Chapter 56: Red Oil Chili

The Flourishing Prosperity Pavilion, a two-story wooden building, stood at the Hekou Town docks.

Merchants coming and going could choose private rooms on the second floor, where they could eat, drink, and chat freely while enjoying the river view and keeping an eye on their trading vessels.

If they wanted something more refined, they would summon musicians to perform, letting the sound of strings and flutes accompany their wine.

There was also a way to suit both refined and popular tastes: a stage was set up on the ground floor, with opera troupes performing regularly — Jiangxi was a hotbed of opera, and any large restaurant or teahouse that lacked a troupe was considered substandard.

Early morning, before the sky had brightened.

The Flourishing Prosperity Pavilion had not yet opened for business, its door panels not even taken down, when someone came pounding frantically at the door.

"Who is it? Coming, coming, stop knocking!" The shop hand on night watch had just woken up. He removed one door panel and saw seven or eight people standing outside. Yawning, he said, "The cooks aren't even here yet. You gentlemen are early."

"Not early. We're here to check the accounts!"

At Fei Xi's (the chief manager's) command, the servants beside him immediately subdued the shop hand.

Zhao Han, Fei Ze (Sword Gall), and Fei De (Wine Soul), leading several servants, swiftly stormed into the establishment.

"What are you doing?"

"Help! Bandits are robbing us!"

"..."

All four shop hands on night watch were detained in the blink of an eye, and the entire restaurant was taken over.

Just as the account books were brought out, several more restaurant employees arrived and were all detained in the second-floor private rooms, where they were interrogated separately about what they knew.

At the restaurant's back door, vegetable and food suppliers arrived one after another and were likewise invited inside to be pumped for information.

One fish supplier tried to run, but Fei Ze (Sword Gall) swiftly caught him and dragged him back. Under questioning, it turned out this man was the manager's niece's husband, responsible for buying goods from the fishermen and then delivering them all to the restaurant.

The other suppliers were in much the same situation, more or less connected to the management.

The accountant Zhao Han had brought was already going over the books at a furious pace.

Fei Xi (the chief manager) said to Zhao Han, "There's a problem with the ingredient purchase prices — at least fifty percent higher than the usual market rate."

Zhao Han said, "We questioned them separately and got them to inform on each other. Those ordinary shop hands only did petty pilfering. The cooks were the worst — they'd deliberately let fresh fish die, or claim the meat had spoiled, then take it home after work and sell it cheap to the neighbors. The spice theft was rampant too, especially the pepper. Oh, and one shop hand confessed that the second manager, who handles the opera and music troupes, has shady dealings with those performers."

"Brother, the chief manager's here!" Fei Ze ran over to report.

"Seize him!"

The restaurant's chief manager was named Fei Zhong. He had just stepped inside when he was caught in utter confusion. Terrified, he cried out, "Spare me, brave heroes, spare me!"

All three managers were arrested one after another.

Zhao Han said, "Uncle Xi, you're the chief manager sent by the Madam, so the restaurant's operations are naturally yours to run. As for these three, we must escort them to the authorities. For the other employees, just having leverage over them will suffice."

"As Brother Han says," Fei Xi replied with an ingratiating smile.

Zhao Han then summoned all the cooks — one head cook, three apprentices, and a group of kitchen helpers.

The head cook was called Peng Zhengxiang, a hired worker already advanced in years. Unless there were distinguished or wealthy guests, he normally did not cook himself, leaving the three apprentices to handle the cooking.

Zhao Han picked up a handful of dried chili peppers and said with a smile, "These foreign peppers get used up fast. Are there that many guests who like spicy food?"

"Spare me, master, spare me!" Peng Zhengxiang immediately fell to his knees and kowtowed.

Zhao Han did not mention his crimes, only asking, "Do they grow foreign peppers locally in Yanshan?"

Peng Zhengxiang answered, "Foreign peppers mostly come in from Zhejiang. In recent years the locals have started growing them too, but not in great quantity."

The earliest brief written record of chili peppers appears in the nineteenth year of Wanli.

A detailed written description of chili peppers, including the color of their flowers, first appears in the first year of Tianqi.

That is to say, chili peppers had already entered the Great Ming at least thirty-odd years ago. Moreover, the true time of introduction must be even earlier — it was merely first recorded by a literatus thirty years ago.

