He stared at Old Li's back for a few seconds, his gaze sharp as a knife.
Then, he suddenly bent over, grabbed the mushrooms on the stone with a rough hand, rinsed them twice in the bucket, and shook off the water.
"Fine! Fine!" he almost gritted his teeth, his voice rising an octave, with a kind of defiance, "Good stuff won't go unrecognized! I'll do it myself! I'll eat it myself! No need for your chef skills!"
Everyone else in the camp stopped what they were doing, glancing over either openly or covertly.
The air froze instantly, leaving only the sound of water boiling in the pot and Old Zhang's heavy breathing.
Old Zhang didn't look at anyone; he pulled out a small outdoor pot and stove from his car, slapped it down far from the big pot.
His movements were quick and forceful, with a bit of aggression.
