Over the past few days, Tang Xianling had been making preparations—not just gathering ingredients, but also readying the stoves. His home had two large stove ovens, coiled in the corner of the front shop. One simmered mutton soup and warm soup, while the other cooked steamed buns.

Now, to bake flatbreads, the two oven holes needed to be converted into baking ovens. It wasn’t difficult.

The stove openings were sealed with bricks, and an arched cavity was built upward using yellow clay and bricks. This required a skilled craftsman, and now that Tang Xianling had money, he spent silver to hire someone for the conversion. At first, Jiang Yun was quite frightened upon hearing this, implying that if Wu-ger tampered with the stove, she feared Father Tang would find out and fly into a rage, cursing everyone.

“I never touched the stove, and he never spared me his scolding.”

“Mother, since Father won’t see it anyway, I’m not demolishing the stove—just building up the oven. Once he recovers, we can dismantle it.”

Tang Xianling’s persuasion left Jiang Yun unconvinced, yet her worried expression yielded to Wu-ger’s insistence.

As mentioned earlier, materials were the real expense now. Skilled craftsmen earned more than those who only did manual labor. Converting the double-chamber stove into a baking oven—the bricks, yellow clay, and insulation techniques—cost eighty wen in total.

Father Tang had given three hundred wen, and Tang Xianling dared not spend recklessly, using every penny sparingly.

Meanwhile, Jiang Yun went to the market to buy meat.

Pork was cheap. The butcher’s shop front was at the far end of the alley across the street. The landlord rented out three rooms from a large shop, and Old Zhu, the pork seller, rented just one. His family was from the Baxing District, though they didn’t live in a courtyard on the main street. After selling all his meat, cleaning up the shop, and locking the door, he would head back home.

They had been neighbors for over a decade.

The upper classes looked down on pork, refusing to eat such lowly meat. But ordinary townspeople ate it frequently at their tables—after all, it was meat, adding nourishment. Business was best in autumn and winter; when the weather turned hot, fewer people bought it.

Zhu Si was telling his wife, “We have some left over again today. I think tomorrow we should just split a pig with the shop next alley and sell it.”

“Alright. We can’t possibly eat all the leftover meat ourselves. It’d just go to waste.” Just as Zhou Xiangping finished speaking, she spotted Jiang Yun’s figure approaching. Somewhat surprised, she hurried forward to greet her: “Sister, you’re here to buy meat today? What would you like?”

Jiang Yun had spent the entire walk here rehearsing how to broach the subject. When Zhou Xiangping asked, her words stumbled out awkwardly. “Well, the meat… I was thinking—”

“Sis, take a look for yourself. We’ve got fatty cuts, lean cuts… the front legs are sold out, but we still have some hind legs. We’ve also got ribs and big bones—all at a discount. Perfect for making soup at home to add flavor.” Zhou Xiangping cheerfully took over the introduction.

Jiang Yun finally found her voice. “Let me look first. Wu-ger wants some meat with a good balance of fat and lean.”

“Is it for Wu-ger’s evening meal? Then this cut is perfect.” Zhou Xiangping pointed to a piece of meat with just the right balance of fat and lean, chatting casually as she spoke. “Wu-ger is such a clever and capable boy. How wonderful for you to have such a ready-made helper.”

Jiang Yun followed Zhou Xiangping’s gesture to the piece she indicated. Half fat, half lean—wasn’t it a bit too fatty?

“No, Wu-ger wants to start a breakfast business.”

“Then this one it is.”

Jiang Yun told Zhou Xiangping.

Zhou Xiangping quickly caught on, going along with Jiang Yun’s words: “Your shop’s just sitting idle anyway. Wu-ger wants to do business—he’s ambitious. Sister-, how much do you want?”

“Half a pound will do.”

Zhou Xiangping signaled her husband to cut the meat while she collected payment. Zhu Si sliced the meat, wrapped it in leaves, tied it with twine, leaving a loop for her to hold. “Here you go.”

