Chapter 3: The Skilled Cook Chapter 3: Persuasion

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Protagonist:

Song Miao

The old man cradled the stolen soup, sipping slowly as he walked toward Song Miao by the stove, yet said, "Just one meal uses this much firewood and oil, and three eggs besides—who does business like this? Song Xiaoniangzi, how much profit can you make this way? When will you ever pay off the debt?"

After tasting Song Miao's cooking, his mouth was still stiff, but his tone softened instantly; in a blink he went from "Do you think cooking is just grabbing a ladle and messing around?" and "What do you have to compete with others?" to "How much profit can you make?" and "When will you ever pay off the debt?"

Song Miao did not answer, only ladled out a small spoonful of rice grains from the hot pot and asked, "Want some?"

The old man hesitated, then asked, "What is this?"

As he asked, his hand reached out as if it had a mind of its own.

The rice grains fell into the soup with a "hiss-hiss" sound.

The old man looked closely: it was a small handful of fried rice popped in lard, golden and fragrant, already crisp.

The weather was cold, he did heavy labor, and he especially liked greasy food.

The soup was already rich, but the mustard greens, fried eggs, and mushrooms all absorbed oil; now adding the fried rice, the fat burst forth at once, speckling the noodle soup.

The soup became more fragrant, richer, with more layers of texture; eating a mouthful of soup-soaked fried rice, it was crisp and fragrant, tender and crisp yet not hard—even with his poor teeth, he could bite without effort.

That one bite stuffed his mouth so full he could no longer speak.

So fragrant.

Female cooks were common these days; if one had excellent skill, being invited by wealthy families at high prices to cook in their mansions was everywhere, and sometimes when given a chance to run a banquet, making some impressive dishes to give the employer face often brought extra rewards.

Song Miao's skill could make even ordinary ingredients taste this good; even if she could not enter those great households for now, setting up a stall outside could still support her.

Even if the debt was repaid slowly, there was no other way.

Song Dalang was dead; he was just a fish seller who wanted his capital back, not truly so hard-hearted—forcing a good woman into prostitution or truly driving someone to death were not good things—even if he did not fear nightmares, he feared being pointed at in broad daylight.

At his age, he needed to accumulate some yin virtue.

After one meal, not even the white radish shreds Song Miao had prepared to cleanse their palates were used; the old man and the woman no longer mentioned "Wu Yuanwai" or "Li Yuanwai," and their attitudes softened.

Words without proof; seeing half a torn painting still on the wall, Song Miao took it down, found a rotten brush from the account room, and wrote two IOUs stating that a father's debt was repaid by the son, that she assumed Song Dalang's debt, and that she would repay monthly, clearing it in several years, and so on.

With no ink pad, she used pot-bottom soot to press her handprint.

Seeing the two off, full of soup and rice, Song Miao then closed the main gate.

To make money selling food, she naturally had to think it over carefully.

She ate her meal, searched the house from top to bottom, and took stock of what she could use.

Things had been taken by all sorts of people, but the stone mill in the back courtyard was too big and heavy to move; in the cellar there was also a cart, with two sacks of rice, several bags of beans, a vat of oil, two steamers, several broken pots, and quite a few broken bowls and chopsticks.

No one knew who had gathered these things intending to take them away, only to leave them behind in the end.

The rice was glutinous rice; the beans included mung beans, red beans, and soybeans; the oil was ordinary rapeseed oil.

The original owner still had less than three strings of cash, sent by neighbors and old friends coming to offer condolences these past few days.

Burdened with too much debt, even the ancestral home was about to be lost; Song Miao dared not delay a moment. Seeing the wind and snow outside gradually stop, she quickly put the money away, took only a few dozen copper coins on her person, and went out.

The Song family eatery was at the end of Sanzao County Alley; walking another hundred steps or so inside was the rear gate of an academy. At this time both rear gate boards were tightly shut, and the door rings were somewhat rusted.

Song Miao knew this academy was where the original owner's eldest brother had once studied, named "Nan Lu," covering not small grounds, founded by the famous Confucian scholar Fang Dajia of the founding dynasty, which had once invited many great scholars to lecture and was famous for a time.

