Chapter 43: Huo Qi

The next morning, Lu Beigu rose early and carefully put away the “Commentary on Honoring the King and Revealing the Subtle” he had acquired the day before. This book was vast and profound; merely comparing it volume by volume with the Three Commentaries on the Spring and Autumn would take months.

He prepared brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, placed them in his book satchel, and set off toward the Yizhou Road Transport Commissioner’s Office in Chengnan.

All of them were currently lodging at the Qingyang Palace.

Yes, that famous Qingyang Palace in Chengdu.

In this era, scholar-officials traveling privately often stayed in Daoist temples or Buddhist monasteries—it was discreet, inexpensive, and the environment was pleasant.

Inside the palace gate, Lu Beigu saw on the right a pavilion with eight corners and double eaves culminating in a spire, and before it stood a three-legged bronze incense burner, though little incense remained.

He had not entered through the main gate yesterday, so he had not seen it then.

Now that he had time and no urgency, he stepped into the pavilion to take a look.

Inside stood a stele much taller than he was, carried on the back of a bixi; the stele’s body appeared carved from Qingcheng stone, a material hard and finely grained, ideal for inscriptions.

“‘Inscription on the Qingyang Palace of Western Sichuan’?”

Lu Beigu crouched down and glanced beneath it—the inscription was written by a former Tang minister named Le Penggui.

Then he silently recited the text above.

“The hills rise steep and grand, towers and pavilions stand open and bright, rivaling the palaces of Yuanqiao in the Eastern Sea; towering like the celestial palaces of the Western Extremes, drawing the spiritual might of Jianmen Pass entirely into this imperial residence; gathering the elegance of Emei Mountain, half flowing into the capital. Smoke clings to the green altars; wind carries the clear chime.”

After reading it, Lu Beigu understood: previously, this place had been called Qingyang Pavilion. Emperor Xizong of Tang had fled here during Huang Chao’s rebellion and stayed temporarily.

Emperor Xizong thought the place auspicious—his survival here suggested it might be his blessed ground, perhaps where he would need to retreat again if he fled to Shu once more.

So after returning to Chang’an, he allocated funds from both the inner and outer treasuries to greatly expand it, renaming it from Qingyang Pavilion to Qingyang Palace.

And since this site had escaped war damage, it had already existed for nearly two hundred years.

Hmm, this often meant many crowded ancient buildings—or rather, old, dilapidated residential lanes.

He hadn’t walked two steps further when it proved true.

Beyond the Qingyang Palace gate, Chengdu’s morning mist had not yet cleared, and the surrounding alleys were already alive with the bustle of daily life.

Literally, “the aroma of daily life.”

Pedestrians bustled like woven cloth; stalls lined the alleys and streets, offering all manner of breakfasts.

Lu Beigu had not planned to eat here, but the aroma was so damn enticing that the longer he walked, the hungrier he became.

He reasoned that since he hadn’t tasted Chengdu’s delicacies yesterday, he might as well pick a stall in an alley that looked clean and had few customers.

“Young master, what would you like?”

“What do you have?”

“Only two kinds of meat noodles,” said the vendor. “One is thick broth with meat topping, the other is minced meat noodles seasoned with orange and garlic chives.”

Because Chengdu’s summer was humid and hot, Lu Beigu felt sticky and uncomfortable under his clothes, so the thick meat broth didn’t appeal to him much.

He said: “Give me the one with orange and garlic chives.”

The noodles were nearly ready, so they were served quickly.

Lu Beigu took the bowl and saw amber-colored meat sauce drizzled over the noodles, fine minced meat glistening with oil, topped with a layer of orange and garlic chives—one side with orange threads cut as fine as hair, the other with white and green minced garlic chives.

He lifted a strand of noodles and tasted it: the savory saltiness of the sauce mingled with the fragrance of the noodles, the noodles, rinsed in well water, were smooth and chewy, soaked in sauce yet not sticky.

