“F-five wen!”

Cui Dabao gasped in shock, his eyes burning as he stared at the Wu-ger before him. “Where’s your father? He wouldn’t do business like this—five wen for a single pancake!”

Jiang Yun shuddered in fright, rushing forward but stammering, unsure whether to mention the three-wen price. Before she could speak, Tang Xianling noticed her hesitation and cut in: “Mother, the first batch of pancakes is ready. Help me take them out first.”

“Yes.”

Tang Xianling shooed Jiang Yun off to work and turned to the regular customer, explaining, “My father is still ill. We don’t sell mutton soup dumplings here—just breakfast items.”

“Please don’t be upset, sir. We offer food at every price point. Feel free to choose whatever suits you.”

His shop didn’t push sales.

“But first, please try our pot-sticker buns—fresh from the oven is best. You won’t find this plum-pickled vegetable and pork filling anywhere else in Fengyuan City’s eastern or western markets.”

As longtime neighbors, Cui Dabao wasn’t angry—he was simply stunned by the price. He understood the Tang family’s situation: his sister-in-law raising this widowed ger alone wasn’t easy. But no matter how difficult things got, this wasn’t how you ran a business.

“Your father sells a bowl of mutton soup dumplings for just thirteen wen,” Cui Dabao grumbled.

Tang Xianling, upon hearing this, actually perked up. The customer had said a bowl of mutton soup dumplings was “only” thirteen wen—clearly someone generous with food and well-off enough to afford such a meal.

Mutton was all the rage in Fengyuan City these days, and lamb meat was expensive.

“My words alone might sound a bit hollow,” Tang Xianling said with a smile, turning to his mother, “Mother, I’ll get the buns.”

Jiang Yun had been preoccupied with this situation, worried that her Wu-ger might offend the big spender, so her movements were a bit slow. Tang Xianling stepped forward, grabbed the tongs, and deftly pulled the freshly baked pot stickers from the oven.

Cui Dabao stood put, muttering about sharing some business wisdom with Wu-ger. Though he didn’t trade himself, he certainly knew his way around a meal. “… Sugar-oil pancakes are only five wen each. One bite and the molten sugar oozes out, all fried in oil. For five wen, you can even get a pure meat bun—lamb filling, tender meat inside with a hint of scallions for garnish. Your pot-sticker buns are just baked pancakes. How can baked pancakes command such a high price—”

His price lecture halted when Cui Dabao caught the overwhelming aroma—and saw Wu-ger’s pot-baked flatbreads right before him. These weren’t like the thick ones sold by the Hu people in the East Market. They were thin—exceptionally thin—so thin you could see the sauced meat and pickles inside. A layer of sesame seeds was sprinkled on top, baked to a golden crisp.

But the real draw was the scent—that pungent, mouthwatering aroma.

He’d crouched beside the oven waiting for freshly baked pastries from the Hu merchants, but none had smelled this good. Cui Dabao stared, mesmerized, his eyes fixed on the tempting pastry before him. What a beautiful bun!

“Five wen, right?” Cui Dabao swallowed hard, rummaging in his robe for coins. “I’ll take one with pickled plum vegetables and meat.”

Jiang Yun was dumbfounded. Cui Dabao had just ranted about it being too expensive and not worth it, yet now he was paying for the potcake so readily that it left her speechless.

Only when Tang Xianling called out “Mother, payment!” did Jiang Yun snap back to reality and take the coins. Meanwhile, Tang Xianling used tongs to fold the pancake in half, producing a crisp “crack.” As it split open, the aroma inside grew even more intense, making Cui Dabao unable to wait any longer.

He had never seen a pancake like this before!

Wrapping the base in pre-cut oil paper, Tang Xianling handed it over. “Careful, it’s piping hot—fresh out of the oven.”

Cui Dabao’s eyes were glued to the pancake. He mumbled a response, heedless of the heat, and couldn’t wait to step outside to eat. He took a bite right there in Tang’s shop—

What about the others?

Cui Dabao entered the shop to ask the price. Neighbors and passersby had noticed Old Tang’s shop reopening. Curious, they gathered to watch the commotion, murmuring among themselves: “I haven’t heard Old Tang’s recovered yet… and this shop is actually open.”

When they saw it was Wu-ger selling breakfast, and what’s more, some unheard-of pickled plum vegetable potcakes priced at five wen each, Cui Dabao remarked on the steep cost. Others nodded in agreement, chiming in with “That’s right,” “It’s far too expensive,” and so on.

Some whispered, “Pickled plum vegetables aren’t sold in either the eastern or western markets. Could this just be pickled vegetables under a new name?”

