“Why buy so many wild greens?” Jiang Yun asked from the side.

Tang Xianling glanced over. Jiang Yun’s expression showed concern—she worried he’d bought too much and they wouldn’t finish it all, fearing waste. Yet she didn’t immediately confront him about being wasteful with money.

She had just saved him face in front of outsiders.

Unlike Father Tang. If it were Father Tang, he wouldn’t care about the situation or who was present. He’d berate Wu-ger without restraint, then turn to the customers with a forced smile: “My Wu-ger is just slow-witted. He can’t even handle simple tasks properly.”

“Mother, I want to make pickled plum vegetables and pork pot stickers.” Seeing Jiang Yun still wearing that ‘this is far too much’ expression, Tang Xianling feared she hadn’t taken his breakfast business idea seriously. He explained, “For the breakfast business. We’d never use this much for our own meals. If we sell it, over forty pounds of wild greens should last us several days.”

Without much capital, he could only start small with low-cost ingredients.

For pickled plum vegetables, snow cabbage is ideal, but it’s not in season now. Other options should be low-moisture greens like shepherd’s purse or wild chrysanthemum. Tang Xianling had touched them and found them just right—most importantly, wild greens are cheap.

In this spring season, wild greens thrived in the fields and wastelands outside. Street vendors sold them for over a wen per pound. By selecting Gouwa’s basketful, he saved nearly ten wen. Of course, selling wild greens wasn’t easy either. The two types Gouwa picked were considered good ones.

“What are pickled plum vegetables? How do you know how to cook them?” Jiang Yun, unfamiliar with the dish, asked urgently.

Tang Xianling glanced over. Jiang Yun met Wu-ger’s gaze and felt a sudden pang of unease. His eyes weren’t the same as before. Recalling what he’d said yesterday, she dared not pry further, afraid he might utter more nonsense.

“…Just say I dreamt how to make it.” Seeing Jiang Yun’s evasion, Tang Xianling changed the subject to the recipe: “They eat this a lot in the south.”

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if pickled plum vegetables were even available in the South these days.

Earlier, while wandering the West Market, he’d browsed without buying, chatting idly with shop assistants here and there, absorbing sights and sounds.

The capital of the Great Rong Dynasty was called Lu Capital. Traveling south from Fengyuan City for two days, one could switch to waterways at the lower prefectures and counties. These waterways are conveniently connected to the great Lu River, and a five-day boat journey would bring one to Lu Capital.

As the name suggests, the capital of the Great Rong Dynasty lay in the south, rich in waterways.

Throughout the entire West Market, he hadn’t seen anyone eating pickled plum vegetables. As for pastries, sesame cakes, oil-fried pastries, and those filled with venison or mutton were more common. If the shops on the main streets were like modern convenience stores, small shops, or street-side eateries, then the West Market was like luxury boutiques, grand restaurants, large supermarkets, and high-end hotels.

The same meat-filled buns cost four or five wen in the West Market, made with pure meat filling. Some even fetched six wen—those were filled with large shrimp, commanding a higher price. As for the taste, Tang Xianling hadn’t tried them, but their aroma was more enticing than the neighboring bun shop’s.

Pork buns were also available, though less common.

It’s said that over a decade ago, commoners in the Rong Dynasty hadn’t yet mastered castration techniques, so all pork was from uncastrated boars. Nobles and officials considered pork lowly and unclean, refusing to touch it. Back then, pork was mainly consumed by ordinary folk and was very cheap—just three or four wen could buy a pound.

The wealthy preferred venison and beef, while in Fengyuan City, mutton was more common.

Later, somehow—perhaps a government official promoted castration—it caught on. Pork lost its gamey smell, but old-fashioned ideas lingered. Even now, pork remains inexpensive at six wen per pound.

For a small business, the less capital needed, the better.

Pork and preserved mustard greens porridge, plus flour. Naturally, he’d need to buy spices for the sauce. Charcoal and a stove are readily available. Calculating it all, this business is feasible—worth testing the waters.

“Mother, I’ll hang the greens to dry first. The plain-filled buns cost three wen for breakfast, the meat-filled ones four wen, plus two extra buns—that’s nine wen total. You gave me forty-three wen, thirty for the wild greens, leaving only four copper wen.” Tang Xianling frowned after calculating, but said no more.

Jiang Yun: “If you’re busy, go ahead and dry the greens. We still have steamed buns; I’ll just warm them up for lunch.”