Jiang Yun thanked him and took the meat. She’d forgotten her basket when she came out to buy meat today. After turning to leave, she looked back at the couple and said, “Wu-ger is selling pickled mustard pork potbuns and sweet bean paste ones too.”

Zhou Xiangping immediately smiled. “Oh, really? I’ve never heard of those two items. I’ll definitely have to try Wu-ger’s cooking then.”

“I’m not pressuring you to buy,” Jiang Yun realized her earlier words had caused a misunderstanding and felt quite embarrassed. “It’s just that it’s Wu-ger’s first time doing business, and I’m worried about him.”

“I get it. You’re just being a doting mother. We moms all understand.” Zhou Xiangping was straightforward and quick with her words.

Only then did Jiang Yun leave with peace of mind.

Once Jiang Yun was gone, dusk fell. The pork stall still held plenty of meat. Zhu Si and Zhou Xiangping tidied up while waiting to see if any more customers would come. The couple started chatting, and their conversation turned to the Tang family.

“Young Master Tang selling breakfast?” Zhu Si began. “What’s this ‘pot-sticker bun’? I saw something like it in the East Market—it’s just Hu people’s version of baked flatbread. Has Wu-ger learned to make Hu food now?”

What nonsense! This might just cost them business.

Zhou Xiangping understood. “Wu-ger just wants to ease the family’s hardship. With Master Tang in that state—he hasn’t left the house in half a year—and Mrs. Tang tending to him, that big courtyard must cost a fortune to maintain. Life isn’t easy.”

“Old Tang had foresight. He knew he couldn’t run the shop after his collapse, so he rented out the courtyard. Now it’s just Mrs. Tang and Wu-ger. Food and drink are surely covered. Wu-ger shouldn’t ruin things with good intentions. Business isn’t easy. If he loses money, it’ll drag the family down even further.” Zhu Si thought living off rent was the safer bet.

Everyone on the street knew that Old Tang had rented out half his courtyard for three years at forty-five taels of silver.

Zhou Xiangping frowned at this and retorted, “That’s nonsense! Wu-ger’s failed marriage wasn’t his fault—Mr. Tang arranged it all himself and misjudged the match. What do you mean by ‘foresight’?”:

Seeing his wife arguing with him, Zhu Si immediately conceded. “Alright, alright, I admit I was wrong. But I’m not wrong when I say a widower running a business isn’t right. His family runs a steamed bun shop, but Old Tang never baked buns himself. They sell those foreign-style flatbreads—his family doesn’t have that skill. If they were selling steamed buns, that’d be different.”

“Don’t mention it. Old Tang’s been sick for half a year. To be honest, I kinda miss his mutton soup. I never figured out his secret, but that broth was fresh, fragrant, not greasy at all, even a bit sweet. I heard Brother Tang started out as a migrant worker, but he managed to put down roots in Fengyuan City with just that skill…”

Zhou Xiangping listened as her husband spoke of the Tang family, gradually building up Old Tang. As a businessman, Mr. Tang was certainly capable, but she simply couldn’t stand the man. He showed no affection for his children. Wu-ger was handsome and well-mannered, quiet but hardworking.

Every neighbor in the neighborhood would say, if Wu-ger were properly matched, he’d be far better off than if he were given to Xiucai Hu.

At Xiucai Hu’s age and appearance, you’d think he was Wu-ger’s grandfather at first glance.

Zhou Xiangping listened as her husband grew more animated, then blurted out: “…I don’t know how she could bear to ruin the boy like that.”

“Xiucai Hu may be old and look like an old man, but a man’s worth isn’t in his looks. Didn’t he pass the exams last year? He’s a proper Juren now. Brother Tang really knows how to judge people.”

Zhou Xiangping snorted derisively. “He sure knows how to judge people. Look at Wu-ger—widowed so young. No matter how Juren he is, he won’t live to enjoy it. And your dear Brother Tang? He’s fallen ill from grief.”

The couple’s bickering was nothing new. Zhu Si was smooth-talking when it came to flattering others, but that was only for outsiders. If anyone dared propose a match for his daughter to someone like Hu Kang—an old man who’d make her a stepwife—Zhu Si would swing his slaughter knife at them first.

