Father Wen rubbed his hands nervously. “Can I really do this?”
Over the past few days, his daughter had taught him several cold dish recipes. While his knife skills were professional, his only struggle was the seasoning.
Unlike the stir-fry dishes where Wen Fan used whatever was on hand, she had become incredibly picky about the ingredients and condiments for the cold dishes. This made the training process dense with complex information.
How to pick the vegetables, how fine to grind the spice powders, exactly what temperature the oil should be… even for white sugar, his daughter had bought samples from four different brands, tasted them all, and finally selected one.
“The sugar from those two brands isn’t sweet enough,” she had remarked.
At one point, Wen Fan even wanted to brew her own soy sauce.
“The soy sauce on the market tastes average at best,” she complained.
It was only when Father Wen pointed out they didn’t have the space—and that the large ceramic vats she wanted wouldn’t even fit in the elevator—that she finally gave up the idea.
Mother Wen was also curious about her daughter’s sudden pickiness. Wen Fan took a sip of her homemade sauce before explaining, “When I’m stir-frying, I can adjust the flavor on the fly based on the quality of the seasonings. But Dad won’t be able to do that yet.”
Although every brand of seasoning came from a standardized factory, Wen Fan’s extraordinary palate could detect the minute differences in every bag. If a batch of chili or spice changed origins or was processed slightly differently, she could compensate instantly.
“Besides, cold dishes rely much more on the quality of the vegetables,” she added.
While some lack of freshness can be hidden by the high heat of a wok, it is glaringly obvious in a cold salad. Wen Fan systematically passed her experience down to her father.
Under her intensive training, Father Wen began dreaming about the ratios and coarseness of spice powders. Now, after only a few days of practice, his daughter was already pushing him onto the battlefield.
“I’m just afraid… I won’t do it well,” he admitted.
Wen Fan gave him a cool glance. “If you don’t do it well, I’ll just scrap the whole batch. Don’t worry.”
Scrap it? Father Wen thought, his heart sinking. To mix that much food and throw it all away—how much money would that cost? He gritted his teeth. “I’ll do it right!”
The next day, regular customers of the Wen Family Restaurant noticed a change as soon as they walked in.
The original solid wood counter had been moved to the side. In its place stood a transparent display cabinet—not a refrigerated one, but a simple clear case with a built-in LED light strip.
Inside, four large stainless steel trays were lined up, each containing a different cold dish. From left to right: Sesame Paste Gluten, Dry-Fried Beans, Cold Lotus Root Slices, and Brine Peanuts.
A printed sign was taped to the top right of the cabinet:
[Cold Dish Platter — Choice of 4 for 15 Yuan]
The landlord, Yang Hong, who visited almost every other day, praised the addition. “Finally, some new dishes!”
As delicious as the rice and noodle platters were, they were heavy on carbs. Having eaten here for nearly a week straight, Yang Hong didn’t even dare look at a weighing scale. She pointed directly at the tray. “Give me a cold platter!”
Mother Wen responded brightly. She took a square plate and added a portion of each dish until it was piled high, then set it on Yang Hong’s table.
Yang Hong caught the refreshing scent of the salad and complimented, “Xiao Fan’s skill is still as good as ever.”
“Actually, Xiao Fan didn’t make these today,” Mother Wen said. “My husband mixed them.”
At those words, Yang Hong’s expression stiffened. She looked at Mother Wen, the words catching in her throat.
Your husband made this, and you’re charging me fifteen?
It was just a plate of cold salad. At most, it should be ten yuan. At the morning market stalls, you could get a whole basin’s worth for eleven or twelve!
Yang Hong felt a bit slighted. She collected a lot of rent, but she still believed in spending wisely. She was happy to pay fifteen yuan for Wen Fan’s “Imperial” skill, but paying that for Old Wen felt like a loss.
She pursed her lips and picked up a piece of the gluten (Mianjin), thinking the Wens had learned to be slippery—using their daughter’s reputation to sell the father’s subpar cooking.
Wait…
Yang Hong’s pupils dilated. She had eaten sesame paste gluten countless times, but never like this.
The gluten had soaked up the sesame sauce perfectly. The rich aroma of the sesame was paired with a distinct sweet-and-salty profile. While the sweetness was prominent, it didn’t overshadow the savory notes; instead, it made the dish incredibly palatable.
She then tried the Dry-Fried Beans. The beans, fried until they had “tiger-skin” wrinkles, were infused with the numbing, spicy fragrance of Sichuan peppercorns and dried chilies. Even the white sesame seeds were sprinkled in just the right amount. It was addictive.
Even the humble Brine Peanuts were better than anywhere else! The peanuts were plump, perfectly seasoned, and salted just enough to be the ideal companion for a cold beer.
Yang Hong finished half the plate before it dawned on her. Really now, with Wen Fan around, does it matter who mixed it? She must have taught him every step!
