The Cui household in Lane Three, Baxing District.

Cui Dabao, twenty-eight years old, was the only son in his family. His father, nearing fifty, had raised him with deep affection since his other father passed away early. Cui Dabao had never known hardship growing up.

As a widower raising his son, Father Cui spoiled him rotten. When Cui Dabao turned seven, his father sent him to a private school to learn to read and write. But after less than three years, Cui Dabao couldn’t sit still. On his way to school, he’d eat and drink all along the route. When afternoon classes ended, he wouldn’t go straight home. Instead, he’d love to wander all the way back along the main street.

His face would be greasy from eating, having spent all his money on paper, ink, brushes, and inkstones on food.

Seeing this, Father Cui would only praise him: “My boy knows how to eat—he’ll never go hungry!”

By the time Cui Dabao turned eighteen, it was time to consider marriage. Father Cui hired a matchmaker, determined to find a suitable bride for his eldest son.

The Cui family was considered well-off in the Baxing District. Though Cui Dabao was unambitious, idling away his days wandering the lanes, Zhengjie Street, and the East and West Markets—sometimes staying out for half a day without returning home—the Cui family had money.

When the matchmaker spoke of the Cui family to the families of eligible young ladies and ger, three large courtyards in the Baxing District alone bring in nearly this much annually—pure rental income, no effort required—and they accumulate a sum equivalent to this much in money.

Fifty taels of silver a year.

“Not to mention, the Cui household is quiet. Marry in, and you won’t have a mother-in-law or father-in-law bossing you around. You’ll be the head of the household right away.”

For Fengyuan City, the Cui family’s conditions were actually quite decent—they couldn’t compare to the top tier, of course, but ordinary folk like us knew our place. Compared to those below, the Cui family was far superior.

Naturally, there were interested parties. The matchmaker made trip after trip to the Cui household, seizing opportunities for the children of both families to have ‘chance’ encounters. Ordinary commoners, ger, weren’t so guarded. Everyone had to make a living; it wasn’t as if they never stepped outside their front door or ventured onto the streets.

But Cui Dabao was picky.

No good, no liking, no marriage.

After countless trips, the matchmaker wore out a pair of shoes. Exasperated, she finally said, “Good heavens, what kind of girl do you want then?”

Cui Dabao couldn’t articulate it. Throwing a tantrum, he stubbornly declared to his father, “Father, I won’t marry! If you like, you marry! Just give me a little brother or sister—I won’t mind!”

Father Cui’s old face flushed with embarrassment.

“You good-for-nothing brat! What nonsense are you spouting?!” he snapped at his son in front of the matchmaker.

Cui Dabao promptly ‘ran away from home’—heading to the West Market, where he stayed for three days. He didn’t seek out courtesans or frequent brothels, but found an inn and ate there for three days. He felt much better, while his father stayed home, filled with regret, clutching the spirit tablet of his late husband and weeping uncontrollably.

He shouldn’t have scolded his son. If he didn’t want to marry, so be it. You left me with this child at the cost of your life—why should I make him suffer?

In the end, Father Cui went to the West Market himself to find his son. Father and son embraced and wept bitterly.

“I won’t force you anymore,” Father Cui said. “Do whatever you wish.”

This was truly a rare occurrence—a father apologizing to his son. It was unheard of in those times, so word spread, and Cui Dabao’s fame grew. From then on, he earned the nickname “Old Man Cui.”

Cui Dabao didn’t mind the title much. Whether called “Old Master” or “Dabao,” it didn’t interfere with his eating and drinking.

It wasn’t until Cui Dabao turned twenty-five that fate brought him face to face with a young ger who felt like an old friend. This ger was thin and gaunt, yet possessed unusually large eyes. Cui Dabao took an instant liking to him and begged the matchmaker to use her connections to find out more.

Matchmaker: What’s he like? Where’s he from?

Cui Dabao: I’ve only met him once. About my height, very dark-skinned and thin. He must eat little, being so skinny. Big eyes, and a ger mole right here.

He pointed to a spot just below his own mouth.

The matchmaker wore out another pair of shoes running errands, but this time she finally found out. The ger was from Sun Village outside the city, a poor soul. His parents died young, and he lived with his older brother and sister-in-law, who kept him until he turned nineteen.

“…Poor thing. Sun Douzi was dark from farm work, and though his looks were ordinary, his brother and sister-in-law didn’t arrange a match for him early. They waited until he was eighteen or nineteen, and then no one wanted him.”

Cui Dabao: “Sun Douzi—that name sounds delicious.”

