Once a master of state dinners, Sun Lixin now teaches cooking to millions online, proving that even the most refined dishes can live on in everyday, family kitchens, Li Yingxue reports.

Deep in the maze of Beijing's hutong (alleyways), inside a lived-in siheyuan (enclosed courtyard), the air is thick with steam and the steady crackle of fire. A wok flashes over an open flame. Oil shimmers, spits, and releases a familiar, irresistible aroma.

Leaning toward a slightly trembling phone camera, a nearly 70-year-old chef speaks in a warm Beijing drawl:"Watch this step carefully — this is called coating. Don't lose focus."

To millions online, he is simply "Second Uncle". In real life, he is Sun Lixin — once the executive chef of the century-old restaurant Bianyifang, best known for its Peking duck, and a veteran of countless state banquets.

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In 2019, alongside Zheng Xiusheng, the former executive chef of the Beijing Hotel, he co-founded "Lao Fan Gu", a moniker meaning veteran master chefs. The duo's account has since amassed a Douyin (a social media platform) following of more than 16 million.

But Sun's journey to internet fame was anything but overnight.

Born in 1956, Sun stepped into the kitchen straight out of middle school. His formative years were shaped by Tuo Dailiang, a revered Sichuan cuisine master who once oversaw a massive national banquet marking the 10th anniversary of the People's Republic of China (in 1959).

At 16, Sun learned his first dish, Kung Pao Chicken, and never strayed far from its disciplined principles: a balance of numbing spice, heat, savoriness, freshness, and a subtle sweet-sour finish; precision in knife work; and harmony in texture.

"My master cooked for top leaders, but he was always extremely low-key," Sun recalls. "He told me not to chase fame, just focus on making every meal well."

That philosophy would later define Sun's own career. By his 20s, he had already risen to head chef at one of China's earliest foreign-affairs hotels. Over decades, he became known not only for preserving tradition but also for quietly pushing its boundaries.

One of his most unlikely legacies is a dish now found on menus across China: blueberry yam.

The idea emerged from thrift. While preparing a traditional dish of osmanthus yam strips, Sun found that scraps were inevitably discarded. Unwilling to waste them, Sun steamed and mashed the leftovers.

The result was bland — until he borrowed from Western pastry techniques, adding whipped cream and condensed milk, piping the mixture into delicate mounds, and finishing it with blueberry sauce. What began as an anti-waste experiment became a nationwide staple.

If blueberry yam was an inspired improvisation, Sun's reinvention of roast duck was a deliberate, years-long pursuit.

After taking on a leadership role at Bianyifang, he noticed a shift in diners' expectations toward healthier eating. Roast duck, an iconic dish of Chinese cuisine, was synonymous with richness. Sun wanted to change that without losing its soul.

Starting in 2003, he worked with nutrition experts to overhaul the process. Vegetable juices replaced traditional marinades. Even the liquid poured into the duck cavity — once spiced water — was reimagined. The result was a technique he describes as "roasting outside, simmering inside", producing a duck that was lower in fat and oil while retaining its signature depth of flavor.

The innovation earned a national patent and industry acclaim. But for Sun, the goal was never recognition. It was continuity.

"Preserving tradition doesn't mean refusing changes," he says."You keep the roots, but give them new life for today."

Having already modernized state banquet dishes for changing tastes, Sun soon realized the medium for sharing them also needed to evolve. In 2019, he turned to a different audience: home cooks.

"Lao Fan Gu" began modestly on Douyin. Early videos were sprawling, sometimes stretching a single dish across dozens of episodes. Viewers quickly lost patience. The team adapted, condensing lessons into concise, digestible segments. Then came a breakthrough: a meticulous re-creation of a historic state banquet menu sparked a surge in followers.

What sets "Lao Fan Gu" apart is not production polish, as there are no studio lights or staged backdrops, but authenticity. Filmed in a real, working home kitchen, the videos capture Sun and Zheng in constant motion, joking like crosstalk performers as they cook. Fans have dubbed it "the crosstalk kitchen".

Yet beneath the humor lies rigor. When demonstrating a smooth walnut dessert once served at state banquets, Sun pauses to emphasize a point: even a stray piece of jujube skin, he notes, would count as a serious mistake in a professional kitchen.

As their audience grew, so did its diversity. Some viewers were complete beginners; others were seasoned chefs. Striking a balance became a challenge.

"If it's too technical, beginners can't follow it," Sun says. "If it's too simple, professionals don't learn anything."

The solution was a dual-layered approach: precise breakdowns of advanced techniques alongside plainspoken explanations in everyday language. Complex methods like stock-making or battering are dissected step by step, while timing and heat are explained in a way that anyone with a home stove can grasp.

The impact is tangible. Viewers often return with updates — moving from tentative first attempts to proud successes — as the once-intimidating kitchen becomes a space of growing confidence.

One user, "yuanfangchuanlaifengdi", commented under a braised pork ribs video: "So detailed! I followed your recipe today — my ribs are stewing now, can't wait." Hours later, he returned with an update: "It's delicious. I used to add so many seasonings, but this simple version tastes even better."

Sun recalls a letter from a woman whose marriage had been on the verge of collapse. Her husband, once disengaged from household life, began cooking after watching "Lao Fan Gu". Gradually, he became more involved at home. "You saved my family," she wrote.

For Sun, the message was clear."Cooking is a kind of glue for family harmony," Sun reflects. "That's the real meaning behind our motto: we cook well, and you eat well."

Today, "Lao Fan Gu" extends beyond short videos. The team develops ready-to-eat products, visits university campuses, and hosts livestreams demonstrating intricate regional dishes. Their audience's questions — about nutrition, relationships, daily life — have broadened the scope of what began as a cooking channel.

In 2022, Zheng passed away, marking a profound loss. However, the project continues, joined by other veteran chefs, including 75-year-old master chef Hou Yurui, a national judge and expert in Hunan cuisine. Known for his gentle demeanor and focus on health, Hou excels at explaining the underlying logic behind cooking techniques.

Alongside these seasoned masters, younger apprentices increasingly appear on camera, continuing the intergenerational relay of culinary knowledge. Sun remains at the center, steady as ever.

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From a teenage apprentice to a master of state banquets, and now a mentor to millions of home cooks, his journey reflects a quiet arc of return. The techniques may be refined, the platforms modern, but the purpose is unchanged.

"In fact, banquet menus are quite simple, with many dishes using everyday ingredients," Zheng once said. "We hope people can learn them and re-create them at family gatherings, passing them down through generations."

That vision endures. In kitchens far from Beijing's hutong, in the glow of phone screens and the rhythm of home stoves, Sun and the "Lao Fan Gu" team continue to translate the grandeur of the banquet table into something intimate, repeatable and alive — one dish, one family, one generation at a time.

Contact the writer at liyingxue@chinadaily.com.cn