Chapter 185: Enjoyable Conversation

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"Director, do you like spicy food?"

"Yes!"

Anson had just asked when Sam already answered, even somewhat excitedly.

Sam noticed Edgar and the waiter's gazes turning toward him, and he suddenly became a bit self-conscious. Clearing his throat, his gaze involuntarily lowered, and he spoke in a slightly softer voice, "I really like spicy food."

Anson glanced at Edgar: Buddy, your stomach might have a tough time tonight.

Then, Anson flashed a smile at the waiter. "Good evening. Sorry to keep you waiting. It shouldn't be the dinner rush yet, right?"

Sam: …

Edgar: …

The waiter was looking for his jaw on the floor.

Because Anson was speaking Chinese—a perfectly fluent and standard Chinese.

Occasionally, you might encounter some foreigners learning Chinese in a Chinese restaurant—not many, but they do appear from time to time. Their tones often sound a bit off, as the four tones of Chinese are still difficult for them to adapt to, making the intonation of a complete sentence sound like it's flavored with a hamburger.

However, Anson in front of them didn't have any of that!

Standard. Fluent. Natural.

And, his word choices were spot on.

So, what's going on here?

Seeing the waiter not responding, Anson switched back to English. "Oh, sorry, were you born here?"

For second or third-generation immigrants, their lifestyle has seamlessly integrated here, and there are fewer and fewer young people who still keep the habit of speaking their homeland's language.

The waiter finally snapped out of it, put his dislocated jaw back in place, and unconsciously revealed a particularly warm and cheerful smile, shaking his hands repeatedly.

"No, no, no... I just came here last year, still studying, working part-time here. I was just surprised. Your Chinese is really good. Seriously, I'm not just flattering you—I think your Chinese is better than mine. When I call home now, my mom says I don't sound right."

Anson thought, Do you know that in journalism schools back home, professors recommend that students interested in becoming hosts or reporters pass a Mandarin proficiency test?

Of course, he didn't say this out loud.

Anson modestly replied, "I'm still learning. So, I just looked at the menu—you have quite a few authentic Sichuan, Cantonese, and Northeastern dishes, quite different from 'Panda Express.'"

Waiter: …

The waiter's jaw hadn't fully recovered from dislocation, and now he had to pick up the pieces of his shattered glasses.

Ordering took a bit of time.

Edgar and Sam didn't say a word, both of them wearing expressions of astonishment, like they were witnessing aliens landing, with their jaws still dropped.

Though there was no conversation, Edgar and Sam's gazes accidentally met, and they surprisingly shared a brief moment of mutual understanding.

"Did you know?"

"I didn't know. Did you?"

"How could I possibly know!"

In the midst of shock and surprise, their eyes couldn't help but show a hint of a smile, but Sam quickly realized and stiffened the smile at the corner of his mouth, quickly turning his head away.

Edgar: ???

It wasn't until the ordering was finished that the waiter, walking as if on clouds—one step deep, one step shallow, sometimes high, sometimes low—turned and left. Anson turned back around and then saw two eager faces staring at him like baby birds waiting to be fed, which made Anson chuckle.

"Sorry, I was just asking some important questions."

"How spicy are the dishes here? How big is the difference between mild and very spicy? Are there any ingredients that you might not like? I know you probably don't like organs or feet…"

As soon as Anson said this, Sam interrupted, "Organs? Like oxtail or beef tripe?"

Oxtail, Anson knew, but beef tripe? "Are you talking about dishes from central France?"

Sam's eyes lit up, "What? You know French cuisine too?"

Anson smiled. "My mother is French."

### "Wow," Sam exclaimed, unable to control himself as he leaned slightly forward over the edge of the table, carefully studying Anson. The eyes that had seemed half-asleep suddenly lit up with energy, and then Sam exclaimed again, "Wow!"

Only now did Anson realize how big the director's eyes actually were. "What? Is there something on my face?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm just amazed. You're so knowledgeable about food, so how do you stay in shape?"

This transition?

Anson couldn't help but laugh. "Exercise. There's no secret to it. You have to burn as many calories as you consume, or even more. Either you eat less or not at all, otherwise, there's no shortcut."

Sam looked shocked. "Do you count calories for every meal?"

Anson paused, realizing he had slipped up.

Although calorie-counting had started to become a lifestyle, it wasn't widespread yet. In the year 2000, things that seemed normal to Anson were still relatively new.

Fortunately, Sam didn't dwell on it and instead answered his own question. "Ah, being an actor isn't easy."

Anson's smile fully bloomed. "That's why actors can make $20 million per film, but directors can't. It's called equivalent exchange."

Sam didn't respond immediately; he just stared at Anson. Just when Anson thought he might have said something wrong, Sam unexpectedly burst into laughter, clapping his hands. "You're a funny guy."

As soon as the laughter came out, Sam noticed the glances from people around him and quickly quieted down, returning to his poker face.

This time, though, it was a bit different. He lowered his head, hiding the smile playing on his lips.

Edgar: Can't keep up.

Edgar glanced at Anson, increasingly impressed. Dealing with such a difficult and unpredictable director, Anson seemed completely at ease.

Anson met Edgar's gaze and gave a barely noticeable shake of his head: They shouldn't talk business.

Any small sign might put Sam on alert, and all their efforts so far would go to waste.

Anson's gaze didn't linger; he trusted Edgar to judge the situation accurately.

He turned back to Sam. "You mentioned you like spicy food. To what degree? You know, many people's standard for spicy is Taco Bell. That's not Mexican food—real Mexican food is much more than that."

Sam looked up, nodding repeatedly. "Yes, exactly. They keep saying Taco Bell is spicy enough, but God, even Texas food is spicier than that. They should really try authentic Mexican food down south."

The conversation returned to food.

Throughout, the discussion was lively, even though they didn't talk about work. The friendly and smooth atmosphere broke the ice, revealing a completely different side of Sam.

Edgar had never known Sam to be so talkative. At least within Hollywood, there had never been any rumors of this kind.

So how did Anson manage it? He was like an encyclopedia, able to comment on different fields and topics. And it wasn't just empty talk—he often hit the mark with his insights, handling everything with the right balance.

The conversation was extraordinarily pleasant.

Edgar thought that tonight he had heard Sam laugh more than in the entire past year.

Even Edgar couldn't resist joining in the conversation, and it felt completely natural—

For heaven's sake, Edgar figured Sam still didn't know his name or identity.

**First update.**