Regardless, Father Cui thanked heaven and earth, paid the matchmaker five taels of silver as a reward, and entrusted her to finalize the matter.

The matchmaker, eager to earn from the Cui family, had Old Man Cui run around for months at no cost when he was eighteen. By the time he turned twenty-five, unexpectedly, the matchmaker not only earned her fee but doubled it.

The Cui family truly were generous people.

The marriage naturally proceeded smoothly.

After marrying his husband, Cui Dabao didn’t prove as “ambitious” as the neighbors imagined. He continued living off rental income as before, and his husband didn’t interfere with Cui Dabao either, merely managing the household efficiently.

The neighbors began saying Cui Dabao didn’t cherish his husband.

Three years passed, and Sun Douzi’s belly remained quiet, bearing no child.

The neighbors murmured again: “No wonder Old Man Cui is always out and about. Sun Douzi can’t keep him home. Three years and still no sign of a child. If there were a child, it would surely tie Old Man Cui down.”

That day, Cui Dabao returned before noon.

Father Cui, a potter, was away from home. Sun Douzi opened the door, surprised. “Why are you back so early today?”

“Don’t even ask. I came across a new shop this morning called pot sticker buns. I planned to eat first and then buy something, but they sold out early.” Cui Dabao entered the courtyard and asked his husband, “Is there any food?”

Sun Douzi’s cooking was nothing special. “I just had a quick bite at home.”

“What did you eat?”

“Steamed buns.”

Cui Dabao: “That sounds perfect. I’ll have some too.”

Three years into their marriage, the villagers of Sun Village said Sun Douzi had married well into the city. The neighbors in the Baxing District said Sun Douzi had married into the Cui family, but his husband was never home, and they had no children. On the surface, it looked splendid, but in reality, it was a sea of bitterness.

Only Sun Douzi knew the truth.

His life wasn’t as lavish as the villagers claimed, nor as miserable as the neighbors made it out to be. Every marriage had its bumps and friction, but overall, Sun Douzi was content—a hundred times better than living with his brother and sister-in-law.

Take now, for instance. Sun Douzi ladled two bowls of noodle soup—plain flour broth with just some home-grown Chinese cabbage and a sprinkle of scallions for garnish, seasoned with a pinch of salt. Before marriage, the fussy Cui Dabao wouldn’t touch such a meal and would throw a tantrum.

Even Father Cui cooked better than this.

But now, Cui Dabao took the bowl, drank it dry without a word. Sun Douzi ate slowly. After finishing, he went to wash the dishes. While scrubbing the pots and bowls, Cui Dabao, who had been sunbathing in the courtyard, suddenly called out, “That pot-sticker crust was so delicious! I was so happy eating it, I forgot about you and Dad. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go buy some early and bring some back for you, too.”

“Don’t eat in the morning.”

Sun Douzi, washing dishes in the kitchen, smiled and replied, “Alright.” Then he asked, “What kind of pot-sticker bun is it? Dry or soft?”

Cui Dabao propped his elbows on the windowsill outside the kitchen and called through the window to Douzi, “Dry. It’s baked flatbread, thin, with two fillings. If you don’t like lard, the pickled plum vegetables aren’t greasy either. I’ll buy some tomorrow. If you don’t like it, just leave the leftovers for me.”

“Alright.” Sun Douzi agreed. “Then I’ll cook some corn porridge to go with it tomorrow?”

Cui Dabao nodded. “Don’t even mention it. I bought a pot sticker for breakfast, thinking it would be dry. Then I spent seven wen on a bowl of mutton offal soup. Old Li’s mutton offal soup is really no good, not as good as Old Tang’s…”

By evening, Father Cui returned home. Seeing his son there surprised him. “You didn’t run out today? Back so early? Did he stay home all day? That’s quite obedient.”

The following question was directed at his son-in-law.

Sun Douzi explained, ”Father, Dabao came back before noon—“

”Father, I tried something new this morning on our main street,“ Cui Dabao chimed in, chatting with his father. ”When I walked in and saw Ild Tang’s shop open, I thought he’d recovered from his illness.”

Father Cui: “Oh? Old Tang can’t be doing that, can he?”

“No way. His widowed ger is running the breakfast stall now.” Cui Dabao gave a brief explanation before veering onto the topic of pot-sticker buns, launching into a lengthy discourse on their merits.

Father Cui was long accustomed to this.

Sun Douzi, meanwhile, was busy preparing the evening meal. Lunch had been a simple affair, but Sun Douzi put much more effort into dinner, knowing his father-in-law had worked hard all day. He served steamed rice and three stir-fried dishes, each generously seasoned with oil. The lamb, braised in lard, was a bit bland, though.