Although Nan Lu Academy was not as prosperous as before, its foundation remained; there were about a hundred students, plus those who came to study and listen to lectures, and quite a few book boys and servants, teachers and instructors—all told, no fewer than three or four hundred people.

To be fair, the Song family eatery's location was not very good.

Zhuque Gate separated the inner and outer cities; Sanzao County Alley was not prosperous, and the Song family eatery was at the end of the alley; these years it relied entirely on the academy's clientele to prosper.

But ever since last year's beginning, when the academy changed its Shan Chang, the good days were gone.

That Shan Chang valued discipline greatly; he believed the academy's poor results in the last two imperial examinations were because students came and went freely, causing lax discipline and scattered hearts, so he changed the rules, closing both the front and rear gates of the academy; students without a pass could not enter or leave at will.

After one year, whether the academy students' studies had improved was unknown, but the few shops at the end of Sanzao County Alley could not hold on.

The Song family eatery needed no mention; across the way there was also a bookshop selling brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, which closed its doors in the third or fourth month of last year, then sat idle for several months before being sold; although it had not reopened, people often came and went day and night.

Song Miao looked at the house across the way; there was not a single lantern outside the door, but the door ring was worn bright, and the thin layer of snow on the ground had been trampled half-melted, black and dark—clearly people came and went frequently.

At this time the house's main gate was half-closed, and shouts could faintly be heard from inside.

Early in the morning, with cold weather and not a single pedestrian on the road, yet voices never ceased inside this house; Song Miao could not help but glance again.

But she had not yet seen anything when a shadow of clothing flashed within the half-open door, and with a "bang" it was closed from inside.

Song Miao immediately felt even stranger.

But she had no time to meddle in others' affairs now; she turned and walked out.

Along the way she only saw a few scattered stalls, selling steamed buns, noodle soup, and wontons, with ordinary business; but when she reached near Zhou Bridge, pedestrians suddenly became numerous, and stalls increased as well; within a few steps someone was hawking.

Song Miao watched everyone doing business and gradually became clearer about current prices.

Seeing several people carrying poles and pushing carts in one direction, all looking like breakfast sellers, she followed behind; after walking a short while, she indeed saw them arrive at a place and stop simultaneously.

—It was at a corner of an alley.

The sky was still early, but inside the corner many stalls had already been set up, all doing good business, each surrounded by many customers, and some customers kept urging them.

"Hurry up! The bell is about to ring!"

"I said yesterday I wanted meat buns, but what you gave me were all maltose filling; eating maltose first thing in the morning is too cloying! It got me a good scolding from the Young Master; today I absolutely cannot get it wrong—I want mutton filling!"

"Give me a bowl of noodles, less hot broth, two more slices of meat—I'll eat it here and leave when I'm done! By the way, don't add cilantro inside; cilantro's smell is too strong; yesterday when I opened my mouth, I nearly smoked out the teacher!"

"Guest, the noodles sold out fast this morning; how about a bowl of wontons instead?"

"No wontons; your wontons don't fill you up. Last time I bought a big bowl, I was full then, but after going back for more than an hour, my stomach was growling!"

As soon as the new stall owners arrived, people immediately gathered around from the wonton stall; many customers even complained they came too slowly.

Song Miao stood for a while and found these customers were either dressed as scholars or as servants, and more and more gathered, basically all coming out from the alley.

She followed the direction inside, and saw walls on both sides of the alley, one high and one low; at the far end of the low wall a small door stood half-open, with people coming out from inside in ones and twos, while no door was seen along the high wall, though many low shrubs were planted at its base.

Song Miao walked along the base of the wall, and suddenly heard a low murmur of voices ahead.

"Hey! Don't squeeze! Who kicked my buttock!"

"Hurry, I think I see Deng Fuzi coming over!"

"Quickly, don't let him see us; if we're caught just for a mouthful of breakfast, it wouldn't be worth it!"

Song Miao took a few steps closer and saw that behind a thicket ahead, a large hole had been dug into the wall, light shining through; from inside, one head poked out, then another head poked out.