Before heading home, Cui Dabao grabbed a handful of beans and dropped them into his food basket.

“That kid Zhang Ming sure has quick feet. He pretended to wave at me, but then he took off running. I came in second today.” Cui Dabao said as he walked through the gate.

The courtyard gate stood open; Father Cui had everything ready and was waiting for his son to bring back breakfast.

“Second is second. It doesn’t seem any later than usual,” Father Cui said.

Cui Dabao wasn’t the type to be overly competitive; if he were, he wouldn’t be known as “Old Man Cui” among the neighbors. He set the basket down on the table in the courtyard. It was hot in the summer, and the early morning was the coolest time of day, so the family was accustomed to eating breakfast outdoors.

“Dad, here’s your stuffed pancake.”

Father Cui had already gone to fetch it. He let out a soft “Hmm,” but before he could speak, Cui Dabao knew exactly what his father was going to say. He spoke up: “It’s made by Mr. Tang. He’s giving it out for free today as a thank-you to his customers. I had plenty while I was waiting in line.”

Sun Douzi first set the milk can aside—it needed to be heated up later—then handed his husband a teacup. Eating the qizi dou must have made his mouth dry; he figured Dabao must be thirsty too.

Cui Dabao took the tea and drank it all in one gulp, feeling much better. He then said to Douzi, “They’re actually pretty tasty, especially the green ones. Master Tang is such a generous and open-hearted man. He said he doesn’t sell the recipe for the qizi dou, but if anyone wants to learn how to make them, they can learn from him.”

“Is that really possible?” Sun Douzi asked in surprise, then added, “Mr. Tang really is a good man.”

Father Cui was already picking at the qizi dou, eating several in a row. He’d set the stuffed pancakes aside for a moment, alternating between the yellow and green ones, unable to stop. He remarked, “Even February, they still taste the same.”

“These have eggs mixed in,” Father Cui said, popping a yellow one into his mouth.

Cui Dabao: “The green ones have mung bean flour and Sichuan pepper leaf powder mixed in.”

Anyway, they’re fragrant. These little things are so addictive—it’s hard to stop eating them. Too bad I only took a spoonful. Seeing the plate empty, Cui Dabao clapped his hands and started eating the pot-shaped buns, while Father Cui ate the egg-stuffed pancakes, still thinking about the qizi dou.

“I didn’t want to take too much—it’s free, after all.” Cui Dabao knew just by looking at his father’s expression that he was craving those qizi dou.

Father Cui: “I’m getting old. Eating this reminds me of when my grandmother was still with us. I was just a little kid back then. We only had a tiny courtyard. Not long after the New Year, there wasn’t much to eat at home, so we’d look forward to the second month. My grandmother would make these bean dumplings. Seeing me staring at them so eagerly, she’d crack in a couple extra eggs—just like the flavor Master Tang makes here. He’s generous with the eggs.”

“This young shopkeeper is honest in his business dealings; even in the free qizi dou he gives out, he doesn’t skimp on the eggs.”

“Mr. Tang also adds spices to the filling,” said Cui Dabao. Those spices are even more expensive than the eggs.

“No wonder it tastes richer than the ones my grandmother used to make,” said Father Cui.

As for which was more fragrant or tastier, Father Cui left that unsaid.

Sun Douzi listened from the side, having eaten one red bean pot-sticker buns and half a pickled preserved vegetables and pork pot-sticker buns. He thought that since his father and Dabao had been talking about the bean pastries for quite a while, they must really want more after eating them. Why not ask Mr. Tang how he made them?

So, after his father left for work and Dabao went to get pork floss bread, Sun Douzi tagged along.

Sun Douzi felt a bit too shy to ask about the recipe himself, so Dabao spoke up and asked for him. As soon as they spoke, others nearby looked over curiously. It was already late, and some who hadn’t gotten any of the freebies asked what it was.

Those who’d arrived early—now waiting in line for the pork floss bread—explained it to the latecomers standing nearby.

Latecomers: …They were kicking themselves in regret.

Free qizi dou this morning?!

Tang Xianling found it amusing, then gave the recipe to those asking, explaining the proportions in detail—especially for the mung bean version: how to mix the flour and mung bean flour, and that the Sichuan pepper leaf powder shouldn’t be ground too finely; a slight graininess was best.

The egg version was the old-fashioned Fengyuan City style; he added a bit of five-spice powder, which wasn’t difficult at all.