Father Cui managed to eat about seven or eight parts full, but Cui Dabao simply couldn’t finish. His husband’s meat dishes were far less palatable than the midday bowl of clear soup with dumplings. Seeing his son barely touching his chopsticks, Father Cui grew troubled, though he said nothing about his son-in-law.

Douzi was perfect in every way except his cooking. Dabao loved his food, and if he passed away in his old age, Dabao would starve without Douzi’s skills.

Sigh.

After finishing the meal, they cleaned up, washed, and went to bed.

Cui Dabao: “Father, we’re going to bed. You should rest early, too. Head to the kiln a bit later tomorrow. I’ll buy some pot stickers—try them before you go.”

“Understood,” Father Cui replied with a smile. That was just how his eldest son was—utterly obsessed with food. If he stumbled upon something delicious, forgetting his own father for a moment was nothing unusual. But his heart was in the right place, and he was deeply filial. Once he remembered, he’d make sure his father got a taste too.

Doors closed one by one.

The young couple climbed into bed.

The night was hot, and Cui Dabao slept in light clothing, as did Sun Douzi. Though three years had passed since their marriage, the initial shyness and awkwardness had faded. Yet Cui Dabao rarely touched him—Sun Douzi wondered if Dabao simply didn’t like him.

Cui Dabao stroked his husband’s arm—so thin, like a twig. Why hadn’t he gained weight yet? A thought struck him, and he said firmly, “Tomorrow, wake me early. Before dawn, I’ll go to the main street to buy pot-sticker buns.”

Sun Douzi: ?

“That early?”

“Yes.” Cui Dabao wanted to buy plenty.

The next day, before dawn.

Tang Xianling slept soundly. He said he got up early now, but he also went to bed early, falling asleep as soon as it got dark. There wasn’t much entertainment either, much like those three years in the apocalypse. Though it was better now—at least it was safe, and food was plentiful.

Before long, there was movement in the east room.

Jiang Yun had woken.

Tang Xianling knew Jiang Yun wanted to help him, but honestly, he didn’t manage much at home. Father Tang and Jiang Yun handled things; he just took on more of the household chores—he really disliked tending to Old Tang.

Caring for a stroke-stricken, partially paralyzed old man was exhausting.

But Jiang Yun was a hardworking soul. The more chores he took on, the more restless she grew, casting him pitying looks that seemed to say, “Wu-ger, have you abandoned Mother too?”

Tang Xianling: …

People are truly complex. Tang Xianling felt Jiang Yun must have heard his denial that he wasn’t her Wu-ger. Though she kept avoiding the subject, she still cared deeply for him and wanted to help.

“Then, Mother, put the red beans on to boil. I’ll fetch water and knead the dough—I’ll make it in time.” Tang Xianling assigned the tasks.

Jiang Yun, given a task, instantly shed her gloom. A smile touched her lips. “Alright, Mother understands. Go now, and be careful.”

Tang Xianling shouldered the water buckets and headed out to fetch water.

He could now carry two buckets at once.

The door opened onto pitch darkness. A shadowy figure approached. Tang Xianling shuddered in fright, gripping the pole tightly, ready to strike:!

“Young Master Tang, don’t be afraid. It’s me, Cui Dabao.” Cui Dabao called out.

Tang Xianling’s grip on the pole relaxed: …

He shouldn’t be scared.

“I’m here to buy pot stickers.”

Tang Xianling: …

He looked up, but the sky was pitch black. He couldn’t make out Cui Dabao’s features at all.

“I’m worried they’ll sell out. I’ll wait for the first batch.”

Tang Xianling: …

Holy crap, he’d seen his share of foodies in the Rong Dynasty, and Tang Xianling was one himself—foodies understood each other. But Cui Dabao? This guy was a next-level foodie. Tang Xianling stammered through a string of explanations before politely concluding: “Sir, I’ve just started boiling the red beans. It’ll be about half an hour before I open shop. Perhaps you could—”

Go home first.

“Just half an hour? I’ll wait!” Cui Dabao chimed in gleefully, adding considerately, “Young Master Tang, if you need to fetch water, go ahead. I’ll wait right here. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Tang Xianling: … He set down his carrying pole and went inside. 

“Mother, Cui Dabao is waiting at the door,” he told Jiang Yun. Seeing no surprise on her face, he knew Cui Dabao was a glutton—this wasn’t the first time he’d waited patiently outside the shop.

“Get him a stool. I’ll fetch water.”