There had been similar schemes before, but they were just street stalls using gimmicks to draw customers. People weren’t fools, though, and after a couple of days, no one went anymore.

That was just one transaction.

Wu-ger couldn’t pull that stunt—it would ruin the good reputation his father, Old Tang, had built up.

He fretted inwardly, but the tantalizing aroma wafting from the oven couldn’t be denied. Those complaining about the price couldn’t bring themselves to leave; they stayed put in the shop, waiting for Cui Dabao to sample the novelty.

Two customers didn’t order pancakes. They stared at Cui Dabao. One asked, “How’s it look?” The other inquired, “How’s the flavor? Is that pickled plum greens or some kind of preserved vegetable?”

Cui Dabao didn’t answer. He took a crunchy first bite. The whole pancake crumbled with crispiness. He caught it with one hand, chewing slowly. First came the distinctive savory aroma of pickled plum vegetables—not your ordinary home-pickled kind, but uniquely rich and one-of-a-kind. Then came the meat: richly marbled yet not greasy, tender without being dry or tough. The deep savory flavor blended perfectly with the pickled plum vegetables—

delicious, absolutely delicious.

Chewing further, the sesame aroma emerged, layering the flavors in a progressive symphony.

The bold plum-pickled meat, the sesame fragrance, and the simple, rustic pancake aroma.

Cui Dabao took several more satisfying bites, his mouth full and speechless. He finally managed to ask, “What kind of meat is this? It doesn’t taste like mutton.”

Jiang Yun’s heart leapt to her throat at the question. Pork was cheap and common, and she feared Cui Dabao would think her Wu-ger was running a shady business.

“Pork—seven parts lean, three parts fat. Must be fresh, then seasoned with my secret blend of spices.” Tang Xianling emphasized the word “spices.”

Spices were more expensive than sugar or oil these days.

But for making pastry fillings, spices weren’t the main ingredient—just a seasoning, and not much was needed.

Several customers standing beside Cui Dabao frowned at the mention of pork, about to protest, but their brows instantly relaxed at the word “spices.” One asked, “How’s the pot-sticker buns?”

“Why ask him? Look how he eats—utterly silent,” another quipped.

Cui Dabao lifted his head from his pancake, grinning as he told Xiao Tang, the owner, “I’ll have another sweet bean paste one.” He reached for his money.

Tang Xianling took the pancake, folded it in half, and packed it up.

Jiang Yun collected the payment.

Two diners nearby chimed in: “I’ll have one too,” and “I’ll just get the preserved vegetable and pork filling first to try the flavor.”

Cui Dabao devoured his pickled plum vegetable bun down to the last crumb, then took the red bean paste bun. Fresh from the oven, the pastry split open to reveal a smooth, velvety filling, releasing a subtle sweet aroma. He couldn’t resist taking a bite—his eyes lit up the moment it touched his tongue.

Delicious! How did this Xiao Tang manage to simmer the beans? The paste was velvety, rich with the flavor of red beans, yet not cloyingly sweet. He took another bite, chewing and chewing. Starting his day with such a tasty breakfast put Cui Dabao in a splendid mood, and he soon launched into another food-related rant.

“Your pot-sticker buns are tasty, but they’re a bit dry. I’ll go grab something to drink.”

Cui Dabao held up his two buns and headed straight for the beverage shop.

On the main street, breakfast stalls were now open. Hot drinks were available—goat milk, tea soup, or mutton soup. But since Father Tang’s mutton soup was legendary on this street, the half-shop across the way near the end sold mutton offal soup. Seven wen a bowl, with a thick, palm-sized white flatbread included. Business had been slow before, but after Father Tang’s closed, it picked up slightly.

Cui Dabao, munching on the small flatbread from the soup vendor, found his craving for mutton soup awakened. He sought out the offal soup stall, ordered a bowl, and declined the complimentary flatbread. After just one sip, he wrinkled his brow. Li’s mutton soup just wasn’t up to par.

Fortunately, the pot-sticker buns made by the young vendor were incredibly delicious.

“Dabao, what are you eating? Never seen this before,” remarked a seated customer, curious about the item in Cui Dabao’s hand. “Has a new breakfast shop opened on our street? I didn’t hear any firecrackers.”

Cui Dabao had no interest in mutton offal soup. As a foodie, discovering a new delicacy meant he had to share it with everyone—especially when he was the one to uncover it. He immediately announced, “Old Tang’s shop opened a new stall today! I went to check it out. Guess what? His Wu-ger is selling breakfast items—just these two things. They’re incredibly fragrant, crispy, and delicious!”