Every woman and man in Fengyuan City knows how to stir-fry beans, but after tasting Mr. Tang’s version, it’s truly different from what you make at home—just like how homemade dishes differ from those cooked at restaurants.

Mr. Tang’s qizi dou is delicious enough to sell.

It’s a shame Master Tang doesn’t sell them, but he’s generous enough to actually teach the recipe.

“…Go home and try kneading a small ball of dough first. If you get stuck or mix up the steps and the flavor’s off, come find me after your afternoon nap, and I’ll take some time to walk you through it,” Tang Xianling told Sun Douzi.

The husband at Old Man Cui’s house really has a gentle disposition.

So Sun Douzi went home that very day and started making stir-fried mung bean balls. Cui Dabao, unusually, wasn’t out and was at home turning the small millstone to grind mung bean flour.

It was actually quite amusing. Cui Dabao found doing physical labor every now and then to be a nice diversion. When Sun Douzi got so hot that sweat beaded on her forehead, Cui Dabao coaxed her, “Take off your shirt—it’s just the two of us here, so what’s there to be shy about?”

He took off his outer shirt, leaving only his undershirt on.

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

When Tang Xianling woke from his nap, not only was he feeling much more alert, but his arms weren’t as sore either. He later found out that Tieniu had applied a hot compress to them for a while and massaged them a bit—just as he’d said.

“You’ve been busy all morning, too. Aren’t your arms sore?”

Huangfu Tieniu shook his head. “No, they’re not. Really.” Worried that Xianling wouldn’t believe him, he explained, “I’ve always been naturally strong. When I was fourteen, my foster father didn’t actually want to teach me how to hunt; he wanted to help me find my family instead. He said I was well-dressed, so he assumed my family must be well-off. Why learn to hunt? It’s dangerous, running around in the mountains all day.”

“I had no memories back then, yet I didn’t think about ‘home.’ I just kept my head down, following my foster father into the mountains without saying a word. We crossed two mountain ranges. When my foster father stopped to rest and glanced at me, I asked, ‘Aren’t you tired?’”

“I was, actually, a little, but it was okay.”

“Later, we climbed trees, dug pits to set traps, and carried our game through the mountains. That same winter, my foster father taught me to shoot a bow. I could even draw his bow—he said I had a bit more strength.”

Tang Xianling enjoyed listening to Tieniu recount his daily hunting life with his foster father. He squeezed Tieniu’s arm—it was rock-hard.

“You don’t look like some muscle-bound freak.”

Huangfu Tieniu:?

“Just all muscle, like a mountain.”

“Do you like that?”

Tang Xianling punched Huangfu Tieniu in the chest. “I don’t like it. I think it’s a little scary.”

Huangfu Tieniu let out a sigh of relief. “I thought you liked that.”

After waking from their afternoon nap, the two chatted idly for a while, both laughing heartily, when their mother called out from outside: “Are you two awake? Wu-ger, I’m going to buy groceries.”

Tang Xianling answered first: “We’re awake, Mother. Don’t rush—there’s too much to carry. Tieniu will go with you.”

“Right.” Huangfu Tieniu put on his shoes and a jacket before heading out.

From the courtyard, Jiang Yun’s voice called out, “I can manage on my own.”

“Mom, the groceries are heavy. Let me carry them—it’s just a quick trip to the street.”

Tang Xianling also got dressed and headed out, waving goodbye to the two in the courtyard. He splashed some water on his face; after all, they were family—no need to be overly formal or distant.

It was now around two in the afternoon, past the hottest part of the day, though it wasn’t exactly cool yet.

Tang Xianling didn’t light the charcoal stove right away. He did some prep work first—peeling garlic and slicing ginger—and waited for his mother and Tieniu to return with the vegetables and meat. He hadn’t asked Mr. Zhu to deliver them. Once the meat and vegetables arrived, the whole family got to work.

These days, it gets dark late; it was still light out at seven in the evening.

Tang Xianling planned to serve dinner around four o’clock. With a little over an hour, two large stoves, and one stove, it was doable. He had Tieniu chop the ribs into pieces about the length of a thumb, evenly sectioned. Tang Xianling began scrubbing the ribs, rinsing them clean, draining the water, and setting them aside.

Both the sweet and sour spare ribs and the clear-simmered meatballs take time to prepare.

He started simmering the meat in both stoves.