The early transmission routes of chili peppers were two: one starting from Zhejiang, the other from Liaodong.

Yanshan County bordered Zhejiang directly, so it came into contact with chili peppers far earlier than Huguang, Sichuan, or Guizhou.

"Bring out all the aromatic spices and seasonings," Zhao Han said.

"Huh?" Peng Zhengxiang did not understand.

Zhao Han asked, "Would you rather discuss how much money you've skimmed, or exchange pointers with me on culinary arts?"

Peng Zhengxiang immediately shouted, "Bring all the aromatic spices and seasonings!"

The kitchen instantly erupted into chaos, everyone fearful and curious at once.

Zhao Han picked up a bay leaf, sniffed it, and said with a smile, "This thing is native to the Mediterranean. To think the Great Ming has it too. Is it very expensive?"

Peng Zhengxiang answered cautiously, "It used to be very expensive, but not so much these years. Many places now grow cassia trees."

Zhao Han pointed at a bowl of dried chili peppers and ordered, "Pound them to a powder!"

Peng Zhengxiang hastily ordered his apprentice, "Pound them to a powder."

Zhao Han glared at him. "If you don't want to learn, you may leave."

Peng Zhengxiang froze for a moment. He was already in his fifties and had truly never thought of learning more about cooking, nor did he believe Zhao Han possessed any culinary skill. But with his misdeeds held over him, he had no choice but to learn. He could only start pounding the chilies himself.

Zhao Han also had people prepare the other aromatic spices and seasonings.

When everything was ready, he ordered, "Heat the cooking oil."

The head cook, the three cooks, and the crowd of kitchen helpers, their fear momentarily forgotten, all pressed forward to watch.

They saw Zhao Han spread his hand to test the oil's temperature, then suddenly lift the wok and pour the hot oil in.

"Tsss!"

Two successive pours of oil went in, and as Zhao Han stirred with chopsticks, an intense fragrance assaulted the nostrils.

Peng Zhengxiang took a deep breath, his expression one of intoxication, unable to resist wanting a taste.

Swallowing his saliva, Peng Zhengxiang asked, "This is..."

"Chili oil," Zhao Han said with a slight smile. "A pity that fermenting broad bean paste takes time, and I don't know whether the airborne microbes in Yanshan are suitable. Hmm, the main thing is, I'm not clear on the exact process myself."

Jiangxi cuisine has many varieties, and Yanshan cuisine in particular tends toward strong flavors. Moreover, due to thriving commerce, it absorbed a great many characteristics from other culinary traditions.

Take Yanshan cuisine at the end of the Ming dynasty: the upper-class gentry and merchants ate relatively mild food, but it still leaned toward strong flavors overall. As for the lower-class peddlers and laborers, the stronger the flavor the better — street snacks had long since become dazzlingly diverse.

Zhao Han was a self-taught cook, fairly familiar with Sichuan cuisine, which happened to suit the local palate.

Unfortunately, the soul of Sichuan cuisine, "Pixian douban," had not yet been invented at this time.

Ming-dynasty Sichuan cuisine bore absolutely no resemblance to the Sichuan cuisine of later ages.

It may be hard to believe, but Sichuan was once known for hot-and-pepper soup.

According to Ming-dynasty literati records, hot-and-pepper soup was once a Sichuan delicacy. The method was roughly the same as in the north, except rice flour was used for thickening.

If Zhao Han were to unify China ahead of time, sparing so many Sichuanese from death and eliminating the need to fill Sichuan with Huguang migrants, "Sichuan cuisine" as we know it might never come into being in this timeline.

"Do you have rice noodles?" Zhao Han asked.

"Yes." Peng Zhengxiang did not send his apprentice this time, but brought the rice noodles over himself.

Rice noodles were called "can" in the Sui dynasty and "rice cable" in the Song. During the Ming and Qing, the written form was "rice lan," but common folk already called them "rice noodles."

The water was brought to a boil and the noodles were dropped in. Over ten bowls of rice noodles were scooped out, dressed with soy sauce, mashed garlic, chopped scallions, and oil-fried chili.

Red, green, and white intermingled — a feast for both the eyes and the palate.

Zhao Han said, "Without MSG, from now on when making rice noodles, you can simmer chicken broth or bone broth to boost the fresh flavor."

Peng Zhengxiang had no idea what MSG was, and could only nod obsequiously. "Your disciple will remember the master's instruction."

