The sun was already setting in the west, but the lively atmosphere in the Qin family’s courtyard hadn’t yet faded.
According to the village’s old tradition, attending a feast meant eating only at the beginning—the real benefit came from the final step: dividing the “leftovers.”
What were leftovers? They were all the uneaten dishes from the feast—whether chicken, duck, fish, meat, vegetables, or tofu—all mixed together in a large basin. Though it might sound unappetizing, in these times when bellies lacked oil and flavor, it was a treasure. Any household that could take home a basin of leftover meat could savor it with cornbread for several meals.
Usually, after a feast, what remained were fatty meat slices, dried-out steamed buns, or tough cabbage stems that nobody wanted.
But today, the aunties and grannies waiting to divide the leftovers stared at the plates on the table, completely dumbfounded.
“This… how are we supposed to divide this?” Second Aunt, holding a red plastic bucket she had intended for leftovers, stood frozen by the table.
On the table, not only was there no leftover meat, but even the bottoms of the plates had been wiped clean with steamed buns—truly “empty plates.” The basin that had held braised large intestines was so clean you could see your reflection in it; the plate for stir-fried lung slices didn’t even have a single chili pepper left—they’d been picked out and sucked dry before being spat out.
“Don’t bother looking, there’s not even a garlic leaf left,” said Second Sister-in-law, who was helping clear the table. She stacked the plates with a lighter touch than usual. “In all my years married into the Qin family, I’ve never seen such eating habits—it’s like a plague of locusts.”
Many in the courtyard who hadn’t eaten their fill or wanted to bring something home for their children who couldn’t attend were now casting furtive glances toward the hearth.
If there was nothing left on the table, surely there must be something left in the wok, right?
Someone took the first step, and in an instant, a crowd had gathered around the hearth.
“Hongmei, is there any of that intestine left in the wok? Even scraps would do!” Aunt Zhang from next door, holding a chipped blue-rimmed bowl, squeezed to the front, her face full of eagerness.
Zhao Hongmei had just taken off her apron, her forehead dotted with fine beads of sweat, her back aching from exhaustion. She pointed to the large iron wok. “There’s not a single piece of meat left, just a bit of broth.”
“Broth is good! The broth is where the flavor is!”
Aunt Zhang’s eyes lit up, not minding at all. At the bottom of the wok was indeed a layer of thick, reddish-brown sauce—the essence of the braised fatty intestines. As it cooled, a dark red oily film had formed on the surface, mixed with minced garlic and dissolved spice residue.
“Quick, quick, scoop me a ladleful! I’ll mix it into rice when I get home—it’ll be amazing!”
“Old Zhang, don’t hog it all! Leave some for me! My Doggie is craving this!”
“Hey, don’t push! I want the broth from the stir-fried lung slices too!”
What should have been dishwater had now become a delicacy. The women weren’t afraid of the heat or the greasiness, nearly coming to blows over the last bits of broth in the wok.
Qin Gang watched in stunned silence. He had been holding a large iron ladle, ready to scrub the wok clean, but as soon as he dipped it in, Second Aunt snatched it away.
“What are you scrubbing for? You wasteful thing!” Second Aunt scolded as she took matters into her own hands, grabbing a large steamed bun and swirling it forcefully across the bottom of the wok.
Sluurp.
The ring of red oil sauce clinging to the wok wall was wiped clean by the steamed bun. The white bun instantly turned red, still dripping with oil.
Without a word, Second Aunt tossed the oily bun into her red bucket, her face blooming like a flower: “This is good stuff, full of oil—I’ll take it back for the old man to have with his drink!”
In less than two minutes, the two large iron woks were cleaner than if they’d been licked by dogs.
Even the last basin of water left from washing the intestines, which looked murky because Zhao Hongmei had added a bit of flour and vinegar, drew someone over to ask: “This water… can it still be fed to the pigs? I see there are a few oil droplets in it too.”
Zhao Hongmei didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, quickly waving her hand: “Auntie, that really won’t do—that’s dirty stuff.”
Watching these people argue over the dregs of the broth until their faces flushed red, Li Guilan, who had been on edge the whole time, finally plopped down onto a small stool.
She looked at the red ledger in her hand for collecting gift money, then at the relatives all beaming with smiles and praising “the Lao Qin Family’s thoroughness.” Her originally gaunt face slowly took on a rosy glow.
“Well? Mom, have we managed to save face?” Zhao Hongmei walked over, shaking the water droplets from her hands.
Li Guilan’s lips moved, wanting to put on her mother-in-law’s airs, but seeing her daughter-in-law’s exhausted, pale face, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything harsh after all.
She coughed and turned her face away: “Hmph, it’s just luck—everyone’s bellies are lacking oil these days. Alright, hurry up and clean up. You’ve been at it all day, and you don’t even mind the filth.”