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Early evening.

“It smells good again.”

Lu Sanniang glanced at her eldest brother and said, “Wu-ger is selling dinner again today.”

Not to mention Lu Dalang, even Father Lu passing by and overhearing, recalled a previous occasion when Sanniang had brought back a bowl of vegetables from next door. That bowl of vegetables looked quite ordinary, but after Sanniang added it to the clear soup dumplings they’d made at home and simmered it for a while, the dumplings that day were truly fragrant.

“If you two are craving something, the shop next door will open in a bit—go buy a bowl of vegetables,” Father Lu said.

It’s hot out; it’s fine to have something a bit richer at home.

Lu Sanniang and her eldest brother exchanged glances, and both lit up with joy. With that, Lu Sanniang headed to the front of the shop to see when Wu-ger’s place would open.

Just past four o’clock, the food was served on the large table in front of the shop. It was presented on a deep, long platter, piled high with glossy, crimson spare ribs, sprinkled with white sesame seeds. Never mind the aroma—just looking at the color was enough to make one dizzy with desire.

It was impossible not to feel a sudden craving, eager to taste what it was like!

How could it look so good?

On the other side, a clean, large porcelain jar held meatballs the size of fists. The meatballs were nestled in a bit of meat broth, looking light and delicate, with sprigs of emerald-green scallions floating on top.

Tang Xianling had two pots of stir-fried vegetarian dishes ready.

A large round bamboo tray held steaming hot rice, a mix of white and yellow grains.

The two large shops of the Tang family had their four doors shut, but it was just the time when women and men were out on the street buying groceries to prepare the evening meal. People stopped at the shop entrances and sniffed the air.

“What a wonderful aroma,” 

“How could it smell so good?” 

“Is Master Tang stewing meat?”

Just then, the shop door swung open.

Tang Xianling stood before the shop, beaming. “We’ve started selling evening meals today.” He needed to replace the shop sign, but since it had been a gift from Tieniu, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it just yet.

“What kind of evening meals?”

“Is it mutton soup?” someone wondered. Old Tang must have passed down the secret recipe for mutton soup tangtou to Wu-ger before he died; perhaps Master Tang was making mutton soup now.

Someone with a keen sense of smell realized it wasn’t the scent of lamb.

It was hot out, and eating mutton really made one feel overheated.

“I’m selling boxed meals—just enough for one person. I’ll sell whatever I’ve cooked that day.” Tang Xianling said with a smile, “Today’s menu: sweet and sour spare ribs, clear-simmered meatballs, minced pork with braised eggplant, and scallion-braised pan-fried tofu, served with a bowl of rice—twenty-two wen.”

Lu Sanniang’s mouth watered at the sound of it, but when she heard “twenty-two wen,” she hesitated.

Twenty-two wen—Father would definitely be unhappy about that; he’d think it was too expensive.

But the aroma wafting through the air was simply irresistible, making her mouth water.

“Why is it so expensive?” 

“Actually, it’s not bad—it’s four dishes.” 

“But it’s only enough for one person.”

“If you think the portion is too small, just buy enough for two people.”

“It’s all just pork, and pork isn’t expensive. Why charge so much?”

“The shop in front of Li’s Sweet Rice Wine Shop sells it the same way, but it’s only eighteen wen—four wen cheaper.”

“What’s their skill compared to Master Tang’s? I’m not speaking up for Master Tang, but if the Tang family’s evening meal were bad, they wouldn’t need us to spread the word—they’d go out of business sooner or later just like that other shop.”

That’s exactly the point—everyone was mainly arguing over the price. At that moment, Tang Xianling spoke up: “Everyone, I won’t boast about how delicious my dishes are, but if you bring your own bowl to take it to go, I’ll knock one wen off the price; if you skip the rice, I’ll knock two wen off.”

That way, they don’t have to wash the dishes!

One woman thought about it and immediately said, “So if I bring my own bowl and skip the rice, wouldn’t that save me three wen?”

“Exactly!” Tang Xianling confirmed.

That’s how sales tactics work. Just moments ago, twenty-two wen seemed too expensive, but now that they hear it’s three wen cheaper, nineteen wen seems quite reasonable—after all, even that place with the terrible food charges eighteen wen, whereas Master Tang’s cooking is second to none, and the aroma wafting from his shop is simply irresistible.

