He Mingyu smiled warmly and pointed to the poem board standing beside the small cart: “My apologies, young master. My younger sister forgot to mention earlier that our stall has an unwritten rule recently: if a scholar is willing to compose a poem on our board for our buns, as long as the work is decent, today’s buns are on me. How about it?”
Meng Xing paused, hesitating for a moment before answering. Before he could speak, the young woman had already deftly used bamboo tongs to retrieve two large buns from the large steamer. Placing them on a clean plate, she handed them to him: “I noticed your attire, young master; you appear to be a student preparing for the imperial examinations. I’m sure you possess great literary talent. Studying is hard work, so please accept this small token—I hope you won’t mind.”
“How could I mind?” Meng Xing spoke instinctively. He looked at the two oversized white steamed buns, unsure whether to accept them. He was not looking for charity, but the aroma was truly enticing, and his stomach chose that precise moment to growl.
“Thank you, miss…” He took the plate and sat at a nearby wooden table. The cooking fire in the small cart was burning brightly, and his slightly frozen hands slowly began to regain feeling.
He took a bite with great appreciation. The flavor was a blend of salty and spicy. After savoring it carefully, Meng Xing was surprised to find that it was a radish filling. The radish had been shredded extremely fine and, likely stir-fried with Sichuan peppercorns and pepper, it was spicy, appetizing, and savory. It neutralized the unique astringency of the radish while dispelling the chill of early spring—truly wonderful.
Meng Xing had not expected the spicy radish buns to be so delicious. He quickly finished the first one and picked up the second, planning to further analyze the mystery of the filling. To his surprise, the taste was entirely different.
As it turned out, one was spicy radish, and the other was elm leaf and egg.
The tender elm leaves were finely chopped and mixed with golden bits of scrambled egg, stir-fried specifically with vegetable oil, giving every bite a fresh, pastoral fragrance. After finishing both buns, Meng Xing’s appetite was fully whetted. He couldn’t help but swallow his saliva: “When I ate the first one, I was already surprised; who would have thought the second would be just as good? They are truly evenly matched. It is evident that you have a masterful touch, miss.”
Yingzi looked as proud as if she had received the compliment herself, puffing out her chest and placing her hands on her hips: “Of course! The buns my elder sister makes are the best in Bianjing!”
“The miss is truly worthy of that title,” Meng Xing nodded, firmly convinced.
He Mingyu felt her face heat up from their praise. She casually opened a small steamer; the cicada-wing buns inside were those Wu Chunlan had learned to make over the past few days. Wu felt bad about He Mingyu overworking herself and wanted to help share the burden. However, the brilliance of a cicada-wing bun lies entirely in the dough—it must be as thin as a cicada’s wing yet as resilient as fine silk to hold the filling without breaking. This skill could not be learned overnight, so this batch “invented” by Wu Chunlan could not be called cicada-wing buns.
Although they couldn’t be sold, they were perfect for feeding guests.
“This batch was made by my mother,” He Mingyu said, brushing on a layer of glossy, savory sauce before handing them to him. “The dough-making still needs some practice, but the filling and the sauce are solid. Please have a taste, young master.”
“This… how could I be so bold…” Meng Xing stared at the sauce-coated bun, his Adam’s apple bobbing unconsciously. Though words of refusal were on his tongue, his body was very honest as he reached out to take them.
Seeing his embarrassment, He Mingyu left him be and turned to look after the large, steaming pot, while Yingzi flitted between the stalls like a diligent little bee.
Meng Xing did not hesitate further and popped the bun into his mouth. The savory, mellow sauce was the finishing touch, bestowing an indescribable flavor upon the bun. He ate quickly, the taste magnified by his hunger. When the last bun was finished, he let out a long sigh, a bit of color returning to his cheeks. He stood and gave a solemn, deep bow to He Mingyu, who had just finished her work:
“Thank you for the buns today, miss. They were truly delicious. I have no way to repay you, so please accept this clumsy poem as a small token of my gratitude. I hope it is worthy of the meal.”
With that, he picked up the charcoal beside the poem board and, after a moment of contemplation, wrote:
Thin as a cicada’s wing, kneaded from delicate flour, The universe within, five flavors perfectly blend. Do not say the streets lack refined taste, This dish, too, awaits the spring breeze.
Although He Mingyu could not write poetry, she could tell that this poem was much more elegant than the doggerel from before. The corners of her mouth curled upward: “What a talented mind you have, young master!”
“Thank you for today,” Meng Xing bowed again in gratitude, then picked up his prized book box and walked briskly into the crowd.
Once he was far away, Yingzi leaned in secretively toward He Mingyu, tilting her little face and smiling slyly: “Sister, I guessed right! I knew those big buns were specially made for giving away!”
“You’re the cleverest one,” He Mingyu smiled and pinched her cheek.
Over the past few days, she had indeed noticed that there were many scholars like the young man outside the Imperial Academy. They were all thinly dressed, looking exhausted and weary. Most would linger in front of the stall only to leave sheepishly, shy of money. They looked truly pitiable.