Jiang Yun nodded, an unnoticed smile spreading across her face. “Wu-ger’s cooking is truly exceptional. Old Man Cui doesn’t usually camp out at the shop. Back in winter, he’d come before opening just for your father’s mutton soup noodles—always first in line. But in summer, when it gets hot, he’s pickier about what he eats. Says lamb’s too drying for the heat, so he comes less often…”

Because Cui Dabao was stationed at the shop entrance, Tang Xianling felt rushed even while fetching water—not that Cui Dabao was actually urging him, but young Master Tang felt the pressure himself.

Tang Xianling recalled a joke he’d seen back in the modern world.

A street food vendor quit his corporate job to become a merchant, seeking freedom. But his delicious food drew customers asking daily, “Are you open yet? See you at the usual spot? Want XXX?”—making him more punctual than any office worker.

Tang Xianling: Pain and pleasure intertwined.

Having people love what you make is truly a source of pride and joy.

Tang Xianling topped off the water barrel, rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and said, “Mom, I’ll knead the dough. Keep an eye on the red beans. If you’re hungry, there’s a bowl of yesterday’s rice left—just stir-fry it for a quick bite.”

He didn’t have time to stir-fry rice now.

Jiang Yun: “I ate a lot yesterday, so I’m not very hungry now.”

Tang Xianling said no more. He kneaded the dough until it was smooth and elastic—the dough smooth, his hands clean, the bowl spotless. He set the dough aside to rest, then scooped up the red beans and began mashing them with brown sugar to make bean paste.

A knock sounded at the shop door.

“I’ll see who it is. Probably the meat delivery,” Jiang Yun said, wiping her hands on her apron before stepping out.

Outside, Zhu Si had come to deliver meat. Spotting Cui Dabao sitting by the door, he immediately understood the situation and exclaimed in surprise: “Are the pot-sticker buns made by Wu-ger really that delicious? Old Man Cui, you’re a walking advertisement!”

Hearing this, Cui Dabao found it more flattering than any empty praise. It meant he was a connoisseur of good food. He chuckled and said, “You must not have tried them yesterday morning. Once you do, you’ll understand. I, Cui Dabao, never exaggerate about food.

“You’re right, Old Man Cui. Yesterday, my wife came to buy some, but they were sold out. They went so fast in such a short time, I thought Wu-ger must have underestimated demand. Seeing you here today, I realize they must truly be delicious.”

Cui Dabao beamed with pride and launched into a passionate lecture about pot-sticker buns.

When Jiang Yun came to pick up the meat and handed money to Zhu Si, Zhu Si bowed cheerfully and said, “Sister Tang, your business is thriving! I’ll come early tomorrow to buy a bun and try it myself.”

“Thank you for your support,” Jiang Yun replied.

After collecting the meat, she didn’t linger for small talk but hurried to the kitchen to deliver it to Wu-ger.

Today’s pork belly was leaner than usual, so there was no need to trim the fat—perfect. Yesterday morning, there were two jin of pickled plum vegetables and less than three jin of pork. Today, it was three jin of pickled plum vegetables and a little over three jin of pork, leaving half a jin of pork belly. After selling out breakfast, she’d go to the market to buy tofu, mix it with the pork belly, and fry tofu balls for dinner.

Tang Xianling began preparing the filling while Jiang Yun started to leave. 

Tang Xianling:?

“Mother, where are you going?”

“This recipe of yours—” Jiang Yun didn’t know how to explain.

Tang Xianling understood immediately. The secret to Old Tang’s mutton soup had been kept from his family and children for decades, but he had no such reservations. He declared plainly, “This recipe of mine—even if someone learns it, they won’t be able to replicate my flavor.”

He was a master, after all!

Jiang Yun smiled upon hearing this. She realized her Wu-ger hadn’t changed at all—still as pure-hearted and childlike as ever, thinking only of his family without harboring resentment. He was a soft-hearted soul.

Tang Xianling paid no heed to Jiang Yun’s thoughts, deftly preparing the fillings. “Mother, you can take these to the front. I’ll tend the coals and get the oven heated up first.”

The oven needed to be heated to around 200 degrees Celsius for baking the flatbreads.

One bowl of brown sugar bean paste filling, one bowl of preserved vegetable and pork filling, and a large bowl of dough. Yesterday they used ten jin of flour; today they prepared five more jin extra. It should be enough for sales.

The shop door hadn’t opened yet, and the sky was just beginning to lighten.

Outside the door, Cui Dabao, with ears perked like a cat’s, heard the sounds inside and instantly sat up straight. Here it comes!