Though her words were tough, Li Guilan’s movements as she stood up were exceptionally brisk. She walked with a spring in her step, her back no longer hunched, and that air of triumphant pride was clear for all to see.
…
At that very moment, behind the old locust tree at the entrance of the Qin family’s lane.
Wang Dapang hunched his bulky body, craning his neck to peer in the direction of the Qin family’s courtyard.
He had timed it perfectly.
The feast should be over by now. In his mind, the Qin family ought to be wailing and cursing by this point. If the intestines weren’t cleaned properly, they’d reek of feces; if the lung slices weren’t handled well, they’d be tough, inedible meat. If the whole courtyard of relatives ended up with mouths full of rank, gamey flavors, they’d surely flip the tables and curse Qin Gang’s mother to his face.
When that happened, the Qin family would have no choice but to beg Wang Dapang to return and save the day. Then, forget fifty yuan—even a hundred, they’d have to cough it up!
The more Wang Dapang thought about it, the more pleased he became, even forgetting to smoke the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
But as he waited and waited, something felt off.
The people coming out of the Qin family were one by one picking their teeth, rubbing their round, full bellies, their faces all bearing the satisfied look of those who had eaten and drunk their fill.
“Ah, the Lao Qin Family really went all out this time!”
“Absolutely! Those intestines—tsk tsk—absolutely amazing! I’ve never tasted anything so fragrant, even at the state-run restaurant in town!”
“Who would’ve thought that Gang’s new wife had such skills? Her knife work, her heat control—I’d say she’s leagues better than that Wang Dapang in our village!”
“Don’t even mention that Wang Dapang. His cooking is just so-so on a normal day, just a bit heavier on the oil. Today’s dishes—that was real skill! The flavors, I can still taste them lingering in my mouth just thinking about it now.”
These words, carried by the wind, drifted into Wang Dapang’s ears, each phrase like a sharp slap, “smack, smack,” striking his plump face.
Wang Dapang’s chubby cheeks trembled twice, his eyes wide and round, his face full of disbelief.
How could this be?
That was a bucket of uncleaned offal! Even if a god descended, they couldn’t turn that stuff into something delicious in just over an hour!
Just then, Tiedan—the kid who had earlier clung to the wall crying and begging for meat—was led over by his grandmother. The child clutched half a steamed bun in his hand, which he had managed to snatch from the bottom of a plate, dipped in a bit of the spicy red oil sauce.
As he walked, Tiedan stuffed the steamed bun into his mouth, eating with such relish that his lips were smeared with red oil, his little tongue licking them over and over.
“Grandma, it’s so delicious! Even better than the meat we eat during New Year’s! I want to come back for the feast tomorrow!”
“Eat, eat, eat—all you know is eating! They’re only holding this one feast for the baby’s full moon celebration. Where do you think you’ll get to eat like this every day?”
The conversation between the old woman and the child completely shattered Wang Dapang’s psychological defenses.
Even the pickiest, hardest-to-please kid was eating like this?
Wang Dapang felt his throat go dry, and his stomach betrayed him with an audible “gurgle.” The air still carried traces of that rich caramel aroma and numbing-spicy fragrance—a domineering scent he could smell even from the mouth of the alley.
That was the kind of flavor only a true master could stir-fry.
He instinctively looked down at his own greasy, large hands—hands that had wielded a wok for over a decade, yet today had lost to a newlywed young woman, and lost over a bucket of pig offal, no less.
“Pah!”
Wang Dapang spat fiercely on the ground, wanting to curse a few times to salvage his pride, but when he opened his mouth, he found he had nothing to say.
Envy.
It was envy that pierced straight to the heart.
And regret. If he had known Qin Gang’s wife had such skill, he shouldn’t have played that sly trick and taken the meat away. Now he had taken the meat back, but his reputation in the village was about to be ruined. Who would hire him for feasts in the future? Everyone would say that Wang Dapang’s cooking wasn’t as good as Qin Gang’s wife’s.
“Fatty Wang? You squatting here taking a dump?”
A passing villager spotted him and casually teased, wearing a half-smirking expression. “Why aren’t you at the feast? Oh right, I heard you ran off because you thought the pay was too low? Well, you missed out big time. Today’s dishes—wow, they were magical!”
Wang Dapang’s face instantly flushed a purplish-red, a feeling worse than having his pants pulled down in public. He flung the already-crushed cigarette in his hand onto the ground and ground it fiercely under his heel, as if trying to crush all the frustration boiling inside him.
“Just you wait!”
He squeezed the harsh words through gritted teeth, then slunk away along the base of the wall, not daring to look back, afraid someone might grab him and mock him again.