If you don't want treatment, get out! This doctor has a terrible temper.

Chapter 111 Molecular Gastronomy and Slow-Cooked Soup

Renxin Pharmacy is busier at night than during the day.

Just after nine o'clock, the "Midnight Diner" sign lights up.

This sign was bought by Boss Liu for fifty yuan at a flea market. It originally said "Foot Massage", but Li Siyuan changed it to "Canteen" with red paint, making it look like a horror movie set.

But this did not stop the long queues from forming at the entrance.

The team included a balding programmer who had just finished working overtime, an internet celebrity whose throat was hoarse from just finishing a live stream, and even a wealthy woman in her pajamas.

Everyone had only one goal—Pierre's pot.

In the kitchen, Pierre, a former Michelin three-star chef, was wearing goggles and staring intently at a huge casserole dish.

The pot was bubbling and steaming, its color an eerie dark brown.

"The timing is right."

Pierre whispered in French-accented Chinese, holding a glass rod in his hand, and dripped a drop of clear liquid into the pot.

That was the "Fiery Ginger Extract" that Wang Minyu gave him.

Boom! A wave of heat rose from the pot, instantly engulfing the smell of cooking oil in the kitchen.

In the front hall, Wang Minyu sat behind the counter, covering a book titled "Postpartum Care of Sows".

This is Guan Shan's recent bedtime reading material; he says he wants to improve his professional skills.

"This place is a desecration of food."

A foreigner wearing a custom-made suit and with his hair neatly combed entered the room.

He didn't queue, but went straight to the counter, covered his nose with a handkerchief, and looked at the counter with a critical eye.

Wang Minyu didn't even look up: "Five hundred for cutting in line, one hundred for registration. Go to the back of the line for meals, and take off your handkerchief before seeing a doctor."

"I am Smith, an international food hunter." The foreigner took out a gold-plated business card and placed it on the counter. "I represent the famous French 'Le Cordon Bleu' restaurant group to take Pierre away."

"Oh?" Wang Minyu finally raised his eyelids, glanced at the business card, and said, "Trying to poach someone?"

“Pierre is a genius; he shouldn’t waste his talent in this place filled with…the smell of Chinese medicine and mold.” Smith looked around and saw Guan Shan squatting by the door gnawing on a pig’s trotter. He frowned in disgust. “Cooking communal meals here is murdering art. We’re willing to give him a million euros a year, plus a penthouse apartment on the Champs-Élysées.”

Wang Minyu smiled and put down the book in his hand: "Then you'll have to ask him."

Just then, Pierre came out carrying a tray.

On the tray was a bowl... something that looked like vomit.

That's tonight's special—"Rebirth of Chaos" (actually, it's pig brain stewed with gastrodia elata, with added molecularized black truffle foam).

"Boss, the 'brain-dead supplement' for table number 3 is ready." Pierre placed the bowl on the counter without even glancing at Smith.

"Pierre!" Smith exclaimed, opening his arms wide. "My God, look at you! Your apron is covered in grease, and you're carrying this... this pig feed! Come with me, Paris is waiting for you!"

Pierre paused for a moment, then turned to look at Smith, his eyes filled with the same way he looked at an idiot.

"Go? Where to?" Pierre stirred the porridge in his bowl with a spoon. "To be a decoration for those nobles who only know how to take pictures and eat a couple of bites before leaving the rest? Or to make those same few damn foie gras dishes every day?"

"That's art!" Smith exclaimed.

"The art of farting," Pierre cursed. "It was here that I found the true essence of cooking."

At that moment, the guests at table number 3 walked over.

She was a girl who was as thin as a skeleton and suffered from severe anorexia. She hadn't eaten properly for two months.

Looking at the bowl of terribly unappetizing pig brain paste, she instinctively felt like gagging.

"Try a bite." Pierre's voice suddenly softened. "It's like the rice porridge my mother used to make when I was little."

The girl picked up the spoon with trembling hands and put a little bit into her mouth.

Instantly, her pupils dilated.

It wasn't the fishy smell of pig brains, but rather an extremely smooth and delicate flavor, like clouds melting on the tip of the tongue.

Immediately afterwards, a warm current rushed to the top of my head, and my previously tight and spasming stomach felt as if it were being soothed by a warm, large hand.

"I'm so...so hungry..." Tears streamed down the girl's face as she ate faster with the spoon in her hand, eventually even lifting the bowl and pouring the food directly into her mouth.

The surrounding diners quieted down and watched the girl wolf down her food.

This is the most primal and purest life force.

Smith was stunned.

He had seen countless elegant dining experiences in top restaurants, but he had never witnessed such a breathtaking scene.

At this moment, food is no longer a decoration, but a life-saving medicine.

"Would you like a bowl too?" Wang Minyu asked at the opportune moment. "Your forehead looks dark, and your breath smells sour. You probably have a serious stomach ulcer from jet lag and irregular eating habits."

Smith wanted to refuse, but the strange fragrance wafted into his nostrils like a bewitching charm.

His stomach involuntarily cramped.

Five minutes later.

This arrogant gourmet hunter is sprawled on the counter, licking an empty bowl without any regard for his image.

"What kind of magic is this..." Smith let out a burp, feeling the fire that had been burning in his stomach for years finally die down. "What's in here? Truffles? Caviar?"

"Pig brains, five yuan a serving," Wang Minyu said casually. "It also contains gastrodia elata, uncaria, and the oil essence separated by Pierre using a centrifuge. This is called 'medicinal cuisine,' a cure for all kinds of ailments."

Pierre wiped his hands and walked over to Smith. "Go back. My hands won't tremble here, because I know that every bite of what I make can sustain someone. That's far more important than a few Michelin stars."

Smith looked at his stomach, which was no longer aching, and then at Pierre's rough but extremely steady hands, and remained silent for a long time.

"What's this dish called?"

"It doesn't have a name." Pierre shrugged. "The boss calls it 'Waterlogged Brain,' and it's sold specifically to overthinking smart people."

Smith gave a wry smile and left a check: "This meal was worth the price."

He left, taking nothing but Pierre and a bellyful of pig brains and a renewed understanding of food.

Wang Minyu picked up the check and glanced at it—50,000 euros.

"Tsk, it's so easy to make money off the rich." He handed the check to Boss Liu. "Put it on the books, into the 'Medicinal Cuisine Research and Development Fund'. Pierre, give Guan Shan an extra chicken leg tomorrow. That foreigner was too scared to haggle with him."

Guan Shan, standing at the door, chewed the last piece of pig's trotter bone and gave a simple, honest smile.