Zhou Xiangping knew Zhu Si’s temperament well, yet her anger only grew as she spoke. Her voice rose slightly before she caught Tang’s wife returning out of the corner of her eye. Zhou Xiangping froze in embarrassment—gossiping behind someone’s back only for the mother of Wu-ger to overhear.

“Sister-in-law, I’m sorry. It’s my fault for speaking out of turn.”

Jiang Yun’s expression darkened, but she put on an act of nonchalance. “It’s nothing. I forgot to mention—Wu-ger asked me to tell you to set aside three pounds of pork belly for tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the meat and deliver it myself,” Zhu Si hastened to add.

Jiang Yun nodded and left. The couple at the pork stall looked sheepish. Seeing his wife glaring at him, Zhu Si quickly added, “Tomorrow, no matter how awful Wu-ger Tang’s baked buns turn out, I’ll buy one to congratulate him. Deal?”

Zhou Xiangping: “Serves you right.”

At the Tang Family Courtyard.

It was nearly dark when Jiang Yun returned. Tang Xianling noticed her unusual expression and asked, “Mother, did something happen? Why so late?”

“Nothing much. I almost forgot to tell Zhu Xiangping to set aside meat for us, so I had to turn back. Zhu the butcher said he’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

“Three pounds of meat? The shopkeeper will deliver it?” Tang Xianling was surprised. Merchants these days were truly hospitable. He remarked, “Mr. Zhu sure knows how to do business.”

Jiang Yun hummed in response, lifting her eyes to look at her Wu-ger. “Mother is sorry to you, my Wu-ger.”

Tang Xianling suddenly understood. Jiang Yun must have discussed something with the butcher that made her feel guilty toward her child. Wu-ger was dead now. Even in his final moments, he hadn’t blamed Jiang Yun, only himself. Tang Xianling didn’t want to dwell on this topic endlessly; it wouldn’t change anything.

“I’ll go chop the meat. Later, I’ll test the oven and warm it up.”

Jiang Yun: “Then I’ll go fetch some firewood.”

“Alright.”

Jiang Yun returned from her errand without first checking on Father Tang. Instead, she delivered the firewood to the front shop first—she was quite thoughtful.

By sunset, the sky had grown dim. The shop’s oven burned warm. Tang Xianling placed the buns inside. Worried the buns alone would be too dry for dinner tonight, he also cooked a pot of millet porridge—millet was cheap, and white rice was now a rare sight in their home.

In Huaihua Lane, every household had finished their evening meal. Those who valued cleanliness boiled water to wash their faces and feet before preparing for bed.

Next door at the Lu Family Steamed Bun Shop, Old Lu and his eldest son, Lu Dalang, were closing up when a peculiar aroma suddenly wafted in. Sniffing the air, Old Lu remarked, “Mmm, delicious. Who’s cooking something?”

Before Old Lu could ask, Lu Dalang spoke up.

Father and son exchanged glances, confirming they hadn’t mistaken the scent.

Lu Dalang sniffed the air carefully. “Father, it seems to be coming from the Tang family next door. It’s close by, and my nose is reliable—the aroma is definitely wafting from their shop.”

“That’s nonsense,” Old Lu muttered. “Old Tang is ill.” 

If Old Tang weren’t sick, his culinary skills still wouldn’t be up to par.

Lu Dalang insisted, “Father, it really is fragrant. It smells like freshly baked pastries mixed with pickles, yet sweeter than pickles—a scent I’ve never encountered before.”

Old Lu grew suspicious. “Could it be medicinal herbs simmering?”

“I can tell the difference between medicine and baked goods. I’ll go ask.” Lu Dalang, ever the food lover, opened the shop door to investigate.

Old Lu stopped him, scolding, “You brat! Don’t you see what time it is? Knocking on someone’s door for a bite to eat? That’s no way to behave.”

Especially with Father Tang ill and Wu-ger in mourning, and night falling soon—how could they disturb the Tangs?

