Jiang Hai took a bite of his barbecue skewer, smiled, and turned to Old Tony beside him. "I have to admit, your technique has improved, but the ingredients are still lacking."
Hearing this, Old Tony chuckled and took a big sip of his beer. "Do you think everyone can afford your beef? It's easy to talk when you're not the one paying for it."
The burly man tending the grill next to Old Tony shot Jiang Hai a look of mild contempt. His assistants, busy flipping skewers over the flames, nodded in agreement.
For today's gathering, the town's merchants had actually started preparations two months in advance. Organizing the event was straightforward—securing supplies, setting up utensils—but perfecting the menu required more thought. Initially, they assumed the attendees would be domestic tourists, like Mayor Wallis and his associates. If that had been the case, they wouldn't have needed to make many changes. However, three days ago, they were informed that the expected visitors were not domestic tourists but a group from China. This unexpected news threw them into a bit of a panic.
Fortunately, Boston has a sizable Chinese community. While Jiang Hai was the only one in Winthrop, there were many Chinese in the city. So, the organizers hurried over to the university district to ask about popular Chinese flavors. With their newfound knowledge, they adjusted the recipes accordingly.
People will do anything to make money, especially when it comes to food. Chinese and American palates differ significantly. Americans have a strong preference for sour flavors, particularly when paired with sweetness—hence their love for ketchup. Just look at how much ketchup they consume annually, and you'll understand. Though some Chinese also enjoy sweet-and-sour dishes, the flavor profile is not as mainstream. Jiang Hai, for example, loved sweet-and-sour foods, which were often considered a child's taste.
Because of this difference, the cooks had to modify their flavors, leaning more toward a balanced umami and salty taste. A touch of sweetness was acceptable, but they had to be mindful of proportions—unlike Americans, who seem to put ketchup on everything. Beyond fries and fried chicken, they even eat it with steamed potatoes, carrots, and cooked meats. It was, in Jiang Hai's opinion, quite astonishing.
"Hey there! I think we're about the same age. Can we just call you Jiang Hai?" A few men approached while Jiang Hai was chatting with the others, smiling as they addressed him.
Jiang Hai paused for a moment, sensing that these men might not have friendly intentions. He knew he stood out a little too much, but was it really just a coincidence that they were approaching him? Were they looking to challenge him? Had they lost their minds?
"Oh, sure," Jiang Hai replied after a brief thought. He smiled and nodded, unconcerned about their motives. If they really wanted to start something, he wouldn't hold back.
"Nice to meet you, Jiang Hai. I'm Zhou Wei. We're practically from the same place—I'm from Liao Province," one of the men said with a friendly grin, sitting down.
"Oh, then we're half-countrymen," Jiang Hai responded casually. In China, people outside the northeastern provinces often see them as a single region. Historically, the area was home to nomadic groups like the Wuhuan, Xianbei, and Jurchen, and wasn't considered part of mainstream Chinese civilization until the Qing Dynasty incorporated it due to its strategic importance.
Zhou Wei's eyes gleamed as he got to the point. "I heard from Miss George, the tour guide over there, that your manor has 20-kilogram lobsters?"
After snapping a few photos of the food, Zhou Wei had sent them to his friends in China, who were now flooding his phone with messages of envy. Some even regretted not joining the tour group. If he could snap a picture with a massive lobster, his bragging rights would be unbeatable.
"Twenty kilograms? I have some, but not many," Jiang Hai replied, pausing briefly before adding, "but I do have quite a few that are fifteen or sixteen kilograms."
Zhou Wei was briefly disappointed, but when he heard the second part of Jiang Hai's sentence, his excitement returned. Jiang Hai's casual flex had caught him off guard.
"Fifteen or sixteen kilograms is still great! I know it's a bit forward of me to ask, but would you be willing to sell us one? Maybe at a friendlier price?" Zhou Wei asked, his expression hopeful.
Jiang Hai chuckled. "Sell you one? Sure."
The lobsters at his manor were meant for sale, after all. He had no problem selling one, though the price wouldn't be as inflated as in China.
Zhou Wei and his group cheered. As long as Jiang Hai was willing to sell, they were in business.
"But... how much?" Zhou Wei hesitated, looking at Jiang Hai expectantly.
"As you know, lobster prices vary by size," Jiang Hai explained. He then outlined the standard lobster classifications: small ones under 454 grams were called chix, medium ones up to 908 grams were quarters or selects, and anything over that was a jumbo. If a lobster lost a claw, it was considered a cull and sold for less.
Ordinary lobsters between half a kilogram and four kilograms ranged from $5 to $20 per pound. A high-quality, live Boston lobster weighing four kilograms could sell for around $160. If it wasn't in top condition, the price dropped to about $120. With broken legs or claws, it could go for $80, and if dead, as little as $70. Supermarkets sometimes offered special deals where a four-kilogram lobster sold for just $50.
Of course, Jiang Hai's lobsters were far superior. They were raised with spiritual energy, making their meat much richer in flavor and texture. Because of this, Jiang Hai saw no issue with pricing a 15-kilogram lobster at $3,000—equivalent to $100 per pound. At that rate, it would cost less than 20,000 yuan, which was an absolute bargain. In China, a lobster of this size could easily be marked up to 50,000 or even 80,000 yuan in high-end restaurants.
Though Zhou Wei and his group hesitated at first, they ultimately agreed. They couldn't each afford it alone, so they pulled in two more friends, making it six people total. Each chipped in $500—roughly 3,000 yuan per person—to share the giant lobster. It seemed like a reasonable deal to them.
After finalizing their order, they arranged for Jiang Hai to deliver the lobster the next afternoon. Excitedly, they left, eager to show off their soon-to-be extravagant meal to their friends and potential love interests. A 15-kilogram lobster was no ordinary feast.
Watching them leave, Jiang Hai chuckled. Raising lobsters of that size wasn't particularly difficult for him. Like crabs and shrimp, lobsters grew quickly. In the wild, they reached maturity in about a year. With farming, this could be cut to six months, but in Jiang Hai's fishery—where they thrived in a simulated wild environment—it took slightly longer.
Once lobsters reached a year old, they could reproduce, and with an abundant food supply enriched by spiritual energy, they continued growing indefinitely. It wasn't genetics that limited their size, but their lifespan.
Thanks to the exceptional nutrition in Jiang Hai's fishery, the baby lobsters he initially introduced had already grown to around 2 taels in just four months—equivalent to a year's growth elsewhere. If he continued at this rate, he could raise a 10-kilogram lobster in just over a year and a 15-kilogram one in under three years.
With two million lobster fry in his fishery, even if only half survived, he would have one million adult lobsters. Selling each for $3,000 meant a staggering $3 billion in revenue. And that was just from the lobsters—his fishery was teeming with other valuable seafood as well.
Looking at his thriving business, Jiang Hai couldn't help but feel that the ocean was proving far more profitable than the land. (To be continued.)