Yue takes command of the imperial kitchen gracefully and precisely until subtle sabotage begins to creep into her perfectly laid plans. With the banquet drawing near, can she hold everything together before it all comes crashing down?
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Before the sun rose, Yue carefully went through her menu list not once but three times.
She needed to ensure proper food portions.
She also double-checked her choices for matching spices with wines.
To calm her nerves, she soaked her hands in warm chrysanthemum water.
This event was significant, as her work was associated with the Empress Dowager, meaning she couldn't make any mistakes.
The imperial kitchens were enormous, far beyond what Yue expected, even after her years working in the palace.
The ceilings soared high, resembling the inside of a dragon's ribcage. The wooden beams were aged and darkened by smoke.
Ample wooden countertops shone from years of use, smoothed by chopping, kneading, and cooking.
Bronze pots on the flames released steam, filling the air with warmth and activity, thanks to coal and pine wood burning beneath.
Yue was immediately hit by smells—freshly sliced ginger sizzling in oil, garlic frying in pans, cinnamon soaking in syrup, and the sweet aroma of candied winter melon cooling on trays.
The walls were lined with clay jars, carefully labeled with contents like star anise, dried shrimp, and fermented black beans.
Copper ladles hung above the tiled cooking areas, catching the morning light that filtered through the smoky windowpanes.
Everywhere she looked, there was movement.
Experienced cooks shouted instructions over the noise of clattering knives and porcelain.
With sweat on their brows and sleeves rolled up, young assistants chopped vegetables in a precise, steady rhythm.
Maids hurried between workstations, carrying herbs and bowls of rising dough.
The kitchen throbbed with life like a living, beating heart.
Yue stood silently at the entrance, taking it all in.
She wore nothing flashy: no jewelry, no fancy clothes.
Instead, she had on a deep green robe tied simply at her waist. What was important wasn't fashion but her responsibility.
As the newly appointed head of banquet preparations, she expected some pushback. And she got it.
"So you're the second-class attendant, Yue, right?" asked an older chef, with arms crossed, covering his flour-dusted apron.
He looked her over with mild disbelief, not rude, but certainly not respectful.
"Yes, that's right," Yue replied softly but firmly.
"Appointed by the Empress Dowager herself."
Nearby, a sous-chef exchanged looks with another cook, raising an eyebrow.
Quiet murmurs floated around the room. Yet Yue stood her ground.
She met their gazes with steady confidence.
She had no noble title, no powerful family name, and no influential allies working behind the scenes.
But she knew food. She understood how it could quiet doubters, garner trust, and even melt the coldest hearts.
Without speaking, she stepped forward and unfurled a scroll across the largest prep table.
The parchment rolled out smoothly, revealing rows of neatly written characters and carefully painted sketches of each dish.
It was more than a plan—it was her vision.
The room filled with gasps.
The scroll laid out a twenty-dish sequence, matching the five basic flavors: sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, and salty.
The menu flowed with the time of day, the guests' changing moods, and the seasons.
Each dish shared a story, from light morning dishes to richer evening fare.
"I've spoken with the Empress Dowager's chamberlain," Yue said clearly.
"She prefers starting with delicate, nourishing dishes—nothing heavy, especially in spring."
She pointed to the first column effortlessly as if she had memorized it.
"The first dish is chilled jujube blossom jelly with rose water and goji berries."
"Next, there's warm lotus-root soup with white fungus and ginseng slices, presented in carved gourd bowls."
The chefs listened intently,
She moved to the following line.
"For the main courses, we have wild duck braised with red dates and yams, smoked freshwater eel wrapped in magnolia leaves, and slow-cooked beef ribs glazed with Osmanthus.
"Each dish is paired with regional wine or herbal infusion to enhance flavor."
The surprise was evident among the chefs.
One whispered in amazement,
"She even matched the drinks?"
"What about desserts?" someone asked quietly.
Yue gave a slight, thoughtful smile.
"There are three desserts," she said, indicating the last row.
"We have sweet rice dumplings filled with tangerine paste."
"Honey almond crisps adorned with lotus petals."
"And candied hawthorn skewers soaked in plum wine then finished with crystallized sugar petals."
An impressed silence filled the room as they realized the significance.
Yue looked up at the group.
