with her own chopsticks and took a small, delicate bite.
Fresh, clean, and endlessly satisfying.
The proprietress emerged from the kitchen carrying blanched choy sum and two bowls of rice, once again surprised that both of them could use chopsticks so fluently.
"We often ate hotpot with our classmates at school."
"I see."
British universities generally had plenty of Chinese international students. This young couple had probably learned their knowledge of Chinese food from them.
Sweet campus romance. How wonderful.
When she returned to the kitchen and saw her husband intently watching the heat under the soup, she suddenly laughed as though she had remembered something amusing.
The restaurant owner was puzzled again.
So moody. It was probably menopause.
Outside, Vincent took a bite of the choy sum.
The seasoning was fine, but like the white-cut chicken, the texture was very different from what he remembered.
After all, the climates of the two countries were vastly different. Even the same variety could have a different texture.
Still, there was not the slightest flaw in the seasoning, and every grain of rice was plump and translucent—not the Indian rice commonly found in Britain.
Hermione had been watching Vincent the whole time.
He knew so much about Chinese food. He must really like it.
It looked like she needed to find a cooking class during summer break and