Then he scooped up a bit of the orange and garlic chive sauce: the orange threads were crisp and tender, releasing a faint fruit aroma; the pungency of the garlic chives perfectly cut through the richness of the meat sauce.

Left fork, right fork, the bowl was soon empty.

Lu Beigu’s forehead had barely broken into a light sweat, yet he still hesitated to finish—so he scraped the bottom of the bowl clean with his noodles, devouring every last drop of sauce.

After eating, he exhaled deeply, feeling the morning’s damp heat and irritation completely gone, his whole body refreshed.

The vendor, having just freed his hands, saw how much he enjoyed it and smiled: “Young master, are you satisfied?”

Lu Beigu nodded and handed over copper coins: “The orange and garlic chive seasoning is excellent—tart and sweet, whets the appetite, perfect for summer.”

The ancients said: when granaries are full, people learn propriety.

People only begin to think deeply after they’ve eaten their fill.

Watching the vendors’ varied breakfasts, Lu Beigu walked while pondering.

Newton, as a scholar, seeing an apple fall, did not wonder whether the apple tasted good—he wondered why it fell.

Lu Beigu was also a scholar, but unlike Newton, he was seriously pondering questions about food.

During this time, he had sampled many Sichuan dishes.

But he noticed that in today’s Song, although steamed and boiled foods were varied and pastries were beautifully presented,

stir-fried dishes were far inferior to those of the modern era!

Why?

Was it because the woks were inadequate?

Lu Beigu glanced at the woks used by the vendors in the alley—clearly not.

In this era, the thin-walled iron wok, known as “huo,” was already widely used, and the folk concept of “huo qi”—modern “wok hei”—had taken root.

Was it the fuel?

No.

Though some used firewood, most chose stone coal; its combustion efficiency was more than sufficient for stir-frying.

Upon further reflection, it wasn’t the oil either.

Song oil-extraction technology had leapfrogged beyond the Tang: sesame oil, rapeseed oil, soybean oil—all were cheap; rapeseed oil sold for just a few dozen copper coins per jin, far cheaper than lard, and plant oils, with their high smoke points and heat resistance, were naturally suited for stir-frying.

After eliminating all other possibilities, Lu Beigu arrived at an answer that made him almost laugh and cry.

—That although Song chefs knew how to stir-fry, many still hadn’t figured out how to make truly delicious stir-fried dishes!

“If my sister-in-law opened a restaurant and taught them how to stir-fry properly, wouldn’t customers flood in every day?”

A thought arose in Lu Beigu’s mind.

Yet though it seemed feasible, running a restaurant wasn’t just about good food—it required capital, staff, and connections.

Lu Beigu shook his head and pushed the idea aside for now.

Then he passed through several alleys and soon saw in the distance a government office of blue bricks and gray tiles; above its gate, the seven large characters “Yizhou Road Transport Commissioner’s Office” gleamed in the sunlight.

Lu Beigu straightened his robes and stepped forward.

The guard at the gate asked: “What is your business here?”

“I need to see Transport Commissioner Zhao.”

Lu Beigu handed over the official pass Zhao Bian had written the day before.

The guard examined it carefully, saw Zhao Bian’s personal seal, and immediately grew more respectful, bowing deeply.

“The Commissioner has already instructed me to escort you in.”

Passing around the bustling main hall and through several courtyards, Lu Beigu noticed that although the Transport Commissioner’s Office was sizable, everything exuded simplicity.

The vermilion lacquer on the pillars was peeling; the edges of the stone steps were worn, yet every corner was spotlessly clean.

Soon, they arrived at a quiet courtyard in the rear.

In the courtyard stood a lone, bare old plum tree, its branches proud; beneath it, a stone table and stone benches were dust-free.

The guard stopped at the door: “The Commissioner has instructed you to enter directly.”

Lu Beigu thanked him and entered alone. The main room’s door stood wide open; Zhao Bian was bent over his desk, writing furiously.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up, and on his usually stern face appeared a rare smile.

“You arrived early.”

(End of chapter)