Chapter 450: Erguotou Paired with Hotpot Base, This Is Called Eastern Demon Water |
The atmosphere at the scene grew intensely tense.
Several Korean police officers had their hands on their waists, like they were facing a grave enemy.
Filmmakers and stars from various countries glanced over, whispering among themselves.
Park Tae-hyun sat in the front row, staring intently at the scene, an expression of malicious glee he couldn’t fully hide curling at his lips.
If Jiang Ci was taken away, even if it turned out to be nothing later, his Film Emperor night would be ruined.
But Jiang Ci didn’t even lift his rear end. He kept that old-man sitting posture, still cradling the glittering trophy in his arms.
“Contraband?” Jiang Ci raised an eyebrow and looked at Jiang Wen, “Director Jiang, have you been trafficking weapons behind my back?”
Jiang Wen looked equally bewildered. He slapped the black travel bag the police were pointing at:
“Nonsense! I’m a law-abiding citizen! Open it! Open it now! Don’t you dare pin something on me!”
Everyone craned their necks.
Only six glass bottles, each with a red-paper, blue-character label, emitting a strong old-time vibe.
Plus several large vacuum-sealed packs of red, oil-glazed solid blocks.
The police put on gloves and carefully pulled out a bottle, holding it up to the light.
The liquid was clear and looked dangerous.
“What is this? Chemical reagents?” the officer asked solemnly.
Jiang Wen rolled his eyes and snatched it away: “Chemical my ass! This is Erguotou! Got it? A man’s gas station!”
He then pointed at the packs of red oil blocks: “Those are hotpot base blocks! Super spicy beef tallow! I can’t stand your kimchi here, so I brought a taste of home—what, that’s illegal now?”
For two seconds the hall fell utterly silent.
Then someone snorted, unable to hold it in.
Erguotou? Hotpot base?
At such a highbrow international film festival awards ceremony, these Huaguo people actually carried this stuff with them?
The officer was bewildered too. He didn’t understand Chinese, but the sharp smell of alcohol and chili told him this was definitely not contraband.
“Someone reported it…” the officer stammered, glancing nervously toward the front row.
Park Tae-hyun’s smile stiffened; he quickly turned his head to pretend to be looking at the ceiling.
“Report?” Jiang Ci caught the word.
He stood up and walked over to the officer, casually picking up one of the hotpot base packs and weighing it in his hand.
“Comrade, this is good stuff.”
Jiang Ci spoke in English, sincere in tone.
“In our place, this drives out the cold and damp, cures all kinds of ‘yin deficiency with fire’ and ‘red-eye disease.’”
He finished with a half-smile and cast a sidelong glance at the back of Park Tae-hyun’s head.
The officer awkwardly stuffed the items back into the bag, saluted, and slunk away.
The farce ended amid the drifting scent of beef tallow.
Jiang Wen zipped the bag closed and snorted: “Those bastards need training.”
…
One hour later.
Haeundae, Paradise Hotel banquet hall.
Crystal chandeliers cast luxurious light. Long dining tables were laden with caviar, black truffles, and French hors d’oeuvres that looked barely filling.
Waiters carried trays, weaving among the well-dressed elites.
Though he missed out on the Film Emperor, Park Tae-hyun was still tonight’s unofficial king.
As host and scion of a major conglomerate, he was surrounded by investors and directors all angling for a piece of the market.
“Tae-hyun, don’t mind it. That award was just a fluke.”
“Yeah, these judges have weird tastes now. They’re into that filthy aesthetic.”
Park Tae-hyun swirled his champagne and wore a polite smile.
“No problem. I care more about audience acclaim. Besides…”
His gaze darkened as it swept a corner, “some people only have tonight as their highlight.”
In that corner, the scene changed abruptly.
What was meant for staff breaks was now wrapped in an overpowering aroma.
Jiang Wen had somehow brought a portable gas stove, with a stainless pot set atop it.
Red oil boiled, beef tallow melted, chili and Sichuan pepper danced in the boiling broth, the smell striking straight for the nose.