Lu Dalang looked utterly disappointed. He took one last deep sniff of the aroma and mimicked his father’s tone: “I even smell sesame! Could they be making sesame cakes? But the sesame cakes I’ve had never smelled this good. There’s this one special fragrance… Dad, you smell it! It’s like… a hint of meat too.”

“What’s there to smell? Go back to bed!” Old Lu said sternly.

Lu Dalang lingered reluctantly. No, he had to ask Sanniang to inquire tomorrow what Auntie Tang was making.

At the Tang family shop, the freshly baked pot-sticker buns were hot off the grill, their appearance exceptionally appealing. Thin and translucent, they revealed glimpses of preserved plum vegetables and minced meat beneath. Golden sesame seeds dotted the surface, and the entire bun was oval-shaped, about the length of a forearm.

Tang Xianling folded it in half, releasing the rich aroma of the filling.

“Mother, try some.” He offered half to Jiang Yun.

Jiang Yun took it. Having eaten little at noon, her hunger was still panging. She found the pancake incredibly fragrant. Taking a cautious bite, she found it crispy and flaky. Inside, the preserved plum mixed with pork filled her mouth with a savory sauce flavor, different from pickled vegetables, carrying a hint of smokiness. The preserved plum also had a satisfying chew.

“Delicious,” Jiang Yun exclaimed in surprise.

Tang Xianling smiled. “Then let’s sell them for five wen each.”

“I wouldn’t dare. These buns are tasty, but five wen each is too expensive,” Jiang Yun said timidly, too preoccupied to enjoy the bun. “Your pot-sticker buns are large but thin. Five wen is too much, Wu-ger. How about three wen? The meat buns next door are only two wen, and our buns use less flour than those…“

Tang Xianling made up his mind: ”Mother, it’s not expensive.”

The meat buns next door were mostly radish with little lamb—barely qualifying as ‘meat’.

Wealthy households in Fengyuan City were far more numerous than he imagined. Not just in the eastern and western markets, but even among their own neighbors in the Baxing District, people were willing to splurge on food. Everyone was accustomed to buying breakfast to eat, thus avoiding the need to light the stove and stoke the fire. Firewood ranked first among daily necessities like rice, oil, and salt—it was a significant expense.

With breakfast often bought, families running businesses or trades would make do with reheating breakfast for lunch, perhaps adding corn porridge or plain rice congee. Come evening, they’d properly cook a proper meal.

Besides, he was asking for five wen, not fifteen—he had no fear of not selling it.

Especially since it was the first batch of pickled vegetables and pork thin pot-sticker buns from Fengyuan City.

He knew the roasted flatbreads sold in the East Market, also called pot-sticker buns. Round and larger than a face, they were thick, with a hard-baked crust on the outside. Inside, they contained no filling, only seasoning. They were expensive, costing eighteen wen each. Naturally, the bread was large, yet many still bought it.

People buy them for the novelty.

Tang Xianling polished off one and a half pot-sticker buns and a small bowl of millet porridge, still craving more. If not for his small stomach and the fear of indigestion from eating too much at night, he could have eaten more—he simply couldn’t get enough.

“Mother, I’ll soak the red beans now. I’ll make bean paste tomorrow. Finish your meal and get some rest.”

Sweet and savory, a perpetual motion machine.

Wu-ger wouldn’t listen to her advice. Jiang Yun worried he’d set the price too high and lose money. Her habit of fretting ahead kicked in, and she gritted her teeth. If her husband cursed, she’d take the blame—she’d say five wen each was her idea.

It wasn’t Wu-ger’s fault.

By evening, Father Tang hadn’t risen. His body slept deeply, only stirring at night. Jiang Yun didn’t call Wu-ger; she went to the stove room herself, warmed some millet porridge, and fed it to her husband. She didn’t mention the pot sticker buns either.

Better to keep it hidden for now.

The next day dawned still dark.

Tang Xianling washed and dressed, kneaded the dough, and put red beans to boil in the pot. Then he fetched water—he feared morning busyness would leave no time for it. Rising early, he found the well uncrowded, which was convenient. By the time he filled the water jar, the shop doors along the entire street were still shut, but sounds of activity could be heard inside. Everyone was stirring to life.

