The clamor in the restaurant vanished at once. Everyone stared at Big Chef in disbelief. Hadn't things been going fine just now? How had the tide turned so quickly? That rejection had been far too swift and decisive.
Boss Zhao was obviously rich. He wore expensive clothes, a gleaming watch, and a thick gold chain around his neck—the kind that screamed nouveau riche.
The moment Qin Fen spoke, the flesh on Old Zhao's face trembled. His face reddened as if he had gotten drunk, his eyes widening as a breath caught in his chest. He had been getting along so well with this guy, as though they had met too late in life. Yet when he turned around, reality was so cruel. It was as if the person laughing and chatting with him earlier had not been the man standing before him.
Old Zhao cared about his reputation, and everyone who knew him understood that. He worked in docks and construction. People like him usually did not operate entirely aboveboard. To put it bluntly, he ran with the underworld—smooth and adaptable, speaking like a man to men and like a ghost to ghosts. But one thing was certain: he had plenty of influence, and he was no saint. Qin Fen had rejected him so cleanly that many people broke into a cold sweat.
Putting everything else aside, anyone wearing a chain that thick these days was unlikely to have made their money cleanly. A powerful outsider could not suppress a local tyrant, and ordinary people would never provoke someone like that. Yet Qin Fen felt no pressure at all.
"Um, Chef Qin, why not think it over?" Boss Zhao persuaded him from the side. Besides making money, what he loved most was eating. Even women came after those two things.