Wu Chunlan would go outside the city every few days to collect vegetables. Seasonal spring greens like bamboo shoots, garland chrysanthemum, and spring yam were naturally prioritized for the profitable cicada-wing buns and the steamed pork with flour. However, they also collected a fair amount of cheaper radishes and elm leaves. The radish had a pungent taste that the Imperial Academy students didn’t care for, and while elm leaves could be used for the steamed pork, He Mingyu changed the base vegetable every day to keep things fresh—one day garland chrysanthemum, the next elm leaves—leaving quite a surplus.
If she could turn these slightly “slow-moving” ingredients into filling, hearty vegetarian buns and give them to those destitute scholars, it would make good use of the materials while also doing a good deed. Therefore, when He Mingyu told Wu Chunlan her thoughts, they agreed immediately. He Mingyu remained in charge of seasoning the filling, and since the gifted buns didn’t need to be as delicate as the cicada-wing ones, the tasks of kneading and wrapping were left to Wu Chunlan, who had been dying to help.
Of course, she still held a small, private thought that she didn’t reveal to outsiders: these scholars were currently in dire straits, but after the spring examinations, who knew who might “leap over the dragon gate” and attain high honor? These two insignificant vegetarian buns today might prove very useful in the future.
This investment, no matter how you looked at it, was a bargain.
Life slipped by peacefully. One morning, just as the three siblings had parked their cart at their old spot outside the Imperial Academy, Sun Erniang from the food stall next door hurried over. She wiped her hands on her slightly greasy apron, gestured with her chin toward the diagonal opposite, and said urgently: “Yuniang, you’ve finally arrived! You didn’t set up the stall yesterday evening, so you didn’t see—look! That’s a new stall set up yesterday, and they’re also using the sign for cicada-wing buns!”
He Mingyu’s heart tightened slightly, and she looked in the direction Sun Erniang pointed. Sure enough, ten paces away sat a dilapidated wooden cart. There were no clay stoves on the cart; instead, like He Mingyu’s original setup, it was filled with layers upon layers of small bamboo steamers. At a glance, she could see no fewer than seventy steamers covered with cotton cloths.
The owners were a couple, around thirty years old. The woman had triangular eyes and upturned eyebrows. Noticing He Mingyu’s gaze, she did not look away; instead, she provocatively lifted her chin and gave a cold snort, then whipped the gray, tattered rag in her hand until it snapped loudly. The shorter man beside her, seeing this, immediately began to shout energetically:
“Cicada-wing buns! Delicious cicada-wing buns! New opening special: vegetarian filling for eight cash a steamer, pork for twelve cash a steamer! Don’t miss it if you’re passing by!”
This low price of “eight cash a steamer” was like a stone thrown into water, immediately creating ripples throughout the street. Several regular customers who had been heading toward the He family stall paused, exchanged glances, and involuntarily turned toward the shouting.
Although He Mingyu had prepared herself mentally, seeing it with her own eyes still made Shitou burst into a temper. His face flushed red, and he moved to rush over and argue: “Sister, them! They are too much! Stealing our brand and selling it so cheaply! Isn’t this intentionally trying to squeeze us out?”
“Shitou!” He Mingyu acted quickly, grabbing his arm, her voice low: “You are not allowed to go! In business, the greatest taboo is arguing with others in the street!”
“But… but… Sister!” Shitou was angry and anxious. “They were the ones who lost their shame first! They stole our brand and are stealing our customers!”
Seeing that Yingzi was still managing, He Mingyu pulled him to her side. Using the action of organizing the steamers to block the prying eyes of others, she patiently explained in a voice that only the two of them could hear: “I know they are in the wrong, and I am angry too. But think about it—customers come to eat, looking for cleanliness, delicious food, and a quiet, comfortable experience.
Once we start arguing in the street, or even get into a fight, what will it look like in the eyes of the customers? They won’t think we were wronged; they will only think we are the type to throw a tantrum over a little business. If the scene becomes so ugly, the customers will be put off and stop buying from either of us. Wouldn’t we have suffered for nothing and lost business on top of it? Is that worth it?”
Sun Erniang listened from the side and nodded repeatedly, adding: “Even though your sister is young, her words are sensible! Auntie has seen plenty on this street. People who are jealous of others’ success and rush to imitate them by cutting prices pop up every few days!”
She curled her lips toward the opposite side: “Besides, the regular customers know exactly what your cicada-wing buns taste and look like! Is that skill of making the skin thin as a cicada’s wing while still holding the filling really that easy to learn? Is that secret sauce recipe really that easy to replicate?”
“If you ask me, you have too little confidence in your own brand. Auntie, I dare say my Sun family’s shredded chicken noodles are the best in Bianjing! I wouldn’t care if others tried to steal the recipe and sell them!”
As she spoke, she became more energetic, hands on her hips, head held high, looking proud as a preening little hen. Listening to their analysis, the fire in Shitou’s chest gradually subsided, though he still kept a wary eye on the couple’s every move.
What was meant to come would come. He Mingyu patted his back reassuringly, took a deep breath, and put her usual gentle smile back on her face. Her voice rang out clearly as she greeted a slightly hesitant regular customer at the stall: “Master Zhang, you’ve come! Today, the base vegetable under the steamed pork has been changed to the yam you love. It’s soaked full of meat juices—soft, glutinous, and fragrant, with a different flavor than yesterday’s. Would you like to have the usual?”