Chapter 24, Episode 16: Is this enough for you...?

Is Episode 16 enough for you?

We certainly can't be discussing serious business in the cramped confines of a car.

The famous African American author Maya Angelou once said, "People will eventually forget what you said or did, but they will never forget how you made them feel."

Mycroft Holmes naturally had no interest in meeting me multiple times and constantly revising my impression of him.

He will definitely give me a stable impression on the first time.

So we went to The Travellers Club, an English gentlemen's club on Belleville Street, and enjoyed an elegant and quiet dinner.

I ordered the famous British roast beef kidney pie, served with a Yorkshire pudding, and a large Coke on the ice, which I like.

Yes, actually, it was my personal request to eat here.

Isn't 8:30 PM dinner time?

I came to the meeting on an empty stomach, but to my surprise, Mycroft only planned to have a private chat with me in his black van.

Admittedly, secret conversations on the move are a common trope in many films and novels.

But considering that I had come here hungry, I asked to change the setting.

I certainly won't use vulgar language.

I said it very politely, “This kind of closed and controlled environment is more efficient for you. But this approach just makes me feel like you want to deal with me, not chat with me.”

I straightened my cuffs and said in a relaxed tone, "Having a private conversation in your van is too much of a display of your home-field advantage. If you really want to gain even a little bit of trust, you should go to a members-only gentlemen's club. There, at least we'll look more like equals."

Without a member's introduction, you basically can't even get in the door of a members-only gentlemen's club.

The oldest White's requires a referral from 25 members to gain entry.

The waiters are also professionally trained and will not eavesdrop or discuss club affairs.

Filming and recording are strictly prohibited inside the club.

Therefore, this is a perfect place for communication.

And I can also get a meal at the club.

I was originally thinking of using Mycroft's membership card to get into the club, but I didn't expect that I could just get in by scanning my face.

The club's menu wasn't geared towards catering, and it seemed they assumed that people coming here might prefer elaborately prepared home-style dishes, which led me to even see some British fare on the menu, such as various pies and stewed beans.

I also saw chocolate eggplant and pickled eggs.

The chocolate eggplant dish even came with a picture.

The indescribable shape made me want to punch the air twice.

So I ordered the beef kidney pie that looked pretty normal, along with some small bread rolls (Yorkshire pudding) and a Coke.

Mycroft was more refined; he only ordered coffee.

He doesn't understand.

People are made of iron, and food is as essential as steel. If you don't eat well, you won't be able to fight against the heavens, the earth, or other people.

He ordered his, I ordered mine.

However, when he saw that I had ordered a Coke, he recommended that I pair it with a glass of red wine.

I don't like the taste of alcohol; I feel like I don't understand it.

I don't want to chat while swirling a glass of red wine.

Naturally, I refused, and he naturally didn't insist.

However, I soon discovered why he made that suggestion.

Because beef and kidneys have a very fresh beefy flavor, they must be masked with red wine, otherwise the mouth will be filled with a faint, subtle gamey smell.

Coke is completely useless.

To distract myself from my taste buds, I told Mycroft, “I’m now certain that the meat my housekeeper buys is all halal.”

Halal food does not only include vegetarian food; common examples include Lanzhou beef noodles and Xinjiang roasted lamb skewers. "Halal" refers more to the chef's cooking methods, one of which is to explicitly drain the blood from the meat.

This is what I heard from an Iranian classmate I met online who is learning Chinese. If it's wrong, it's not my fault.

But I can say for sure that this gamey smell comes from the British livestock slaughter system.

They do not bleed the cattle and sheep during slaughter.

And the chefs don't deliberately, or rather, they sometimes find it difficult, to suppress the natural flavor of the beef.

Therefore, they are all accustomed to pairing steak with red wine. The tannins of red wine suppress the fishy smell, and during the tasting process, a complex and rich flavor emerges, making the whole dish exceptionally delicious.

Simply put, it's like when you eat a tomato and feel it's not sweet enough and has a grassy, ​​vegetable-like taste, you can add some sugar and the tomato's flavor instantly becomes unparalleled.

Mycroft glanced at me but didn't respond, seemingly uninterested in my topic.

I went straight to the point and asked, "Can you cook for yourself?"

“In a country where Christianity is the dominant culture, you choose to lean towards other faiths.”

His tone was calm, yet it made the air tense. "Are you trying to discuss the redistribution of religious power with me? Or is it your blind worship of global citizenship education?"

He glanced at me and said, "You're saying such superficial things, it's like you're telling me that you're just some kind of pretty but useless decoration."

