Chapter 416

Before going to Jiangsu, Wei Ming met a man from Yangzhou at the People's Literature Publishing House.

Of course, given the actual circumstances in Jiangsu, he only acknowledged himself as a native of Gaoyou.

Wang Zengqi, over sixty, had been a student of Shen Congwen, had co-written the script for "Sha Jia Bang," had suffered unjust treatment earlier, and had since resumed writing, producing the sensation "Shou Jie." Wei Ming had crossed paths with this elder at several Writers' Association events, but had never had the chance to take a photo or speak at length.

Today, seeing him, Wei Ming volunteered: "Old Wang, I'm heading to Yangzhou on business—should I bring you some Gaoyou salted duck eggs?"

"Oh!" Wang Zengqi perked up immediately, pulling Wei Ming to sit down. "You're going to Yangzhou for fieldwork? Then I've got to tell you all the good eats."

Wei Ming immediately adopted an attentive posture. Many writers in the literary world loved food, but few had food become their defining label—Lu Wenfu was one, and Wang Zengqi was another.

Last year, he had even boosted the fame of his hometown Gaoyou's salted duck eggs.

Of course, Wei Ming himself was even more renowned in this area—he had written dozens of essays on food, covering all major regional cuisines, domestic and foreign, a feat even the seniors Wang Zengqi and Lu Wenfu could not match, simply because he had money.

Old Wang wasn't as wealthy as Wei Ming, but he had great imagination for food, loved to tinker, often invented his own dishes—he was a carefree old man who loved life.

"Meeting you is my luck. Usually, friends from my Gaoyou hometown bring me salted duck eggs when they come to Beijing, but the last one came during Spring Festival, and I've already eaten them all. When you return from Yangzhou, come to my place—you bring me the duck eggs, I'll treat you to a meal."

"Haha, it's a deal. Maybe I'll even get a short essay out of it." Wei Ming made the arrangement with him.

Wang Zengqi was about to leave; Wei Ming had just arrived. He asked: "Are you here to revise manuscripts?"

Wei Ming: "I was called by Old Lady Wei Junyi."

"Oh, I just saw her—go on then."

In the director's office of the People's Literature Publishing House, Wei Ming sat across from the old lady.

"Little Wei, today I called you to discuss publishing your essay collection."

The People's Literature Publishing House had long wanted to do this. Wei Ming's talent was unquestionable, but his popularity surpassed even his talent—his novels were always published individually or in collections, but he'd never released an essay collection, and the market potential here was huge, especially overseas.

Wei Ming had heard rumors too and wasn't surprised: "I'll go through my essays and pick the best ones—many of them are mediocre, not worth publishing."

This wasn't modesty; often, Wei Ming wrote essays like diary entries, just to remember the origin, preparation, and taste of certain foods, so he'd jot them down and submit them casually to magazines, maintaining connections.

He usually sent higher-quality pieces to the "Four Great Divas" and major journals like "People's Literature" and "Yanjing Literature"; the average ones went to regional magazines like "Modu Literature," "Zhongshan," "Mengya," "Yanhe," or local Hebei publications.

"Don't rush," said Old Lady Wei Junyi. "We're thinking of publishing a themed essay collection centered on food, and launching it prominently at this year's Frankfurt Book Fair."

Last year, Chinese books made a notable showing at the Frankfurt Book Fair, and they'd learned that overseas audiences had strong interest in Chinese cuisine—perfectly matching Wei Ming's expertise.

"Food? Fine. I'll go through my essays and make a list after I return from Yangzhou."

Wei Junyi: "Then think of a title."

After leaving the publishing house, Wei Ming returned to Nánluógǔxiàng. It wasn't Sunday, but Gong Ying and Zhu Lin were both there.

Thinking that their reunion had lasted barely half a month before he'd be leaving again, they felt relieved—perfect timing for a little break.

They mothered him, reminding him to take care of himself outside, not to drink raw water, not to kick off the covers at night—still, they couldn't bear to let him go.

That night, Wei Ming held both sisters for a long time, talking and making love.

The next morning, Wei Ming and Biaozi met the "Journey to the West" crew at Beijing Railway Station; once they left, the cat and dog would rely solely on Xiao Mei.

Wei Ming hadn't taken a long-distance train in years, and he felt a small thrill.