Old Li, the soup vendor, flinched at the mention of “Old Tang Shop opening.” But when he heard it was the young Tang, Wu-ger, selling buns, he relaxed. Buns? That wasn’t his business. His shop did give away buns, but they were plain, ordinary dry buns—nothing special.

“What kind of buns have you been raving about? You haven’t been paid off, have you?”

“Nonsense! Even if the Baxing District or even the East and West Markets stuffed money down my throat to hype them up, do you think I, Cui Dabao, would blow smoke?”

“I was just teasing you! Don’t get mad and take it seriously,” the customer hurriedly said.

Cui Dabao snorted, flashing a look that screamed, ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about? I can’t be bothered.’ He sat back down to slurp his mutton offal soup, munching on pot stickers as he drank. After polishing off two pot stickers, he still seemed unsatisfied. The others noticed his expression.

“My bad, Brother Dabao. Are these pot-sticker buns really that good? I’ll buy some to try.”

Cui Dabao, being quite generous when it came to food, kindly offered, “It’s from Old Tang’s shop. Go ahead and get some. They’re fresh out of the oven and smell amazing. The pickled plum vegetables ones are five wen, and the red bean paste ones are four wen—”

“What?! That thin pancake costs five wen?!” the customer gasped.

Cui Dabao’s expression changed. He nodded emphatically. “Worth every penny!” He planned to finish his mutton offal soup, take a stroll to aid digestion, then buy a pickled plum vegetable one himself.

Meanwhile, next door to Tang’s Shop.

Lu Dalang: “Father, I told you! Last night, I definitely didn’t smell wrong—that aroma drifting over from next door.”

“Brother, I went to check—it’s Xiao Tang selling pancakes again.” Lu Sanniang, thirteen this year, wore twin pigtails tied with red ribbons. Her skirt was a fresh color, clearly a newly tailored dress.

Of the Lu family children, only Sanniang was cherished.

Knowing what her elder brother wanted to say, Lu Sanniang leaned in mysteriously. Seeing her parents weren’t paying attention, she whispered, “Those pot-sticker buns are expensive—five wen each.”

“Did anyone buy them?” Lu Dalang asked.

Lu Sanniang nodded and whispered the news: “At first, people complained it was too expensive. But then Old Man Cui bought two buns, and after that, they started selling like hotcakes. Auntie Tang and Brother Tang Wu haven’t stopped selling since—”

“Then they must be incredibly fragrant,” Lu Dalang declared with certainty. He’d caught a whiff yesterday, and now his curiosity was piqued. What kind of pancake was this? Since he had work to do, he instructed his sister, “Go check it out. I’ll grab some silver later, and Big Brother will treat you to one.”

Lu Sanniang lifted her chin. “Deal!”

The Tang family shop had only one door open, letting in the morning sunlight and filling the space with brightness.

Jiang Yun hadn’t expected business to be this brisk. She fired up the second oven while Tang Xianling handled the baking. Her slender, nimble hands deftly pinched off dough pieces, rolled them out, and filled them with the pre-mixed minced meat and preserved vegetable filling. With a press of her palm, the dough sealed shut. She sprinkled sesame seeds on top and slid the buns into the oven.

“How much longer, Sister Tang?” “I’ll take two red bean paste ones.” “Is mine ready yet?”

The oven remained hot, maintaining just the right temperature. The thin pastries baked quickly—about six minutes for the red bean paste ones, eight for the meat ones. Tang Xianling answered customers while working.

Lu Sanniang stood in a corner listening for her turn. After a short wait, she heard Brother Tang announce they were ready. Customers waiting in the shop all moved forward. Though Lu Sanniang was short and couldn’t see clearly from the outer circle, she could smell the aroma!

She’d been smelling it for ages, yet it never grew tiresome. In fact, it made her stomach growl with hunger.

Auntie Tang called out, “Your red bean paste is ready.” 

“Hey, take it slow, be careful, it’s hot. The preserved vegetable and pork dish will need a little longer.”

Then Xiao Tang called out, “Mom, the pickled plum vegetables and pork are ready too!”

Inside the shop, only the crackling sounds of cooking echoed, along with murmurs of praise: “It smells amazing,” “This preserved vegetable is a first for me,” “The meat is fragrant without being greasy,” “Is this really pork? It tastes extraordinary, “Must be seasoned with spices,” “Five wen isn’t too much at all.”

Lu Sanniang swallowed hard, then dashed back to tell her brother: “Big Brother, Big Brother! They’re already on the third batch! Tang’s shop is packed—I couldn’t even squeeze to the front. I didn’t take any money inside, so I didn’t buy anything and just blocked the way.”