Households everywhere, especially those in the food trade, stirred into action.

Tang Xianling scooped up a bean and gave it a pinch—it was already soft.

It was ready for pounding into bean paste.

He worked at his front counter when a knock sounded. He answered before opening the door. Dawn had just broken outside, revealing a man in his thirties holding meat. Tang Xianling recognized him as Zhu Si, the meat vendor. “Hold on, I’ll get the money,” he called out.

“No rush. I can come back later when you’re selling buns and settle then,” Zhu Si said.

Tang Xianling didn’t respond. He quickly fetched the money and handed it to Zhu Si. “Business is business. I might forget when things get busy.”

“Fair enough,” Zhu Si chuckled, thinking to himself: Old Tang knows his business. He might not know how skilled his Wu-ger is, but he sure handles payments with class.

The meat was fresh pork belly, slightly fattier than usual. Tang Xianling trimmed off some of the fat, aiming for a seven-to-three lean-to-fat ratio, and planned to mention it to the butcher later.

The sun rose, and the sky gradually brightened.

Tang Xianling began chopping and seasoning the meat filling—two pounds of preserved mustard greens and just under three pounds of pork belly. This combination would yield a richer, more savory texture with a deep, savory flavor.

Three or four miles outside Fengyuan City, Xu Gouwa sat resting with his bamboo basket on his back. He’d set out in the dead of night and walked this far. Beside him sat Tieniu, a hunter from the same village, shouldering a deer that hadn’t yet breathed its last.

Though both had walked for hours carrying heavy loads, Tieniu showed no sign of labored breathing.

Gouwa watched with envy. “Brother Tieniu, I’ll be done soon,” he said.

“No rush,” Tieniu replied calmly.

Gouwa used to be afraid of hunters. Last time he came to Fengyuan City to sell wild vegetables, he got involved in Tang Fulang’s business deal. Hearing about the money made him talk too fast—he agreed before leaving the city, only to realize afterward how he’d manage the second trip alone. His parents would never let him come.

Luckily, Brother Tieniu agreed, saying he’d come to the city next time too.

After these two trips, Gouwa grew bolder and wasn’t quite so afraid of Brother Tieniu anymore. After resting a while, they set off again. Gouwa said, “We’re almost there. Brother Tieniu, what kind of business does Tang Fulang have that requires wild greens? Do people in the city all love eating wild greens?”

“Too bad. It’s getting hotter, and the wild greens are getting tough.”

“My sisters and I searched forever just to gather a basket of somewhat tender ones.”

“After this sale, I won’t come back. It’s too far, and my parents won’t let me make the trip.”

“But if I stop selling, what will Tang Fulang do for business?”

“But there really are no more wild greens on the hillside.”

Tieniu remained silent. Gouwa, used to talking alone, fretted over Tang Fulang’s livelihood for a long while, then suggested, “Wild greens aren’t that tasty anyway. Why doesn’t Tang Fulang switch to other vegetables?”

“What flavor do dishes made with wild greens have? Even my grandmother’s wild green porridge isn’t fragrant—it tastes bitter and astringent.”

“Proper vegetables are still best.”

On the main street of Baxing District in the city, the Tang family’s mutton soup and steamed bun shop—closed for nearly half a year—reopened its doors.

The shop sign above the entrance remained the Tang family’s original one, but inside, it was empty. The few remaining tables were stacked neatly, the space tidied up. The two large stoves had been transformed, now wafting waves of delicious aroma.

“Has Old Tang recovered?”

“I haven’t had mutton soup dumplings in ages. Old Tang, bring me a serving—huh?”

Tang Xianling greeted the returning customer with a smile: “My father is still unwell, thank you for your concern. We’re not serving dumplings today—I’m making crispy breakfast pancakes instead.”

“Sweet and savory varieties. Fresh out of the oven—best when warm.”

“Care to try some?”

“Pork and pickled plum vegetables for five wen each. Red bean paste for four wen each.”

Regular customer Cui Dabao: “How… how much?!”