Zhao Han instructed, "Take these out. Tell them to stop going over the accounts and fill their bellies first."

Peng Zhengxiang could not help asking, "Master, may I have a taste?"

"Go ahead." Zhao Han smiled.

Peng Zhengxiang instinctively reached for the mint, but Zhao Han stopped him, telling him to experience the pure charm of the oil-fried chili.

In cooking at this time, every province favored purple perilla. Yanshan here was especially fond of mint, tossing it into a great many dishes.

Peng Zhengxiang mixed the rice noodles thoroughly and took a bite. Spicy and exhilarating, the heat made his nose run. "On a bitter winter's day, a bowl of oil-fried chili rice noodles would be a hundred times more delicious still."

"Work out the cost and give it to the manager for pricing. From now on, sell oil-fried chili rice noodles in the mornings. Hmm, oil-fried chili noodle soup works too," Zhao Han said.

Peng Zhengxiang thought for a moment and said, "Master, this oil-fried chili — it seems there might be other uses for it?"

"Explore that yourself," Zhao Han said with a laugh. "Every half-month, I'll teach you one new dish. Today, I'll teach you red-oil poached chicken. We can use the leftover chicken to simmer broth for the rice noodles."

Peng Zhengxiang, already past fifty, abruptly knelt upright and kowtowed. "Master above, please accept your disciple's bow!"

Zhao Han accepted the bow without refusal.

Before noon, diners began arriving at the restaurant one after another.

Prices here were on the high side; the lower classes could not afford it. Even the main hall on the ground floor was quite expensive, to say nothing of the private rooms upstairs.

Fortunately, Hekou Town was a thriving commercial hub and never lacked for customers.

Every time a guest entered, the waiters eagerly pushed the red-oil poached chicken and oil-fried chili rice noodles (or wheat noodles), claiming they were new recipes that had leaked out from the imperial kitchens.

Imperial recipes?

Good heavens — bring them out at once!

The kitchen ran out of chickens, and the restaurant's purchaser was dispatched to scour the whole town for more.

Upstairs and down, hapless diners could be seen everywhere, sitting there with their tongues lolling out from the heat.

A burly man slammed the table and bellowed, "Another plate of red-oil chicken!"

Zhao Han sat at the counter observing the scene. He noticed the fellow was plainly dressed and did not seem wealthy, yet he had ordered a tableful of fine dishes and carried a cudgel with him. He beckoned a waiter over and asked, "What do those men at that table do?"

The waiter answered, "They're all headmen of the Iron Foot Society."

"The Iron Foot Society?" Zhao Han had never heard of it.

The waiter explained, "Over the past few decades, every trade has formed its own guild — the rice merchants have the Rice Guild, the cloth merchants the Cloth Guild. The poor laborers followed suit and formed their own societies. The Iron Foot Society is the guild for dock laborers. Later, the town's porters all joined as well. If any employer dares hold back wages, the Iron Foot Society sends hundreds or even a thousand men, carrying poles on their shoulders, to demand payment at his door."

Good heavens — this was the embryonic form of a trade union.

Zhao Han did not know that among Yanshan's various labor guilds, the papermaking workers' guild was by far the most formidable.

Those were all skilled workers, densely concentrated in the industry, and many of them could recognize a few characters. At the slightest harsh treatment, they would go on strike at the drop of a hat, and the owners of private paper mills had no choice but to compromise.

As for the official paper mills, they did not treat their workers as human at all. Anyone who dared lead a protest was simply beaten to death or crippled — production delays were of no concern to them.

By the mid-Qing period, papermaking workers in Yanshan County accounted for over thirty percent of the county's total population, not counting children.

In the late Ming it had not yet reached that extreme, but the number of papermaking workers was still staggering. In Shitang Town alone, if you counted those who cut bamboo, fired the vats, and hauled and carried, a single town had fifty to sixty thousand papermaking workers. The entire town, one could say, revolved around the paper mills.

Labor guilds?

Strikes?

How interesting.

Zhao Han rose and walked over. He cupped his hands in salute and smiled. "Gentlemen, are you satisfied with our restaurant's new dishes?"

(A solemn book recommendation: "The Crimson Heart Patrols the Heavens," an exceptionally brilliant xianxia novel, over three million words — a feast in generous portions.)

(End of chapter)