The kitchen was pitch dark, the daytime smells of cooking oil smoke mixed with the astringent scent of firewood ash still lingering in the air.
Zhao Hongmei pulled the greasy, grimy thin rope hanging overhead. With a click, the dim yellow incandescent bulb flickered on, illuminating the oily stains left on the cutting board from slicing braised pork earlier in the day. In the corner, inside a small bamboo basket with a hole, two wilted green onions remained.
She tightened the apron strings around her waist and retrieved a chipped, coarse ceramic jar from the very back of the cupboard. In these times, cooking oil was precious in every household. Using her short, thick fingers, she scooped out a small piece of pork fat about the size of a thumb.
The iron wok was scorching hot from the residual heat in the hearth. As the pork fat slid into the wok, it sizzled crisply. The white fatty meat quickly shrank, its edges bubbling with a caramelized brown color. An overwhelmingly rich aroma of lard instantly overpowered the stale cooking smells that had accumulated in the kitchen over the years.
She grabbed a handful of finely shredded scallion whites and tossed them in. The hot oil sizzled upon contact, releasing a fragrant aroma of scallions blended with the richness of the lard, wafting straight into one’s nostrils. This was the foundational flavor of Yangchun noodles—poor man’s fare, but even in poverty, there was room for a little refinement.
Once the water came to a rolling boil, she added a handful of dried noodles. Zhao Hongmei casually picked up two large enamel bowls printed with red double-happiness characters and cracked a raw egg into the bottom of each. As the piping hot noodle broth was poured over them, the eggs instantly formed tender, white poached eggs, hidden at the bottom of the bowls. She ladled the noodles on top, sprinkled a few pieces of blanched cabbage hearts left over from earlier in the day, and finally poured over a ladleful of the lard and scallion broth, complete with golden-brown lard crisps.
“Gangzi, take the noodles.”
Qin Gang sat on a low stool in front of the hearth, holding a fire poker and staring blankly at the embers in the stove pit. Hearing his wife’s call, he quickly stood up, wiping the ash from his palms on his pant legs.
The two bowls of noodles were placed on the peeling Eight Immortals table. Qin Gang, unfazed by the heat, buried his head and slurped eagerly. The noodles were chewy, the lard rich and savory. He ate until fine beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he polished off more than half the bowl in just a few mouthfuls.
As he reached the bottom of the bowl, his chopsticks lifted the noodles, revealing the perfectly round poached egg. He paused for a moment, glancing furtively at Zhao Hongmei. Seeing his wife quietly sipping her broth, he swiftly and silently picked up the egg with his chopsticks and placed it into her bowl.
Zhao Hongmei’s chopsticks stilled. She looked at the extra egg in her bowl, then at the man across from her, who was pretending to drink broth from his now-empty bowl. His face, weathered and darkened by long journeys under the sun and wind, was etched with clumsy affection.
She said nothing, using her chopsticks to split the poached egg neatly in half. Picking up one half, she extended it directly to Qin Gang’s mouth.
“Open up.”
Qin Gang froze, leaning back slightly. “You eat it. You’ve worked hard today…”
“Half each.” Zhao Hongmei’s hand remained steady, her voice quiet but firm, leaving no room for refusal. “If you don’t eat it, I’ll toss it to the dogs.”
Qin Gang swallowed hard, obediently opening his mouth and taking in the half egg. The yolk was soft and creamy, carrying the fragrance of the lard. As he chewed, his eyes grew slightly warm, and he let out a muffled “Mm.”
After drinking every last drop of the broth, Qin Gang let out a satisfied burp. He picked up the enamel mug on the table printed with “Labor is Most Glorious” and took a big gulp of cold boiled water. Just as he was about to get up and wash the bowls by the water vat—
“Leave them for now.” Zhao Hongmei set down her chopsticks, took the rag from the table to wipe her hands, and sat up straight on the long bench. “Gangzi, I want to start a braised food business.”