“Sizzle—”
Jiang Ci dumped a plate of freshly sliced beef into the pot and stirred with his chopsticks.
“Getting done, getting done! Director Jiang, take it easy!”
Quick as lightning, Jiang Ci snatched a piece of tripe from under Jiang Wen’s chopsticks.
Only the two of them sat at that table.
Nearby, Western directors and stars held their noses in disgust, but their eyes kept drifting over.
That red, glistening broth looked… kind of tempting?
“These foreigners don’t know shit.” Jiang Wen downed a gulp of Erguotou and exhaled liquor breath, “This is living.”
As the two of them ate with gusto, a strong cologne scent approached.
Park Tae-hyun, holding a glass, led his sycophantic entourage over in full pomp.
He stopped by the table and looked down at Jiang Ci fishing duck intestine out of the hotpot, his disdain plain as day.
“Film Emperor Jiang, what a taste.” Park Tae-hyun said in English, “Cooking this…strange stuff in such an elegant setting, truly a natural performance.”
A chorus of snickers rose around them.
Jiang Ci didn’t even look up. He shoved the duck intestine into his mouth, chewing with crisp, crackling sounds.
“Something wrong?” Jiang Ci swallowed and pulled a napkin to wipe his mouth.
Park Tae-hyun, seeing him so unmoved by ridicule, burned with even more fury.
“I heard Mr. Jiang’s next role is a lion?” Park Tae-hyun scoffed, “A street-performing, tail-wagging, begging-for-change kind of lion? Seems winning Film Emperor didn’t upgrade your taste.”
He turned and smiled to his followers, “You probably don’t know, in Huaguo that’s street performance. Didn’t expect the Film Emperor to crawl out of the mud and jump straight into a lion’s skin.”
It was blatant humiliation.
Reducing a national treasure to a carnival act.
Jiang Wen slammed his chopsticks on the table with a crack, ready to blow.
Jiang Ci held his hand down.
Jiang Ci stood.
He didn’t look at Park Tae-hyun. He looked at the passing Hollywood producer—David Smith.
Smith was staring curiously at the red oil in the hotpot. Seeing Jiang Ci looking at him, he flashed a big white smile: “Hey Jiang! That broth looks…hot!”
Jiang Ci grinned and pointed at Park Tae-hyun, speaking fluent English to Smith:
“Mr. Smith, this Mr. Park says he admires Chinese kung fu very much and wants me to demonstrate what ‘Chinese Kung Fu’ is right now.”
Park Tae-hyun blinked, “What? When did I—”
Before he could protest, Smith’s eyes lit up like two floodlights: “Really? Kung Fu? Here?”
“Of course.” Jiang Ci unbuttoned his suit jacket and casually tossed it on the chair back.
Underneath was a white shirt. He leisurely rolled up his sleeves, revealing a lean forearm.
“Since everyone’s so refined.” Jiang Ci cracked his neck with a crisp sound. “I’ll shame myself.”
His gaze locked onto a table two meters away.
For celebration, the hotel had set up a towering champagne pyramid.
About six feet high, hundreds of crystal stemmed glasses stacked tier upon tier, all filled with golden champagne.
On the very top glass sat a single cherry, bright and dripping.
The tower was delicate; even the slightest touch, even pulling out one cup, would trigger catastrophic collapse.
“What are you planning?” Park Tae-hyun saw Jiang Ci’s suddenly fierce look and felt a chill. He instinctively stepped back.
Jiang Ci said nothing.
He adjusted his breathing.
The noisy banquet room instantly receded from his ears.
At this moment he was not Jiang Ci.
He was A Jie.
There was no champagne tower in front of him, only the towering pole at the cliff’s edge.
That cherry was the ‘greens’ he had to pluck.
He set his stance.
Jiang Ci’s legs bent slightly, and in that instant the thigh muscles under his suit tightened sharply.
“Roar—”
He moved!
With a point of his toes on the floor, he sprang up like a rocket!
“Oh my god!” Smith exclaimed.
