The sky was just beginning to lighten, and the large market at the east end of town was already packed with people. The frosty air of late autumn still lingered. An old man selling dry tobacco had his hands tucked into his sleeves as he squatted against a wall, a pile of yellowish-black tobacco leaves spread out on a worn cloth in front of him.
Zhao Hongmei walked ahead, while Qin Gang followed behind, pushing that faded 28-inch bicycle. Two yellowed canvas bags hung from the handlebars.
Stopping in front of a dried goods stall, Zhao Hongmei paused. The stall displayed over a dozen open-mouthed burlap sacks filled with various spices.
She wasn’t in a hurry to ask the price. Bending down, she grabbed a handful of Sichuan peppercorns. Rubbing them in her palm, she brought them close to her nose to smell. The numbing aroma hit her nostrils, and the shells carried a hint of reddish, glossy oil. Good quality.
Next came cinnamon sticks, star anise, bay leaves, and cardamom pods. For each item, she had to weigh it in her hand, pinch it with her fingernail, and listen for crispness.
“Uncle, half a jin of Sichuan peppercorns, four liang each of star anise and cinnamon sticks. For the last two, just grab two handfuls of each.” Zhao Hongmei patted the crumbs off her hands.
The old man running the stall put down his pipe, picked up a wooden-framed abacus, and clattered away with the beads. “That’ll be seven yuan and eight mao in total.”
Zhao Hongmei pulled out a roll of small change, still warm from her body, from her pocket, counted out eight yuan, and handed it over.
Just as she received the change in mao notes, a hand suddenly reached in from the side, poking at the brown paper package in Zhao Hongmei’s hand.
“Oh my, spending several yuan on these tree barks and grass roots? Gangzi’s wife, are you not planning to live anymore?”
Zhao Hongmei turned her head. It was Liu Dazui from the village. With a bamboo basket hanging from her arm containing a few wilted scallions, she stared wide-eyed in exaggerated surprise, her voice so shrill that several people nearby turned to look.
Qin Gang frowned and was about to kick down the bike stand.
Zhao Hongmei reached out and pressed her hand on the handlebar, turning to look at Liu Dazui with a calm tone. “Auntie, with these things, I can make cheap offal taste like meat. Spending on my own man, I don’t feel the pinch. But you, auntie, the scallions in your basket are already turning yellow. Shouldn’t you hurry home to cook?”
Liu Dazui was left speechless, rolling her eyes. She pursed her lips and muttered “wasteful spendthrift” before waddling away with her plump waist into the crowd.
Zhao Hongmei ignored her and stuffed the spice packets into Qin Gang’s canvas bag.
At a nearby porcelain stall, she took a liking to a lidded, coarse clay jar. The jar was unglazed on the outside, rough to the touch, but breathable—perfect for nurturing an aged brine.
Qin Gang carefully cradled the clay jar in his arms.
Carrying their purchases, the two headed toward the market entrance. That area was where the meat stalls were, the most crowded spot, the ground a mess of black mud mixed with grease and filth.
Before they could get close, they heard a grating voice bragging loudly among the crowd.
“You all didn’t see it, but that Qin family’s wife is a complete amateur! That large intestine wasn’t cleaned properly at all—it still had shit sacks inside! She just relied on adding extra caramel color to cover up the smell. That whole courtyard of people ate it, mouths full of filth, and didn’t even realize it!”
Wang Dapang was squatting next to a meat stall, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, spraying saliva as he spoke. Several idle men around him listened with keen interest, joining in with raucous laughter.
Qin Gang’s face instantly darkened. He shoved the clay jar into Zhao Hongmei’s hands, rolled up his sleeves, and was about to charge over.
“You hold this.” Zhao Hongmei grabbed him firmly and pushed the jar back into his arms.
She didn’t take a detour. Stepping straight onto the black mud on the ground, she walked directly toward them.
“Master Wang, we meet again.” Zhao Hongmei’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clearly through the noisy market.
Wang Dapang was in the middle of an animated boast when he heard the voice. Looking up, the fat on his face stiffened momentarily. The ash from his cigarette fell onto his pant leg, and he quickly brushed it off before standing up, resuming that punchable expression of his.
“Well, if it isn’t the Qin family’s new bride. What, no food at home, so you’ve come to the market to pick through rotten vegetable leaves?”
Zhao Hongmei ignored his jab, her eyes fixed on him. “I heard you’ve been telling everyone that the offal I make isn’t cleaned properly, and eating it will give you diarrhea?”
All the people who had been buying meat nearby stopped. Aunties with vegetable baskets, grandpas pushing bicycles—they swarmed around in a circle, eager for a spectacle.
Wang Dapang, stared at by so many people, felt his pride wounded. He stiffened his neck and doubled down. “I’m telling the truth! Pig intestines are lowly things to begin with. What could a village girl who’s never left the countryside possibly do with them? You’re just fooling people!”
Zhao Hongmei wasn’t angry. Instead, she let out a cold laugh.
She turned and walked to the neighboring pork stall. Under the chopping board was a worn wooden basin containing a freshly removed set of pig offal. Grayish-white intestines soaked in bloody water, emitting a foul, fishy stench.
“Boss, how much for this set of offal?”
“Eight mao,” replied the butcher, who was watching the commotion, answering offhandedly.
Zhao Hongmei took out eight mao and slapped the coins onto the chopping board. She reached out, picked up the dripping, murky intestines, and turned back to stand before Wang Dapang.
Thwack!
She slammed the intestines heavily onto an empty chopping board nearby. The splashing murky water nearly hit Wang Dapang in the face.
Wang Dapang jumped back a step in fright. “What are you doing?!”
Zhao Hongmei raised her head, her gaze suddenly turning sharp, locking onto Wang Dapang’s face, which had flushed a purplish-red.
“Since Master Wang thinks I’m a fraud, let’s have a competition today, right in front of everyone.”
Zhao Hongmei pointed at the intestines on the chopping board. “You make your specialty dish. I’ll make my offal. Let the grandpas and aunties here taste and decide who’s really fooling people. Do you dare?”
The crowd instantly erupted.
“Have a contest! Have a contest!” The idle onlookers began to egg them on.
Wang Dapang was caught between a rock and a hard place. He glanced at the stinking pile of offal on the chopping board, then at Zhao Hongmei, gritted his teeth, and said, “Fine, we’ll compete! I’m a master with over ten years of experience. Why should I be afraid of a little brat like you? Today, I’ll show you what real skill is!”
Zhao Hongmei took a nearby ragged cloth and wiped her hands, her tone calm. “Master Wang, after you.”
At the west end of the market was an open space, usually for selling snacks. It was empty now, and there happened to be two temporary earthen stoves built from Yellow Clay.
News spread through the market like wildfire. In less than ten minutes, the area was packed with people, several layers deep. Some were cracking sunflower seeds, others stood on tiptoe, and a few children even climbed onto the bed of a nearby tractor.
Wang Dapang walked to the meat stall and meticulously selected two jin of pork belly with a good balance of fat and lean. He was going to make braised pork. This was his signature hard dish, the one he relied on to impress at village weddings and funerals. He would use solid skill to thoroughly defeat this ignorant, arrogant girl.
Before Zhao Hongmei lay only that eight-mao set of pig intestines.
The onlookers were buzzing with discussion.
“How can they even compare? One is pork belly, the other is pig intestines. The meat is fragrant even when boiled plain, but if the intestines aren’t cleaned properly, they just smell like shit,” an auntie covered her nose and shook her head.
“Exactly, the Qin family’s daughter-in-law is way too overconfident. Isn’t this just offering her face to be slapped?”