“Alright.” Tang Xianling agreed immediately, having no time to cook. “I’ll handle dinner.” They’d eat an early lunch instead.

In Fengyuan City, common folk ate three meals a day, though the noon meal was usually just a quick fix—reheating leftover pancakes or steamed buns from breakfast. They placed greater importance on the evening meal.

Consequently, the restaurants in the eastern and western markets saw particularly brisk business in the afternoon.

“Well then, Mother, I’ll leave lunch to you. I’ll go prepare the vegetables.”

Jiang Yun was pleased to have a task and breathed a sigh of relief. For breakfast, there was one vegetable bun, half a meat bun, and two plain buns. She lit the small stove to warm the buns, thinking her husband would need something light if he woke up. She also simmered a small pot of wild vegetable porridge using ready-made greens mixed with flour.

The weather was truly splendid today, with the midday sun shining brightly.

Tang Xianling moved the shop table into the courtyard. The wooden table was quite heavy, and as he shifted it around, the noise might have been a bit loud, waking his father in the east room. Father Tang shouted hoarsely, “What are you doing?”

“I’m moving the table,” Tang Xianling called back.

Jiang Yun, busy in the kitchen, paused her work to check on Father Tang in the east room.

The courtyard wasn’t large, so Tang Xianling’s movements could be heard. Father Tang gasped, asking Jiang Yun, “What mischief is your Wu-ger up to now?”

“What else could I do? You won’t give me any money. I figured the wood from the shop tables is still sturdy. If I clean them up, maybe I can sell them for a little wen.” Tang Xianling deliberately threatened the old man.

He truly disliked Father Tang.

Labor was cheap these days, but materials held value—timber, iron pots, knives, and such. If someone had a fur-lined cotton coat, even rabbit fur, they could pawn it for a few hundred wen when money was tight.

In the east room, Father Tang grew frantic. “You money-losing, good-for-nothing! If I’d known, I’d have drowned you! You’ve ruined the Tang family’s foundation, and now you dare set your sights on my shop? Cough cough cough.”

“Don’t get so worked up, Father. Wu-ger isn’t trying to sell the tables and benches—”

“You dare speak! You spoiled him! You’ve dishonored the Tang family ancestors! My fourth son…”

Father Tang was gravely ill, his breath short. Each loud shout triggered a coughing fit, weakening his voice.

Tang Xianling listened as Father Tang began wailing over his fourth son again, his heart as still as water. His hands never paused, carrying four tables to the sunniest spot, assembling them, wiping them clean. Then he began sorting the wild greens. Surprisingly, there were hardly any weeds or pebbles—likely because Gouwa’s family had already cleaned them. Which saved a lot of trouble. The tables dried quickly after wiping, and soon over forty pounds of wild greens were spread thinly out to sun-dry.

The tenant next to the courtyard wall called out, “Is Mr. Tang feeling unwell?”

“Thanks for asking. My father’s illness has left me feeling gloomy. I just needed to vent a little. Did I disturb you?” Tang Xianling replied from beneath the courtyard wall.

Neighbor: “No problem, no problem. Mr. Tang’s body is looking more and more—hey, maybe it’ll be fine. Wu-ger, don’t worry.”

Tang Xianling detected a hint of prying in the neighbor’s voice—almost like they were hoping Father Tang would pass away soon. Though Father Tang’s voice from the east room was louder, it still lacked the robust resonance of a healthy person. To hear clearly, one would have to get close. Had the neighbors been standing by the wall for ages, listening in?

He couldn’t help but recall how he’d previously scared his father by mentioning the tenants’ interest in buying those two storefronts.

??? Tang Xianling let out a surprised “Eh?” Could it be he’d actually hit the nail on the head?

The thought lit a spark in Tang Xianling’s eyes as an idea formed—even if the pickled vegetable and pork pot-sticker was low-cost, spices like Sichuan peppercorns and black pepper were more expensive than sugar at this time. Constantly dipping into Jiang Yun’s secret stash wouldn’t do. Old Tang, however, was loaded.

The noise from the east room grew quieter—Father Tang had run out of words but stubbornly kept cursing.

Jiang Yun came out to check on Wu-ger. Ever since he’d woken from his high fever yesterday, he’d been different. Her heart tightened at the thought. She forced herself not to dwell on his incoherent ramblings—most likely just pent-up frustration venting, nothing more…

“I’ll serve your father his meal. There’s still some vegetable soup and porridge left. If Wu-ger wants to eat, there’s some in the kitchen.”