Just when everyone thought he would crash into the champagne tower, Jiang Ci’s toe lightly touched the back of a nearby bar stool.
He used it for leverage!
The stool, not fixed and slightly wobbly, felt rooted under his foot.
He launched again!
Midair, he executed a hawk-like flip.
At the apex, his body fully extended; his right hand shot out like lightning.
Park Tae-hyun’s eyes bulged, mouth open wide enough to fit an egg.
Jiang Wen’s hand holding his glass froze midair; he grinned, “Nice kid, high-pole cherry pick!”
Jiang Ci’s fingers skimmed the top of the champagne tower.
Fast! Accurate! Steady!
His fingertips pinched the cherry’s stem.
He plucked it like stealing a star!
Then he tucked in, and the whole body descended soundlessly.
“Whoosh—”
A breeze brushed Park Tae-hyun’s face.
Jiang Ci landed steadily in front of him.
Only a centimeter separated them.
He landed without a sound, like a phantom.
Yet the oppressive pressure clinging to him struck Park Tae-hyun physically.
His legs went weak.
Thud!
The highborn scion collapsed to the floor in front of all of Asian cinema.
Jiang Ci looked down at Park Tae-hyun sprawled on the ground, expression indifferent.
He pinched the cherry stem and offered it to Park Tae-hyun’s trembling mouth.
“Open up.” Jiang Ci said softly.
Park Tae-hyun’s mind blanked and he instinctively opened his mouth.
Jiang Ci shoved the cherry into him, then lightly tapped his ashen face twice.
“This is called ‘High-Pole Cherry Picking.’”
Jiang Ci straightened and swept his gaze across the stunned foreigners.
“It’s also kung fu.”
He lowered his head and gave Park Tae-hyun a wild, predatory smile.
“Tasty?”
Park Tae-hyun held the cherry in his mouth, unable to swallow or spit, shaking all over.
“Kung Fu!!!”
A shout shattered the silence.
David Smith went red with excitement, threw down his glass, and barreled forward to grab Jiang Ci’s leg.
“Real Kung Fu! My God! What did I just witness? That’s magic!”
Smith babbled and clung to Jiang Ci’s arm, “Jiang! I want to sign you! Name your price! I’ll have a movie tailor-made for you! Only you can play that Eastern assassin! Only you!”
The Korean directors exchanged looks, faces greyer than if they’d swallowed flies.
Their proud special effects and packaging looked pale and feeble against the raw physical power of this Huaguo man.
This was the dimensional reduction strike!
But in the face of the Hollywood producer’s fervent offer, Jiang Ci calmly withdrew his arm.
He pulled a wet wipe from his pocket and leisurely cleaned the hand that had just touched Park Tae-hyun.
“Mr. Smith, we can talk later.”
Jiang Ci pointed at the steaming pot behind him.
“Right now, I have something more important.”
Under the unbelieving stares, Jiang Ci turned back to the corner and plopped down opposite Jiang Wen.
He picked up a perfectly cooked slice of tripe, dipped it in sauce, shoved it into his mouth, and looked content.
“Director Jiang, the meat’s overcooked.”
Jiang Wen laughed heartily and poured him a cup of Erguotou: “Overcooked my ass! Just right! Here’s to your ‘High-Pole Cherry Picking,’ bottoms up!”
Clink.
The plastic cup struck in the gilded banquet hall, a sound oddly out of place yet piercingly loud.
All that remained were Park Tae-hyun collapsed on the floor,
and a group of Koreans doubting their life choices,
who now served as the most ridiculous background props for this hotpot scene.
…
That night.
Weibo servers predictably crashed.
#JiangCiCrownedEmperor#
#ParkTae-hyunHalfSquat#
#TrueBeautyIsTheStruggleInTheMud#
Those three hashtags topped the charts.
Amid the boiling public opinion,
a photo went viral in friend circles.
It was Haeundae beach after the Busan Film Festival had dispersed.
Jiang Ci had his pant legs rolled up to his knees, barefoot in the sand.
He carried the golden trophy representing Asia’s highest honor.
The caption was only one word:
Wrap.