Mycroft paused. "Judging from your knuckles and cuffs, you yourself are not practical, you don't even cook, and you probably don't even know what HMA and Zabiha halal are, right?"

As soon as he finished speaking, I fell silent.

London remained silent for a second, then, as if an automatic program had been triggered, began to explain in a flat, emotionless tone.

"HMA is the Halal food monitoring organization, and Zabiha is the organization that requires proper Islamic slaughtering methods..."

I interrupted its serious explanation: "Why did Mycroft suddenly say I'm good-looking?"

As soon as he finished speaking, I vaguely heard London take a deep breath, and the ensuing silence seemed as if he was suppressing his temper.

London coldly retorted, "...Are you serious?"

I immediately switched to a harmless voice: "I just wanted to get your attention."

Then I made a heart shape with my hands and said to him, "London, you're so knowledgeable. You truly are!"

London: "Sorry, I'm not happy at all."

When I heard it respond to me, I knew it was still easy to coax and didn't really not want to talk to me.

I put London aside, took a sip of my Coke, and said to Mycroft, "There's always an appetizer before the main course. I thought Mr. Mycroft would be curious about my personality and habits. I'm thinking of satisfying your curiosity."

"Oh? How much do you know about me?" Mycroft's smile was like a thin layer of ice, devoid of any warmth.

“Sherlock Holmes is your most cherished younger brother, isn’t he?” I pointed out his sore spot without hesitation.

London: "How did you know?"

I realized early on that London doesn't have an omniscient perspective; it doesn't understand why I can know about the future. And that's the card I'm playing to control it.

But I don't want to be at odds with it, so I always joke with it.

"Of course it's a guess. There's no cost to guessing wrong. If I guess right, then I'm smart."

In order not to admit my boasting, it usually won't ask any more questions.

Mycroft was unfazed by my provocation and said calmly, "I only have one brother. If you insist on saying that, then it's not wrong."

I just laughed and said, "If I have a problem with you, I can talk to your brother. If you have a problem with me, who can you talk to?"

After a pause, I tilted my head and asked, "Looking at it this way, do you regret not knowing me better?"

In my view, Mycroft's composed demeanor seemed to be slightly disturbed for a moment.

His fingers continued tapping on the table, the rhythm as even as a machine.

Then a smile appeared on his face, cold, with an almost unsettling elegance.

"Making a deal with the tavern owner in advance to get the corrupt police ledgers—that's where the money comes in."

"It was just luck that we found the USB left behind by the mastermind behind the bank's operation."

"Successfully obtaining a copy of MI6's D notification and internal details is a sign of power."

These words made me raise an eyebrow.

Does he mean he's figured out my hand?

Are you giving me a warning?

Mycroft spoke in a calm and slow voice, as if explaining the rules of the world to a child, saying, "However, do you know how many cameras are currently in operation in London?"

"London, on!"

London: "..."

London: "942,000 cameras, with nearly 300 cameras recording citizens every day."

I was about to respond when Mycroft gave me no room to answer.

"Your every move is under the camera. Remember, if you walk by the water, you're bound to get your shoes wet. Wealth, luck, and power are not everything for success, nor can they protect you for a lifetime."

His tone, devoid of anger or exaggerated threats, was enough to make it clear that my every move in London was under his control.

But I just like to say no.

I slowly leaned back in my chair, as if giving him the stage, or as if examining his confidence.

“Since you can state the number of cameras so precisely,” I looked up at him, “do you know how many people live in London?”

I mimicked his tone, "Nine million permanent residents."

I propped my cheek up with one hand, my voice as languid as if I were fiddling with a fluffy ball of yarn.

"Do you believe it? With the wealth, luck, and power you disregard, I can make at least half of the people my eyes and ears..."

I paused, a slight smile playing on my lips, feeling confident and fearless.

“Occasionally, you can even become my hand. Just a copy of MI6 data is enough to make you contact me and meet with me. Isn’t that the best proof?”

There was a moment of silence in the air.

"Mr. Mycroft, are a mere 900,000 surveillance cameras enough for you?"

"You should understand human nature better than I do."

I squinted, my smile carrying a clear hint of provocation.

"If you want, this can be much cheaper than a camera."

Mycroft's eyes darkened.

I kept smiling: "London, cooperate with me if necessary."

London: "Do you have to provoke him to be happy?"

Me: "Anyway, you wouldn't want me to die."

London: "I want to make a change."

"no."

I refuse.

Once more than seven days have passed, returns without a reason are no longer accepted.

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Author's note: You should never touch a cow's fur against the grain.

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Get some rest!

See you tomorrow!