She finished the entire platter before she even had a chance to order a main course. She was thoroughly convinced, but as she looked around the tiny shop, a sense of crisis suddenly welled up. With this kind of skill, the Wens wouldn’t be satisfied staying in this small shop in front of a school for long.
The thought that they might one day terminate the lease and move to a bigger place made her heart ache.
“Yingzhi, your husband’s skill has really improved! How can a cold salad taste this good? What’s the secret?” Yang Hong couldn’t help but ask.
A more suspicious person might have thought the landlord was trying to steal the recipe. Yang Hong realized how it sounded and was about to rephrase when Mother Wen replied bluntly, “There’s no big secret. If you want to make it, I’ll tell you.”
The other customers, who were also eating in silence, immediately pricked up their ears.
Mother Wen began counting on her fingers. “For the Sesame Paste Gluten, the most important thing is the quality of the gluten itself. Most of the stuff made with our local flour doesn’t work. You have to buy dry gluten made from this year’s new wheat, with no additives. Even the water temperature for soaking it has to be controlled…”
“The Sesame Paste is made from sesame seeds we sourced ourselves to ensure it’s pure. When you thin the paste, you have to add water in small amounts multiple times, stirring in only one direction.”
“The Peanuts were also sourced from the countryside—we specifically chose good local peanuts.”
“The sauce is even more complex. You have to…”
Before Mother Wen could finish, Yang Hong’s head was spinning. “Stop, stop… I’ll just keep eating here.”
It was too much trouble. Who had the time for all that!
Mother Wen said helplessly, “Exactly. If it weren’t this complicated, I wouldn’t have priced it at fifteen yuan.”
Everything Mother Wen had said was a setup for that final sentence. When they set the price, she knew the regulars would think it was expensive. The market rate was usually ten yuan; charging fifteen would make people grumble that they were getting greedy now that business was picking up.
But her daughter’s words had stayed with her.
Wen Fan had said: “Mom, don’t think it’s expensive. It’s a lot of work for Dad to prep all these vegetables, and our ingredient costs are high. Fifteen is a fair price. if we earn too little, it won’t be worth the effort after a few days.”
It was true—if the profit was too low, they might as well just prep more rice and noodles; at least that was easier. By explaining the process, Mother Wen was subtly telling the regulars that her food was fundamentally different from the competition.
Sure enough, Yang Hong’s irritation vanished. Instead, she began to feel bad for them. “With all that trouble, fifteen is actually cheap.”
She figured if a plate like this was served in a grand hotel, they’d easily charge forty without blinking, and the waiter would lecture her about how “complex” the chef’s process was.
With her perspective shifted, Yang Hong felt like she was getting a bargain.
The other regulars felt the same. Those who had been silent were now eager to chat.
“These dry-fried beans are amazing. I can never get this flavor at home.”
“And these lotus roots are way better than the ones I had at that wedding banquet last week.”
“Hey, why don’t you guys do stir-fry dishes?”
Mother Wen waved her hands. “We can’t keep up! We’re already too busy.” The shop only had eight small tables; they couldn’t possibly handle made-to-order stir-fry.
“True, your place is a bit small.”
As soon as “small” was mentioned, Yang Hong felt defensive of her property. “Small? Where is it small? You’re just nitpicking!”
She turned to Mother Wen. “Yingzhi, you just use this place with peace of mind. If you’re unhappy with anything, tell me—we can negotiate. Also, if you can’t fit everyone inside at night, you’re more than welcome to put a few tables outside by the door…”
Mother Wen hesitated. “But didn’t you say before…”
Yang Hong cut her off. “Before, I was worried about affecting the neighbors. But now I see you’re all friends. As long as Song Hui and Qu Qingqing don’t mind, set them up however you like! Just make sure it’s clean when you close up!”
Mother Wen was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm. But thinking about outdoor seating made her happy.
“That would be great. We’re starting Braised Dishes (Lu Cai) tonight. We can put some low tables outside and maybe sell some beer to go with it.”
Braised dishes? Yang Hong’s eyes lit up instantly.
“Say no more. What time do you start the evening shift?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Alright, save a table for me. Oh, and could I trouble Xiao Fan to make a portion of fried rice for me? I’ll pay extra!”
Mother Wen went into the kitchen to ask. Wen Fan gave the okay.
“Xiao Fan says no extra charge. You installed the air conditioner for us; we haven’t even thanked you properly yet.” If not for that AC, with the recent red alerts for extreme heat, they wouldn’t have survived the summer.
“Nonsense, it should be counted. Xiao Fan is working hard.”
Yang Hong turned away, thinking: It’s time to let my mahjong partners see what they’ve been missing. After the “fried rice incident” where she lost face, she had tried several times to order takeout for the parlor, but they were always out of this or that. Tonight was the perfect chance to gather everyone.
She decided to bring them all here tonight—to show them, once and for all, if the legendary “Miracle Fried Rice” actually existed!