Qin Gang’s body, which had just risen, suddenly froze. He turned his head, his brow furrowed into a tight knot, the enamel mug in his hand nearly knocking against the edge of the table.
“Running a business?” he lowered his voice, instinctively glancing out the window as if afraid the walls next door had grown ears. His hands, calloused from years of gripping a steering wheel, nervously rubbed against his pant seams. “Hongmei, isn’t that speculation? If the commerce bureau catches us, we could end up in jail. Can’t we just live a steady life?”
“The policy has long since loosened,” Zhao Hongmei cut him off, her small eyes gleaming with certainty, making Qin Gang’s heart tighten. “People down south have already set up stalls. The bold thrive, the timid starve. You saw the feast today—my skills, turned into money, won’t disappoint.”
Qin Gang rubbed the stubborn grease stains on his hands and fell silent. He remembered the way his wife had handled the knife while cutting meat during the day—that was real skill. But he still felt uneasy.
“Then… what about the capital?” he finally managed to say. “Buying meat, ingredients, and equipment—it’ll cost a lot. Our family’s savings…”
“We have twenty yuan, enough to start. Tomorrow’s the big market day. I’ll go buy spices, a seasoned iron wok, and a couple of coarse pottery jars.”
Qin Gang gritted his teeth and slapped his thigh hard. “Let’s do it! We’ll do it however you say! If the money isn’t enough, tomorrow I’ll go back to the truck team and borrow some from Da Liu and the others! I can’t let you, a woman, go out and show your face while I, a man, hide in the background.”
“No need to borrow money. The capital is enough,” Zhao Hongmei said calmly. “Running a business is about being honest—do what you can with what you have. Borrowed money burns your hands and makes people look down on you.”
At this point, Zhao Hongmei’s tone shifted, and her previously mild expression instantly turned cold.
“However, before setting up the stall, there’s one more thing we need to handle.” She tapped her fingers lightly on the table twice, producing a dull thud. The gray mouse gnawing on vegetable leaves in the corner was startled by the sound and scurried into its hole. “Wang Dapang has been spreading rumors at the village entrance, saying our offal isn’t cleaned properly and will give people diarrhea. If we don’t deal with this, who will buy my braised dishes in the future?”
Hearing this, Qin Gang’s anger surged straight to his head. He stood up abruptly and kicked over a nearby bench.
“That damn bastard! He stole our fish and now he dares to turn the tables on us! I’m going to his house right now and beat the shit out of him!”
As he spoke, he charged toward the door, the keys at his waist jangling with a fierce, desperate energy.
“Stop.” Zhao Hongmei grabbed his arm. Though her frame was small, her hand, calloused from years of knife work, was incredibly strong, forcefully halting the man who stood over six feet tall.
“If you resort to violence, you lose. Then, even if we’re in the right, we won’t be able to explain it clearly.” She released his arm and smoothed the sleeves he had rolled up to his elbows. “Tomorrow is the big market day. He’ll definitely be there. I want to make him slap his own face in front of the whole town.”
“How?” Qin Gang panted heavily, his fists still clenched tightly, his eyes red with anger.
Zhao Hongmei didn’t answer, only pursed her lips slightly. It wasn’t a smile—it was the kind of determined fierceness a cook has when looking at a fish on the chopping block, ready to be slaughtered.
The night deepened, and the autumn wind rustled the window paper loudly.
The east room was pitch dark. Zhao Hongmei lay flat on the wooden bed, staring at the blackened beams overhead. Her mind raced, calculating the proportions of star anise, cinnamon, and bay leaves she needed to buy at the market tomorrow, and the large wok that had to be made of wrought iron.
Under the quilt, Qin Gang turned over. The bed frame let out a muffled creak. His rough, large hands, tentative and cautious, settled on her waist.
Zhao Hongmei stiffened slightly but did not pull away.
Qin Gang’s palm was warm, the calluses scraping against the fabric of her inner garment, conveying a clumsy reassurance. He said nothing, but the weight of that hand told her: if the sky fell, he would carry it.