Traveling alone on a train was boring, but with a group, it was fun—especially such a talented bunch, so the journey wouldn't be lonely.

Tickets were bought collectively, everyone in the same carriage; Wei Ming met Chi Chongrui and Yan Huaili for the first time.

Chi Chongrui had collaborated with Gong Ying on "Bi Zhong Qing"; Yan Huaili was a colleague of Zhu Lin's at the People's Art Theatre, though certainly not their top actor.

The People's Art Theatre's leading actors couldn't be lent out to a TV series that might take years to film—it would be too disruptive.

Chi Chongrui agreeing to take the role meant he'd have almost no chance to perform on stage for the next year.

Although Master Li would become a household name later, right now the most famous person in the group was Comrade Zhao Debiao—several sharp-eyed passengers recognized him as Tie Biao, the main villain from "Heroes Born in Youth."

Back then, audiences really carried their hatred of villains into real life, sometimes acting out violently—but seeing Biaozi's physique, they easily separated the character from the actor.

Some even praised him: "If you'd played the villain in Shaolin Temple, Li Lianjie would've been beaten to death."

Biaozi was first proud, then melancholy—now people knew the young man's real name was Li Lianjie, but everyone else still called him "Tie Biao," his film character.

Ah, Little Li was too popular!

Another Little Li, Li Chengru, served as production assistant on the crew, handling all logistics; Director Yang had promised him a role later.

He was also the most talkative, chatting nonstop the whole way, making the entire carriage aware they were the "Journey to the West" crew—passengers then began asking who was Sun Wukong and who was Tang Sanzang.

Li Chengru laughed: "Why don't you all guess?"

Six Little Age Tong, afraid no one would guess he was Sun Wukong, secretly made a scratching-head gesture.

"Him! It's him, right!"

Sun Wukong was recognized, but problems arose with Tang Sanzang—Chi Chongrui wore a hat, hiding his bald head; many pointed at Wei Ming: "Isn't he Tang Sanzang?"

One auntie declared confidently: "It's definitely him—rosy lips, white teeth. No wonder the demonesses want to eat his flesh."

Yang Jie studied Wei Ming carefully. In looks, Wei Ming was indeed better than Chi Chongrui—but how could a famous writer possibly act in a TV series? Just accompanying them on this trip was already a great favor.

Wei Ming waved his hand: "I'm not Tang Sanzang." But indeed, many demonesses wanted to eat his flesh.

Moreover, in this version of "Journey to the West," Tang Sanzang's charm paled beside Sun Wukong's; Wei Ming's most memorable Tang Sanzang was still the TVB version played by Kong Wah.

At lunchtime, everyone went to the dining car—they were on official business, and part of the 3 million yuan budget covered meals.

Wei Ming always disliked train food, but at this point, bringing his own delicacies was useless—too many people; eating alone was bad form.

So Wei Ming endured it, ate the same train food as everyone else, but brought out his salted duck eggs and shared them.

Hengzhou also produced salted duck eggs, but its reputation paled next to Gaoyou's. Since Wang Zengqi had already written about Gaoyou's duck eggs, Wei Ming didn't want to repeat him by writing about Hengzhou Lake's.

Besides, Hengzhou Lake was only one-tenth the size of Gaoyou Lake, so duck egg production was far lower—promoting duck eggs was less effective than promoting Hengzhou's old white liquor.

Although Wei Ming found the train meal mediocre, others ate heartily—meat and vegetables alike, far better than home cooking.

Biaozi, now wealthy and used to daily feasts of fish and meat, sighed over the few strands of meat in the dish: "We should've brought canned meat."

Canned meat had to be bought at Friendship Store; Wei Ming exchanged foreign exchange coupons for them every month—he still had freedom to buy canned meat.

As Biaozi regretted this, Liang Jiahui had already acted—he went to Friendship Store and bought some luncheon meat cans.

The Beijing Film Studio cafeteria's food was too bland—no oil, no meat, barely edible.

Originally, these Hong Kongers could have had private meals, but Wei Ming, with prior experience collaborating with Hong Kong teams, told Wang Yang, the factory chief, and Li Hanxiang, the director: let the Hong Kong staff eat and live with the Beijing Film Studio crew—convert their meal allowance into cash, let them eat out themselves, and don't let the Beijing staff see.