Symphony of Meats—The Jade Flute Amid Plum Blossoms

In the world of cuisine, vegetables are harmonious, adaptable. They marry easily in a single dish, layering textures and colors in an elegant balance. Stir-fries like Di San Xian—with its velvety eggplant, golden potatoes, and crisp green peppers—are common, comforting, and widely accepted.

In contrast, meat dishes obey a different logic.

Meat and vegetable combinations are plenty: Mapo Tofu with minced pork and silky tofu in fiery bean paste, or Big Plate Chicken with its hearty chunks of chicken simmered alongside potatoes and bell peppers. But when it comes to pure meat dishes using multiple kinds of meat, something curious happens.

They're rare.

Not nonexistent, but undeniably rare.

Sure, the culinary archives include opulent exceptions. Dishes such as Buddha Jumps Over the Wall—a laborious medley of land and sea delicacies; Fish Bites Sheep—blending mutton and fish; the poetic Dragon and Phoenix Soup; rustic pork-and-chicken stews; or the nostalgic Li Hongzhang's Hodgepodge… all embrace this concept. Even Three Fresh Dumplings may contain a trio of meats.

But these are the exceptions, not the rule.

The reasons are many. At their core lies complexity.

Vegetables are forgiving. Cut, stir-fry, and adjust on the fly. If slightly undercooked, they remain crunchy, even refreshing. Ingredients like carrots, cucumbers, or wood ear mushrooms are adjustable—gracious in their margins for error.

Meat is not so accommodating.

Even cuts from the same animal can differ drastically in cooking demands. A slice of pork liver needs seconds to stay silky—go beyond, and it's ruined. Pork belly, however, demands long, slow rendering to coax out its fattiness and aroma.

So what happens when you introduce multiple kinds of meat into one dish?

You're playing with fire. Literally.

Timing, temperature, and technique must align in perfect synchrony, or the result becomes an unsalvageable mess. Not to mention the intensity of flavor. Meats carry strong, often conflicting taste profiles—requiring an even bolder hand with spices, salt, fat, and sauces to maintain balance. Such dishes are bold, rich, and costly—more suited for feasts than daily meals.

In everyday cuisine, simplicity and affordability reign. Multi-meat dishes? They are banquets in themselves.

—

"Mixing meats is a gamble," Eizan muttered under his breath.

His eyes never left the tavern's chef—Zane—who was assembling what looked like a blend of beef, pork, lamb, rabbit, and venison. Not seafood, not offal, not minor meat accents like fish sauce or cured ham. This was bold. Primitive. Pure.

"To use five different land meats… and expect harmony?" Eizan's gaze darkened.

Even he, a Totsuki elite, rarely encountered such audacity. Dishes with shrimp and scallops, or those using abalone and sea cucumber as gentle flavor carriers, were more common. But this?

This dish was war.

—

Zane worked with the grace of a seasoned warrior.

He added grated carrots, egg yolk, and diced tomatoes into the minced meat mix—each element carefully portioned. The vegetables weren't afterthoughts; they elevated the blend with color, light acidity, and subtle sweetness.

Then, he pulled out a bamboo steamer.

"Steaming?" Eizan frowned, confused. He expected frying, grilling, maybe even roasting—but not this gentle method.

Steam billowed as Zane rolled the mixed meats into elegant tube shapes, placing them carefully inside the steamer. The aroma, even before cooking, was already layered—deep umami, iron-rich scent from the meats, sweetness from the tomato, and a faint earthiness from the egg yolk.

The steamer was set.

Time passed slowly. Tension lingered in the air, like before a battlefield clash.

Then—pshhhh—Zane opened the steamer.

A fragrant, misty vapor burst forth like a magician's stage smoke. It curled around the room, wrapping the onlookers in its warmth. The scent was elusive yet unmistakably powerful. It whispered secrets in every breath: You've never tasted this before.

Zane stepped forward.

He placed the dish on the table in front of Eizan.

The dish bore a poetic name:

"Whose Jade Flute Calls the Falling Plum Blossoms."

The name evoked ancient longing—of winters fading into spring, of melodies lost on the wind. It felt too refined for a dish of five meats. And yet, as Eizan looked down at the beautifully arranged meat rolls, he understood the name wasn't merely for flair.

Each roll shimmered softly. The colors of the meats had merged subtly, like brushstrokes on rice paper—some paler, others deeper. And yet, they all appeared deceptively similar.

"Five types of meat?" Eizan adjusted his glasses. "But they all look like beef."

He picked one up with his chopsticks and bit into it.

Then—boom.

A shockwave of flavor exploded in his mouth.

His eyes widened. "This… this isn't beef at all."

It was tender, delicate—lean yet juicy. Lamb rump?

But before he could settle, the flavor shifted.

Crispness touched his palate—pig ear? Then came the velvety, subdued richness of rabbit, followed by the gaminess of deer. It was as if each bite unveiled a new face of the dish, like watching someone change costumes in an opera.

His eating turned feral.

Gone was the calm, arrogant Eizan. His jaw moved quickly, cheeks puffed like a squirrel, lips slick with grease. He looked grotesque—like a toad in heat—but he didn't care.

This was art. No—this was warfare.

He was no longer at a table. In his mind, he stood deep in a bamboo forest, clad in armor, katana at his hip.

Zane appeared on the other end, also armored, his stance fluid and unreadable.

Eizan charged.

He slashed, parried, ducked—but Zane's footwork was slippery, his strikes precise. The blade flickered like lightning. Techniques changed with every pass.

Eizan's horse stumbled.

He fell.

Defeated—by flavor.

Each bite had been a new attack—sweet, rich, lean, firm, fatty, mild. A blend of contrasts that never clashed. It was a culinary sword dance.

—

"How?" Eizan gasped between bites.

Zane, calmly cleaning the steamer, replied:

"Simple. Each meat is a note. With five meats, we compose chords. Pork, beef, lamb, rabbit, deer."

"Five base flavors. But mix two together, you get ten pairs. Mix three, you get ten trios. Mix four—five more. Total?"

"Twenty-five."

"Twenty-five potential combinations of flavor profiles."

Eizan paused. The logic stunned him.

"This is like musical harmony…"

"Exactly," Zane said. "But balance is key. You can't let one note overpower another. That's why I steamed them—so the flavors merge, not clash. Grilling or frying would've made the dish chaotic."

Eizan was silent.

He looked at the now-empty plate, then at Zane.

He had thought of Zane as a threat to his restaurant empire. But now? He saw the truth.

Zane wasn't a rival. He was a once-in-a-generation artist.

Combine his business acumen with Zane's culinary mastery?

They could reshape the entire gourmet world.

—

"What do you call this dish, Chef?" he asked at last.

Zane smiled, then elegantly wrote four characters on paper:

"Whose Jade Flute Calls the Falling Plum Blossoms."

A poetic title.

But also a declaration.

This wasn't just a dish.

It was a song played on the tongue, a memory carried on the wind, a dream cooked into form.

And for the first time in years…

Eizan felt humble.