Zhao Hongmei paid no mind to the murmuring gossip.
Rolling up her sleeves, she set the borrowed wrought iron wok on the earthen stove, its bottom thudding dully against the stove’s edge.
Qin Gang was already crouched in front of the hearth cavity.
Without a word, he struck a match, and the dry firewood crackled into flame. The firelight illuminated his dark-red face, his eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth, ignoring anyone who tried to speak to him.
If his wife was going to battle, he’d handle the fire.
“Gangzi, stoke it hotter.”
Zhao Hongmei tossed the instruction over her shoulder and turned to borrow a wooden basin from the nearby grain and oil stall. The old vendor, cracking sunflower seeds while watching the commotion, craned his neck to peer over as he handed her the basin.
She threw the large intestines into the basin, grabbed two handfuls of dry flour and sprinkled it over them, then scooped up a large handful of coarse salt.
She plunged her hands in and began kneading.
Her movements were swift, her ten fingers twisting and turning, grinding the flour and coarse salt back and forth against the intestinal walls. The slimy fat and lymph were gradually scrubbed off, mixing with the flour into grayish-white crumbs.
She turned the intestines inside out, digging her nails into the folds to pick out strips of fat hidden deep within.
A woman holding a child nearby frowned. “Can this even be cleaned?”
Zhao Hongmei didn’t respond.
She poured in half a bottle of aged vinegar.
With a sizzle, the sharp sourness surged up, mingling with the fishy odor and spreading in all directions. Several people standing close by took half a step back, covering their noses.
Zhao Hongmei carried the basin to the well.
She drew water, rinsed, and dumped it out. Drew water again, rinsed again, dumped it out again.
After three rounds of clear water, she fished out the intestines and draped them over the basin’s edge.
The crowd suddenly fell silent.
The pig intestines, which moments ago had been dull gray and coated in mucus, now shone brilliantly white, glistening with moisture. Up close, not a trace of foul odor remained.
“Good heavens…” muttered an auntie who had been covering her nose most tightly, slowly lowering her hand, her eyes wide and round. “Is this still the same offal?”
Zhao Hongmei had no time to explain.
Picking up the kitchen knife, she laid the intestines on the cutting board. With several firm chops, she cut them into circular segments one finger wide. The cross-sections were neat, the intestinal wall patterns clearly visible.
Blanching.
After the boiling water rolled twice, the intestine segments tumbled in the wok and were immediately scooped out, drained on a bamboo sieve, their surfaces still steaming with fine heat.
She scrubbed the iron wok clean and set it back on the stove.
A bit of base oil went in. As soon as faint oil patterns appeared on the wok’s bottom, Zhao Hongmei grabbed a handful of rock sugar and tossed it in.
Caramelizing the sugar.
This task couldn’t be rushed. The spatula slid slowly along the wok’s bottom as the sugar gradually melted, turning from white to yellow, then to amber. A dense layer of fine white bubbles rose from the wok’s base.
Zhao Hongmei’s eyes were locked on those bubbles.
As the white bubbles began to thin, their edges just starting to tinge with a scorched brown—
That was the moment.
She lifted the bamboo sieve and dumped all the intestine segments into the wok with a clatter.
“Sizzle!”
A loud crackle.
Smoke surged up, wrapped in the sweet fragrance of caramel, followed immediately by the numbing tingle of Sichuan peppercorns, the depth of star anise, and the warmth of cinnamon. The scents twisted together, aggressively flooding everyone’s nostrils.
People passing through the market slowed their steps.
The old man selling pipe tobacco took his pipe from his mouth and inhaled deeply. The grain and oil stall’s proprietress forgot to crack the sunflower seeds in her hand, her mouth half-open as she stared in their direction.
Those who had just been muttering, “What’s so good about pig intestines?” were now all silent, their Adam’s apples bobbing up and down.
On the adjacent hearth, Wang Dapang’s forehead was drenched in sweat.
He had smelled it too.
That aroma was nothing like anything he had cooked in over a decade. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the difference, but his nose didn’t lie—it was something he could never stir-fry.
The spatula in his hand moved faster and faster, his eyes uncontrollably darting toward Zhao Hongmei. The braised pork in his pot bubbled “gurgle, gurgle” as he reached for the salt jar.
