Chapter Thirty-Four: Roast Duck and Happy Camp

After spending half a day visiting various sales offices within the second ring road of the capital, Gu Zhi looked at more than a dozen housing developments, but in the end, he didn’t buy a single property. He decided it would be better to wait until he finished his current work on the film, and then find a local to show him around the city—a native guide would at least give him some peace of mind.

That evening, he went alone to Quanjude and finally tried the legendary authentic roast duck that the capital was so famous for. He had been in the city for quite some time but had yet to taste this world-renowned dish.

Strangely, Gu Zhi didn’t find it particularly delicious.

Compared to the capital’s roast duck, with its crisp skin and tender meat, Gu Zhi actually preferred the roast duck sold at barbecue joints.

The local specialty required the duck to be sliced and eaten with slivers of scallion, cucumber, sweet bean sauce, all wrapped in a thin pancake. Since the duck was roasted without extra seasoning, apart from the aroma of the meat itself, the primary flavor came from the sweet bean sauce.

To be honest, this was the first time since his rebirth that Gu Zhi had tasted sweet bean sauce, and he found it hard to get used to.

By contrast, the roast duck from barbecue restaurants was marinated with spices and seasonings before being cooked; the finished duck was already flavorful, with golden, crispy skin, and was eaten as it was, with no need for slicing or elaborate accompaniments.

This style of roast duck was rarely seen in northern cities, but was common in places like Shenwan, Magic City, and Jinling—southern cities where roast duck and marinated delicacy shops were on every street corner.

Moreover, the price was far more affordable than the capital’s roast duck; for over a decade, the price per duck had stayed around eighteen to twenty yuan.

In his previous life, Gu Zhi had read a news report accusing such cheap roast ducks of being made from unclean sources, laced with carcinogenic preservatives. He’d been so frightened that he immediately threw away the duck leg he was gnawing on and dumped the whole plate.

Later, he researched the issue and discovered just how shameless some media could be—willing to slander without evidence just for attention.

The reason this type of roast duck was so cheap was simple: duck meat itself was worth very little.

Every part of the duck was valuable—down, liver, tongue, intestines—all of which fetched several times the price of the meat itself.

Farms made their profits from these parts; the meat was almost a byproduct, extremely cheap and not valuable at all.

Jinling was the city most enamored with duck, consuming over a hundred million ducks a year. The price remained accessible, and everyone in the city ate it.

If so many ducks were really laced with chemicals, the farms would have gone bankrupt long ago.

After this incident, Gu Zhi never trusted those so-called media reports again.

Their ability to fabricate facts surpassed even the most outrageous boasting, painting a picture of the country as if it was mired in suffering every day—utterly inferior compared to the idyllic, sweet-aired lands abroad.

With media so eager to spread rumors and chase attention, how could the nation’s culture ever gain confidence? Having a few less sycophantic “public intellectuals” would be a blessing, to say nothing of any hope for cultural export.

That night, as Gu Zhi walked home, he kept pondering this issue.

Since his rebirth, he had hoped to help usher in a flourishing era for the domestic entertainment industry, to foster cultural confidence at home and promote native culture abroad.

But the thought of the obstacles—those so-called public intellectuals and foreign apologists—made his heart grow heavier.

He understood that the greatest enemies often came from within, and that simply relying on the development of the entertainment industry to solve every problem was but wishful thinking.

Fortunately, someone had told him two thousand years ago how to walk this path:

“A long and arduous road lies ahead; I will search above and below, seeking the way.”

…

By the time he arrived home, it was nearly nine o’clock.

He hadn’t even stepped inside when he heard the shrill ring of the telephone.

Hurrying through the door, he grabbed the receiver.

He still didn’t have a mobile phone, so he had a landline at home—sometimes he felt as if he were living in ancient times.

“Oh my, Gu, my dear ancestor—I've been calling you all day. You’re finally home!”

The voice on the other end was a little hoarse and magnetic; Gu Zhi recognized Liu Qi at once.

“I had the day off, so I went out for a bit this afternoon and just got back. What’s up? Did something happen with the movie?”

“What could happen with the movie… The publicity department couldn’t reach you and asked me to let you know: the day after tomorrow, you, Ning Hao, Liu Ye, and Tang Wei are all scheduled to appear together on a variety show at Hunan TV. The company has already booked your flight for tomorrow afternoon. The other three have been notified—you're the last one.”

“Honestly, it’s so late and now I can’t get to sleep.”

Gu Zhi fell silent, speechless for a moment.

“All right, all right, I’ve told you now, so don’t forget,” Liu Qi said. “Bye, I’m off to bed.”

Before Gu Zhi could ask any more, there was a sharp click: Liu Qi had decisively hung up.

Gu Zhi set down the phone, feeling a little awkward. The thought of appearing on a variety show filled him with a certain reluctance.

When it came to Mango TV’s variety shows, there was no question—which meant the famous “Happy Camp.”

At this time, “Happy Camp” had only been running for three years but its ratings were sky-high; in 1998, it had even won the Golden Eagle Award for television.

As a major agricultural province, Hunan’s TV ads were still focused on pig feed, and there were few variety shows nationwide.

CCTV’s “Variety Panorama,” Beijing TV’s “Joy Club,” and Anhui’s “Super Winner” were all popular, but the sudden rise of “Happy Camp” had captured viewers’ attention and quickly dominated the weekend primetime TV market nationwide.

“Happy Camp” had a very clear target audience: young people aged fifteen to twenty. Its creator had once said, “If you no longer watch Happy Camp or think it’s not as good as it used to be, then you’re no longer part of our audience.”

Gu Zhi fit this perfectly—he’d lived into his thirties in his previous life and long since stopped watching “Happy Camp.” Not only did he dislike it; in fact, he even had a faint aversion to it.

The show itself was mediocre, and often copied segments from Korean variety programs.

The host, Xie Na, seemed either crazy or foolish, always laughing for no reason and acting like an idiot.

And then there was the oddball Du Haitao, who had even knelt publicly before Korean star Kwon Ji-yong, making sure every citizen knew about it.

If he was simply a crazed fan, such behavior was idiotic beyond belief. If it was calculated publicity, then it was both stupid and shameless—a total lack of dignity.

All these reasons made Gu Zhi dislike “Happy Camp.”

Yet he had to admit, the show’s focus on celebrity guests was an irresistible draw for young people, and this was its core competitive advantage—guaranteeing its long-lasting popularity.

Especially in this era, when the internet was still undeveloped and television reigned supreme, “Happy Camp” held a lofty place in young people’s minds, with a vast national audience. Many people watched every episode, just to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars on TV.

Now, for the sake of promoting “The Butterfly Effect,” Gu Zhi had no room to refuse.