“Got it, Mother. I’ll serve Father myself,” Tang Xianling said with a smile.

In the east room, Father Tang, who had been scolding Wu-ger, suddenly grew agitated upon hearing this. He shouted hoarsely at Jiang Yun, “No, no, don’t—!”

He meant he didn’t want Wu-ger to attend to him; he wanted Jiang Yun to care for him.

Tang Xianling rolled his eyes: He wouldn’t go so far as to poison Father Tang, would he?

He doesn’t even have money for rat poison!

Tang Xianling entered the east room. Jiang Yun’s expression wavered briefly. Perhaps she thought Wu-ger had grown bolder after his fever broke, but surely he wouldn’t harm his father. She decided to fetch the rice from the kitchen first and would join him shortly.

“Father, I’m here to look after you. I’ll take this chance to tell you about those four tables in the shop. Rest assured, they won’t be sold. Just as I was cleaning and drying them, the tenant next door asked about your health. It seems our shop isn’t open for business, and they’re interested. Selling tables and benches isn’t worth much anyway, and our two shop rooms are quite spacious…” Tang Xianling mixed truth with falsehood in his words.

Father Tang grew anxious. If Wu-ger wasn’t scheming to sell the shop, why would he be cleaning and polishing the tables and stools? And then there was the neighbor—the tenant introduced by the oil seller. When he’d fallen ill, he’d heard the tenant had offered to pay three years’ rent upfront, and the amount was generous. He’d agreed without much thought.

Now he wondered: Had the oil seller colluded with the tenant to buy his shop?

The main street in the neighborhood had only one thoroughfare, lined with storefronts on both sides. Shops were rarely rented out, let alone sold, making these prime locations highly sought-after and valuable.

Father Tang’s expression shifted rapidly as his thoughts raced.

When Jiang Yun entered carrying the vegetable porridge, Father Tang was still lying perfectly still on the bed. Jiang Yun breathed a sigh of relief. 

Tang Xianling: …

He now had this persistent feeling of watching a cunning little villain devising ways to pick the old man clean.

“Get out! Get out!” Father Tang scolded.

Tang Xianling: …

He wasn’t cunning; he was actually quite polite.

“I’m going to sun the vegetables.”

He stepped outside and ate a grilled mantou. Jiang Yun had saved him half a meat-filled bun—one of the two meat-filled buns they’d each had that morning. Jiang Yun had only eaten half, reluctant to save it for him now.

Tang Xianling wasn’t fond of it either—not because he disliked mutton, but because he couldn’t stand the filling from the neighboring steamed bun shop. Mutton that had gone cold retained an off-flavor even after reheating.

Jiang Yun’s cooking skills were mediocre; her stewed vegetables were plain and merely filling, hardly delicious.

Tang Xianling ate until he was half-full. Wu-ger’s appetite had never been great; he’d always been thin. In less than half a year, consumed by guilt and self-reproach, he’d grown even more emaciated.

After he tidied the stove, he saw that the water barrel was nearly empty and went to fetch more water. As he refilled it, Jiang Yun approached, a faint smile on her face. She coaxed Wu-ger, saying, “Your father heard you wanted to make pickled plum vegetable pancakes and gave you three taels of silver. Little Wu-ger, you have money now.“

One tael of silver equaled one hundred wen, meaning this was three hundred wen.

”He gave the money so readily? He must have scolded me quite a bit.” Tang Xianling muttered a complaint under his breath, but accepted the silver to reassure Jiang Yun. “Mother, don’t worry. I won’t lose out.”

He possessed a natural talent for Food Spirit Root—whatever he made turned out delicious.

Seeing Wu-ger take the money, Jiang Yun spoke kindly of Father Tang again. “Your father just has a sharp tongue. Deep down, he still cares for you…”

Tang Xianling: …

No way, no way. Hadn’t Wu-ger heard enough of this emotional blackmail?

Right now, Father Tang was isolated and backed into a corner. He’d thrown some money at Wu-ger to let him run wild because earlier, Tang Xianling had hinted that if he didn’t sell the tables and benches, he’d rent out the shop instead. Father Tang was scared and had no choice but to back down.

Deep down, he’s probably plotting how to deal with this Wu-ger once he’s recovered.

“Exactly. I know my dad loves me too,” Tang Xianling said insincerely, feeling a bit sick to his stomach afterward.

Following Jiang Yun’s line of reasoning actually left her at a loss for words.