"The Empress Dowager grew up in the west, where hawthorn sweets were an everyday treat outside the palace gates.
"This dessert isn't just seasonal; it carries personal sentiment."
Silence lingered in the room, full of unspoken admiration and respect.
This was more than a menu; it was a story told through the language of food, weaving memory, tradition, and emotion.
Finally, the head chef stepped forward, arms still crossed, yet his eyes had softened with newfound respect.
"You've done well," he admitted, almost grudgingly.
"Very well. We'll begin preparations this afternoon."
Yue bowed deeply in gratitude.
"Thank you. I will be working with you throughout the process."
The staff began moving and talking among themselves. Their views of Yue shifted to one of curiosity and growing respect.
As Yue turned her attention to the ingredient inventory, she noticed a glint of red out of the corner of her eye.
Standing in the doorway was a figure in a red and gold silk robe, with hair ornamented by golden pins. A slow, approving smile spread across her face.
Consort Zhang.
She confidently walked into the kitchen as if she owned the place. She brought with her the scent of peonies and an air of importance.
"My, my," she said in a sweet voice with a touch of sarcasm.
"Such impressive planning and thorough work... especially for someone without formal training."
The kitchen staff quickly went silent.
Yue stood tall and bowed with respect.
"Consort Zhang graces us with her presence in the kitchen."
Zhang's eyes scanned the parchment scroll that lay open on the table.
"Be careful, dear Lady Yue. In the imperial kitchens, just one bad ingredient can ruin an entire feast."
Without waiting for a response, she gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes, then turned and left, her robes trailing behind her like a wisp of smoke.
Yue watched her depart, feeling a shiver run down her back despite the warm temperature in the kitchen.
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In the days that followed, time seemed to blur as Yue worked tirelessly.
She put in more effort than anyone had anticipated.
Yue arrived before sunrise when the mist covered the courtyards, and she stayed long after the evening bells sounded.
The kitchen was dimly lit at night with flickering oil lamps and glowing coals. Yet, Yue remained there, meticulously jotting down notes and adjusting portions with the accuracy of a battle strategist.
She did not miss a single detail.
Yue adjusted recipes based on the weather. She left ginger out of the soup if the day was too hot.
And for guests from the southern provinces, she added chrysanthemum petals to tea.
She carefully measured meat cuts to prevent waste and checked all deliveries herself, examining sacks of rice, jars of sauce, and bundles of herbs.
Tasks in the kitchen were assigned according to skill.
Chef Lin, known for his bold and spicy flavors, handled the spiced duck and cumin lamb.
Apprentice Mei, with her gentle and focused manner, was in charge of the flower dumplings and honey pastries.
By the end of the second day, the kitchen staff no longer viewed her as just a concubine but as their leader.
She didn't shout or boast; she simply embodied precision and presence.
One butcher remarked, "She's like a shadow, always vigilant and prepared."
Despite being a shadow, she had enemies.
The first issue emerged quietly.
While checking the soaking time for a batch of mushrooms, Yue noticed an unusual, almost vinegary smell.
Concerned, she examined a basket of dried mushrooms delivered the previous day.
Her stomach churned as she found them slimy and rotten, lacking the earthy scent they should have.
The logs showed the mushrooms arrived fresh and dry, with no exposure to heat or moisture until now.
Yue kept silent. She discarded the entire basket, recorded the incident in her notes, and instructed the stock clerk to have all shipments opened in her presence from then on.
The following morning, a soy paste jar was missing.
Despite double and triple-checking the rows of jars, it was clear the jar had been logged and delivered, yet it was gone now.
Later, she found a young maid trembling in a corner, her apron stained with chili oil.
"I didn't mean to drop it," the girl stammered, fear in her eyes.
"They told me not to say anything, or I'd be punished or even sent away."
Yue knelt beside her and gently wiped the spilled oil from the girl's sleeve.
"Don't worry," she reassured softly.
"Stay near the pastry station for a few days; sister Mei will look after you."
Another day passed, and new problems arose.
The tofu, fresh upon arrival, was sour and curdled when it reached the chopping boards.
The kitchen aides insisted it hadn't been left out. Yue trusted them.
She began to see a pattern—missing items, damaged ingredients, a scared maid.
Each disruption seemed small, but together, they hinted at a calculated attempt to undermine her efforts.