No way, no way. Some regulars couldn’t resist going back to fetch their bowls. “Mr. Tang, I’ll eat here. Serve me a portion so I can try it first.”

And so he paid.

As this customer stepped inside, he saw the tables and chairs neatly arranged and the place spotless. Following the scent, he noticed a long table had been added near the oven, set with neatly arranged serving utensils and stacks of clean plates and bowls.

He stood up and glanced over—and what he saw was even more astonishing.

Bright red, thumb-sized, with a lustrous, glossy sheen—

So fragrant.

“Mr. Tang, what is this?”

“Sweet and sour spare ribs made from pork ribs, with a sweet and sour flavor.” Tang Xianling was serving the food. His family had commissioned a batch of new plates—pale blue in color, larger than ordinary plates, and slightly deeper, with the characters “Wu-ger” imprinted on the bottom.

He placed a spoonful of sweet and sour spare ribs in one corner, a spoonful of minced pork with braised eggplant, and a spoonful of scallion-braised pan-fried tofu.

Diner: “Why only three dishes? Didn’t you say there would be four?”

“Please don’t worry. The clear-simmered meatballs come with broth and are quite light, so they’re served in a separate bowl.” Tang Xianling handed the plate over, and the diner caught it.

Tang Xianling: …

Jiang Yun, beside him: … She was about to carry the plate herself.

The customer couldn’t wait, and those who had been drawn in by the aroma out of curiosity were all staring at the first customer, wanting to ask how it tasted—though some didn’t even need to ask, because it smelled so good!

“Mr. Tang, I’ll have one too. I’ll eat here today.”

Once one customer came, others followed, and before long, business picked up.

“Mom, you take the money,” Huangfu Tieniu called out. “I’ll serve the food.”

Jiang Yun began collecting money and seating the customers. Since the first customer had served himself, the customers who followed eagerly gathered at the “serving station,” watching as Mr. Tang dished out their food. They’d take their plates and find a seat, while Huangfu Tieniu was in charge of bringing out the rice and bowls of lion’s head meatballs.

The shop quickly became bustling.

“Delicious!” 

“Are these pork ribs? How come there’s not a hint of that pork smell?” 

“If you hadn’t told me it was pork ribs, I really wouldn’t have tasted that it was pork.”

“You must not have eaten much pork before.” This man clearly came from a wealthy family; his clothes were all made of silk.

The customer who claimed he couldn’t taste the pork nodded. “That’s true. I don’t eat it much. My grandfather said pork tastes bad, and once our family became a bit better off, we stopped eating it altogether.”

He hadn’t eaten the “gamey” or “smelly” pork his grandfather described; he’d mostly eaten mutton, venison, fish, chicken, and duck. But he’d never actually eaten pork, and he didn’t feel the same revulsion or nausea toward it that his grandfather had mentioned. Today, upon smelling the rich aroma—and for just twenty-two wen—he figured if it wasn’t good, he’d just toss it. But to his surprise—

“It’s so fragrant! Not a hint of that gamey or smelly taste.”

Another diner, after spitting out a bone, remarked—the spare ribs were stewed until tender and flavorful, the meat falling right off the bone with a gentle squeeze. Tossed with sweet-and-sour sauce over rice, it was truly delicious. Taking a moment’s break from his busy work, he said, “Pork doesn’t taste the way it did back in our parents’ day, but Mr. Tang’s version is even more fragrant.”

We cook pork at home too, but it still has a bit of that old smell. Boss Tang’s cooking is absolutely top-notch!

Someone said, “I feel like even the mixed-grain rice Boss Tang steams taste better than what we make at home.”

“That’s true. It has a fresh, fragrant aroma—the combination of yellow and white rice makes the flavor rich and full.”

“Mixing the rice with the broth makes it go down so well.”

“Mr. Tang, can I have another serving of rice? Is that two wen?”

Tang Xianling: “An extra serving of rice is one wen.”

The diner was overjoyed upon hearing this: “Mr. Tang is such an honest and decent businessman.”

If Old Zhao’s family heard this, they’d surely say, “How is charging twenty-two wen decent?!”

The pork isn’t even that expensive; Tang Xianling is making a killing with his greedy profits.

Of the four dishes, the sweet and sour spare ribs were the most flavorful, and the diners naturally dug into those first. When they tried a bite of the eggplant—which had hints of garlic, minced meat, and sauce—they were amazed. No one knew how it was cooked, but the eggplant was so tender it resembled meat. And the tofu had been pan-fried as well—

It really isn’t expensive.