His hand trembled slightly.
A small half-spoonful of coarse salt fell straight into the pot.
Wang Dapang’s mind buzzed. He quickly used the spatula to mix the salt under the meat, then scooped some broth over it twice, pretending nothing had happened.
He thought no one had seen.
Zhao Hongmei caught his awkwardness out of the corner of her eye, secretly amused, then lowered her head to focus on reducing the sauce in her pan.
Half an hour later.
Both dishes were ready at the same time.
Wang Dapang’s braised pork was arranged on a large porcelain plate, its color still fairly bright and glossy, the sauce steaming. On any other day, this dish wouldn’t be embarrassing to serve.
But not today.
Zhao Hongmei’s Nine-Turn Large Intestines were arranged in a coarse porcelain bowl. The intestines were coated in a thick, date-red sauce, glossy and glistening. A ring of slowly dripping sauce clung to the edge of the bowl, so thick it stretched into threads.
Placed side by side, the braised pork immediately seemed to pale in comparison.
“Come, neighbors, have a taste.”
Zhao Hongmei placed a handful of bamboo skewers beside the bowl and took a step back.
No one moved first.
An old man in a worn-out Zhongshan suit stood at the front, staring at the bowl of intestines for a long time. One button of his Zhongshan suit was missing, the collar worn white. He picked up a bamboo skewer, poked around in the bowl, skewered a piece, blew on it, and brought it to his mouth.
He took a bite.
As his teeth sank in, there was a crisp “crunch”—the outer layer was crispy, coated in the caramelized shell from frying. Biting further, it was soft. The thoroughly stewed intestinal wall was so tender it didn’t need chewing, melting apart with a gentle press of the tongue.
Then came the juices.
Salty, savory, a hint of sweet and sour, and finally, the rich aroma of fat. That flavor swirled in his mouth, rolling from the tip of his tongue all the way down to the base of his throat.
The old man chewed slowly, his movements gradually slowing.
His brow, initially furrowed, gradually relaxed, and his eyes widened more and more.
“Good heavens!” He slapped his thigh, his voice cracking. “These intestines are even more fragrant than pork belly! Not a hint of gaminess, and they melt away without leaving a single bit of residue!”
That shout was like poking a hornet’s nest.
The aunt who had earlier complained about the dirtiness was the first to rush forward. She skewered a piece, stuffed it into her mouth, and after chewing twice, her eyes lit up. Her skewer immediately reached back into the bowl.
“Hey, hey, save some for us!”
The people behind surged forward in a swarm, bamboo skewers clinking against the bottom of the bowl.
Wang Dapang stood behind his plate of braised pork.
No one came over.
Not a single person.
He stared at the plate of meat, the fat on his face trembling. His mouth opened twice, wanting to say something, but his throat felt blocked, unable to squeeze out a single word.
The laughter and chatter around him flooded his ears.
“Eighty cents worth of offal, outshining two yuan’s worth of pork belly.”
“Wang Dapang’s braised pork is too salty, isn’t it? Even the smell seems off.”
Wang Dapang suddenly tore off the dirty apron tied around his waist and threw it to the ground.
Head lowered, he pushed through the crowd, ducked into the alley, and didn’t look back.
A burst of laughter echoed from behind.
The sun was slanting westward, and the crowd in the market gradually dispersed.
Zhao Hongmei steadied the coarse clay jar in her arms and glanced toward the direction of the ironware stall at the west end.
Today’s battle was over, but the real work had just begun. She had the jar, but for the tools to nurture the aged brine, she still needed a suitable wok. The bulky, clumsy farm pots wouldn’t do—what she needed was a thin-walled, seasoned iron wok, one that heated quickly, was easy to toss, and would be her mainstay for stir-frying when she set up her stall in the future.
“Gangzi, don’t rush off just yet.” Zhao Hongmei patted Qin Gang’s arm. “I still need to go to the ironware stall at the west end.”
Qin Gang looked at the jar in his wife’s arms, then at her hands, reddened from washing the intestines earlier in the cold. His lips moved slightly, swallowing back the “let’s go home” that had reached the tip of his tongue.
“Alright, I’ll watch our things. You go ahead.”