Tang Xianling chuckled. See? Jiang Yun didn’t buy it either, refusing to argue over whether Father Tang truly loved Wu-ger. “I’m going to air my quilt. Mother, are you airing yours?”

“No, you go ahead.”

At dusk, Tang Xianling made steamed buns—not the mutton soup kind, but ones with a pork-fat broth base. He and Jiang Yun ate in the kitchen, but after just two bites, Jiang Yun suddenly said, “Wu-ger, your pickled plum pot stickers would be perfect.”

“I think so too.”

This confident side of Wu-ger felt unfamiliar to Jiang Yun.

The days that followed brought blessed sunshine. Pickled plum vegetables require three steams and three sun-drying. The next day, he bought red beans. With money in hand, he prepared two flavors—red beans weren’t expensive either. Nowadays, grains and beans cost just three or four wen per catty.

The most costly ingredient was spices.

Spices had to be sourced from the East Market.

Fengyuan City was the largest and most prosperous city in the north. Spice traders from foreign lands brought dried cumin seeds and other goods to sell here. At the East Market, one could see foreigners of various complexions, including Arabs.

After making several trips to both the East and West Markets, Tang Xianling couldn’t help but sigh: “There are so many rich people—why can’t I be one of them!”

While ordinary folk scraped by on a single copper coin, within the two markets, some bought expensive spices by the hundred taels without batting an eye. Maids and servants sent by wealthy families to shop spent three or five silver taels freely on cosmetics and vermilion hairpins.

Then there were the hangers-on and errand boys, arranging banquets for masters and young masters. All manner of delicacies—venison, fish, beef—steamed, roasted, fried, cold or hot, sweet or savory. For three or five taels of silver, they’d set up a feast. A few flattering words from the hangers-on would please the young master, and he’d reward them with a tael of silver.

But Tang Xianling was genuinely surprised and delighted by the courtesan’s reaction—clearly, a hundred wen was considered a generous, rare reward.

Young master is in a good mood today—a big reward!

Tang Xianling: Lemon.jpg

But being a hangabout wasn’t easy either. They had to laugh and play along, sometimes humiliating themselves to amuse the young masters. They needed to know all the fun, interesting, and novel things in Fengyuan City, never letting the young master’s words fall flat. If the young master was displeased, being publicly humiliated and scolded in front of everyone was just part of the job.

Venturing out and returning to the neighborhood, one realizes this vast city truly encompasses every social stratum.

The common folk lead simple lives, yet find their own kind of solidity in that simplicity.

On the fifth day, the preserved plum greens were ready. After the final batch was steamed and cooled, Tang Xianling rubbed salt between his palms, sprinkled it evenly over the pickles, and massaged them thoroughly. He neatly stacked the pickled plum vegetables into a jar, resealed it tightly. This batch would store for a long time; when ready to eat, simply soak them in warm water.

Over forty pounds of pickled plum vegetables yielded only about thirteen pounds of preserved pickles. That was actually a decent result.

With the pickled plum vegetables stowed away, Tang Xianling began kneading dough. Dinner was sorted—they’d have preserved vegetable pot stickers. He also sent Jiang Yun to the market for another pound of pork belly, specifically the marbled cut.

Jiang Yun stammered, “Should I go?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m tied up now, and it’s not far—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, ” Tang Xianling said.

Ever since Father Tang fell gravely ill, Jiang Yun couldn’t leave the house. She hadn’t been out shopping in ages, spending her days confined to the small courtyard, tending to the east room, washing and scrubbing, listening to Father Tang’s constant stream of curses and ramblings—the same few phrases repeated over and over. Jiang Yun wondered when she’d last ventured out.

She couldn’t recall.

Back when Father Tang ran his business, Jiang Yun had worked in the shop, tidying dishes and serving customers. Though not naturally quick-witted or eloquent, she hadn’t been as dull and vacant as she was now.

When Wu-ger asked her to go buy meat, Jiang Yun instinctively wanted to refuse. She was afraid of interacting with people on the street—

“Mother, get some pork belly. You pick it out. Tell the vendor we’ll need more tomorrow and ask him to set some aside for us,” Tang Xianling said, noticing Jiang Yun’s blank stare.

Jiang Yun snapped out of her daze with a couple of “Ohs.” “Alright, I’ll go.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then paused as she headed out, remembering she couldn’t go like that. She took off the apron, then remembered she needed money.

“I left the money on the table,” Tang Xianling reminded her.

Jiang Yun glanced over, grabbed the money, and finally stepped out.