Pork may be cheap, but Boss Tang uses quality ingredients and puts a lot of thought into his cooking. Take a simple dish like tofu: lightly pan-fried on the outside, tender on the inside, with not a hint of beaniness. The scallions are perfectly seasoned. After eating the sweet-and-sour dishes and braised eggplant, which left my mouth feeling a bit greasy, a bite of that tofu was like a taste of heaven.

Now let’s try the meatballs simmered in a clear, light broth—

“Huh?”

“You guys, hurry up and eat the meatballs.”

“What meatballs? These are lion’s head meatballs.”

“I’m eating them, I’m eating them. I was just about to say, these lion’s head meatballs are incredible. They look like plain broth, but take a sip, and it’s full of savory meat flavor—not a speck of oil. The meat is stewed to perfection, and a spoonful mixed with rice is so fragrant.”

“Hahahaha, the way you talk, you sound more and more like Old Man Cui from the Baxing District.”

“Huh? Why isn’t Old Man Cui here today? That’s not like him.”

“You’re right. Could it be that he doesn’t like evening meals?”

“No way. He’s the type to say, ‘Forget pork floss bread—I’m here for pot-sticker buns,’ but then get up earlier than anyone the next day. Someone like that would definitely have secretly remembered that Boss is selling evening meals today.”

Tang Xianling was curious too—could Old Man Cui really not be coming today? Half of his vegetables had already sold out in just a short while; if he didn’t come soon, they’d truly be gone.

Lu Sanniang came over holding her own plate and bowl.

“Fifth Brother, I want vegetables, not rice.”

“Sure.” Tang Xianling didn’t give her any extra—he treated everyone equally. Normally, he didn’t mind sending Lu Sanniang or the Lu family some food; it was just neighborly kindness. But when it came to business, that wouldn’t do. Customers paid the same price, so there was no reason to give one person more and another less.

Lu Sanniang received her food, carrying two bowls in one hand.

“I’ll take it over for her,” Jiang Yun said. She saw how carefully Sanniang was carrying the bowls, afraid of spilling them.

Tang Xianling: “Alright, Mom, you go. We can handle things here.”

Lu Sanniang felt a bit embarrassed, but Aunt Jiang had already taken the bowls from her.

The wealthy, brash customer who’d never tasted pork before slowed his eating pace slightly. He savored the food carefully and finally remarked, “Mr. Tang, your prices aren’t high at all.”

“If you opened a restaurant in the West Market, customers would surely flock to it.”

“If it were in the West Market, the prices wouldn’t be like this.”

They say one should eat until seven or eight parts full; even the most delicious food loses its flavor once you’re stuffed. But with Mr. Tang’s “boxed meals,” he still felt a bit unsatisfied by the end—the flavor remained just as fragrant as at the start, though he was full.

The dish combinations were excellent too, with rich, vibrant colors paired with a refreshing, clear broth.

After finishing, his stomach felt content.

“Mr. Tang, I’d like two more portions. Could you set them aside for me, or lend me a food box?”

Tang Xianling: “We don’t set aside food here—it’s first-come, first-served. But I can lend you a food box.”

“Alright, then I’ll take two portions. Please pack them separately.”

Huangfu Tieniu went to fetch a takeout box from his own shop, cleaned it thoroughly, and brought it over. It was a four-tiered box. Tang Xianling filled it with the dishes using a bowl, and it felt quite heavy. The customer paid, declined the rice, but still paid for it, and introduced himself.

“We’re the Huang family from the Silk Shop in Taiping Lane. I’ll send someone to deliver the food box to you later this evening,” said Mr. Huang.

Tang Xianling nodded and took note.

Before Mr. Huang had left, Old Man Cui arrived in a hurry, his feet moving like the wind, saying, “Oh my, is it too late?”

The diners in the shop teased him, joking that he’d arrived late because it sold out.

Cui Dabao paid no heed to any of it and headed straight for Master Tang. Seeing that there was still some food left on the large platter—though not much—he immediately gave a sigh of relief, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, “I’ll take a portion.”

“Please have a seat and wait a moment. Have a sip of tea and rest a bit.” Tang Xianling said, “We’re short-handed here, so please help yourselves to tea.”

There were teapots and cups on every table.