“Brother, do you think they’ll sell out soon?”

Lu Sanniang’s face was etched with worry.

Lu Dalang had already taken out money and handed it to his sister. Originally planning to buy just one to sample, after smelling the aroma all morning, he changed his mind on the spot. “Get two—one with preserved plum and one with red bean paste.”

“Alright, I’ll go queue up.” Lu Sanniang snatched the money and dashed off.

This morning, every customer on the main street held a new type of pastry they’d never seen before. Word spread quickly that Old Tang’s shop had opened early, with Wu-ger taking over the breakfast business. This pastry was called guo kuei, and the neighborhood buzzed with the news in no time.

Zhou Xiangping carried her breakfast basket to the shop to deliver water. She saw her husband slicing meat. Zhu Si noticed his wife approaching and said, “Eat later. Business is booming today.”

After sending off the meat-buying customer.

Zhu Si wiped his hands and opened the basket. Besides a water jug, where was the food? He looked at his wife. Zhou Xiangping explained, “We agreed yesterday to buy breakfast at Tang’s shop, so I didn’t bring any food—just the water jug.”

“What’s the point of eating then?” Zhu Si slammed the basket shut. “You must not know—Tang Wu-ger charges five wen for one pancake!”

Zhou Xiangping’s mouth fell open slightly before she thought, “Well, it must be big then.”

“Big it is, but paper-thin,” Zhu Si shook his head. “Overpriced.”

Zhou Xiangping: “How do you know?”

“Customers buying meat tried it and raved—said it smelled amazing, a bit pricey but absolutely delicious, blah blah. I reckon such an expensive pancake might sell well the first day for novelty, but it won’t fly after that.” Zhu Si declared this with conviction. Knowing his wife kept her word, and that he wasn’t stingy, he added, “If you don’t believe me, go buy one. Let’s try something new.”

“I’m telling you, Wu-ger is still young, and Sister Tang doesn’t rein him in. This business won’t last long.”

Zhou Xiangping’s curiosity piqued. “Fine, I’ll buy some to try. It’s just this once. After all, I did promise yesterday to buy pastries today, even if I didn’t say anything bad about them.” With that, she headed to the Tang family shop.

When she arrived, the front of the shop was crowded with people, the noise loud and boisterous.

At first, Zhou Xiangping thought, Oh no—maybe customers are complaining about the price? Mrs. Tang, a woman running the shop with her Wu-ger, and her Wu-ger, a widower, were inevitably at a disadvantage. If the buns were overpriced, customers might feel dissatisfied after buying and start complaining about the cost.

Running a business truly required staying power, and her husband’s words held true.

“…I’m truly sorry, but we’re sold out.”

Tang Xianling explained from the side: “This is my first time selling breakfast. I wasn’t sure how it would go, so I didn’t prepare much. Thank you all for coming today. The dough balls and fillings are truly sold out. The leftover scraps aren’t suitable for selling to you all. Please come back tomorrow.”

Cui Dabao in the crowd: !!!

Aaaah!!!

He just wanted to settle his stomach, and now it’s all gone?

Lu Sanniang, clutching two potcakes beside her, looked like she’d found a treasure. She hurried back home, her excitement so great she couldn’t even whisper to her brother, “Brother, brother, we’re so lucky! The last batch of pancakes, and I got them!”

Zhou Xiangping, clutching five wen at the door:?

Huh?

Sold out already?

As the customers dispersed, Jiang Yun spotted Zhou Xiangping approaching. Recalling her offer to support the stall yesterday, she flushed with embarrassment. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t expect it to sell out so quickly. We appreciate your kindness, Xiangping.”

Zhou Xiangping felt dazed, still faintly catching the lingering aroma of Tang’s shop. She turned to leave. Having just complained about the price, she now returned empty-handed. Ironically, this only piqued her curiosity—she wanted to taste what those sold-out pancakes actually tasted like.

Zhu Si, seeing his daughter-in-law empty-handed, teased her deliberately, “What’s this? Were those buns so delicious they vanished already?” Could it be she’d seen the thin buns at the shop but found them too expensive to buy?

Not buying them was fine. They owed the Tang family nothing; why should they spend money on expensive buns?

Zhou Xiangping glanced at her husband and said, “You’re wrong, Old Zhu. The pancakes made by Wu-ger sold out. I arrived too late, and the customers were all disappointed that they couldn’t get any.”

“So what’s the real taste of those pancakes?”

Zhu Si: ???

Five-wen pancakes? Sold out already?