Cui Dabao didn’t budge, claiming he wasn’t tired, and looked down at the dishes. “What’s this?”

Tang Xianling introduced each one to him. If this were modern times, Old Man Cui would surely be a food blogger or a culinary editor—in any case, he was clearly a connoisseur who knew his food.

Cui Dabao received his meal, carried it over to find a seat, and took a sip of the meat broth first.

The other diners had nearly finished their meals. Glancing over, they remarked, “Old Man Cui really knows his food. We all started with the sweet and sour spare ribs, but why is Old Man Cui sipping the meat broth?”

“This broth looks as clear as plain water, but if the owner is selling it, there must be a secret to it. The lighter the dish, the more it reveals the chef’s skill.” After finishing the soup, Cui Dabao felt only its freshness and a sense of comfort.

On such a sweltering day, he had rushed over, feeling hot and restless. If he’d eaten meat or something greasy, he likely wouldn’t have had much of an appetite, but this bowl of clear-simmered lion’s head meatballs was different—just a few sips of the soup had whetted his appetite.

He took another bite of the meatball. The meat was firm; as he chewed, it had a slight crispness to it. Most importantly, though you could tell the meat was mixed with fat, it lacked any greasy aftertaste.

A simple meatball, yet the taste was anything but ordinary.

Diners chatted about food inside the shop. The couples who had earlier heard that “takeout” was a bit cheaper were now rushing back with their baskets and lunchboxes.

“Thank goodness there’s still some left. Good thing I ran here fast.”

“No rice, just takeout.”

Someone else asks, “Can you make it cheaper if I skip the tofu?”

Tang Xianling: “I can’t. The tofu is part of the set meal.”

“Then can I have less tofu and more of the other stuff?”

“You can swap two vegetarian dishes, but not the meat dishes,” Tang Xianling explains patiently, not finding the customers’ questions bothersome—after all, everyone’s just being careful with their money.

One customer’s eyes lit up upon hearing this and said, “Then swap all the tofu for eggplant!” Since the eggplant was coated in minced meat, Mr. Tang counted it as a vegetarian dish.

Tang Xianling smiled warmly: “My tofu is delicious too—why not give it a try?”

“You’re right. Then give me two fewer slices of tofu and a bit more eggplant.”

Tang Xianling: “Sure thing.”

Later, this husband didn’t cook dinner and went to buy steamed buns instead. Carrying the food box home, the dishes were still warm but no longer hot. He said to his husband, “Quick, try this—Mr… Tang’s place has dinner ready…” and so on, mentioning the price.

The man said, “You spent two wen on steamed buns from next door, so why not buy rice from the Tang family? That’s also two wen.”

The young wife was taken aback at first—it seemed like he had a point—but after thinking it over and seeing her husband laughing at her, she said, “No, no, the steamed buns are big. Two wen can feed both of us. If we just bought rice, we wouldn’t be full.”

Her husband was left speechless.

“It’s delicious. Buy it again tomorrow.”

“We can’t buy dinner every day—it’s too expensive.”

“Actually, it’s about the same. You still have to light a fire to cook, and burning charcoal costs money too…”

The man only said this because it tasted good. Earlier, when she bought rice from the place that charged eighteen wen, he’d said: “Why waste that money? It’s more economical to cook at home.”

It all comes down to whether it tastes good or not.

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

At the Huang household.

The family cook had prepared dinner, and Mr. Huang brought home an extra portion with some side dishes.

Old Master Huang had already passed away; only his wife remained. Seeing her grandson bring home takeout, she was used to it and asked what it was.

“Try a bite,” Mr. Huang said without elaborating.

The old lady took a bite of the bright red, sweet-and-sour spare ribs. The rich, tangy flavor was just her style—being elderly, she preferred strong flavors, and the family cook usually seasoned dishes with plenty of salt and soy sauce. She immediately took a liking to this dish. Chewing it carefully, she found the meat was stewed to perfection. She ate two pieces before putting down her chopsticks, smiling warmly at her eldest grandson.

“Is this pork? It’s so delicious. If your grandfather were here, he’d never have imagined pork could taste this fragrant.”

“A-Mao, grab a clean bowl and pick out a couple of pieces to take to your grandfather’s memorial tablet. Let him try some too.”

Mr. Huang’s nickname was A-Mao, and he listened to his grandmother’s words with a smile.

He thought to himself, Mr. Tang really did sell it too cheaply—what an honest man.