Yang Hong stared intently at the claypot in Mother Wen’s hands.
This is it.
It has to be this.
The aroma was overwhelming, making Yang Hong’s mind and stomach scream with hunger.
Mother Wen placed the third serving of claypot rice in front of Yang Hong and explained, “We don’t have many small claypots in the shop, so this one was transferred from a large pot into a small one.”
These words were spoken exactly as Wen Fan had instructed. Mother Wen recalled being lured into the kitchen by the scent earlier, only for her daughter to tell her that this batch wasn’t done perfectly. Because the shop’s utensils were limited and the request to sell three portions had come mid-way, she had to split the rice into two pots on the fly.
Wen Fan had added, “The rice crust might not be crispy enough.”
But Yang Hong only had eyes for the golden claypot rice; how could she possibly listen to Mother Wen? Her patience had been entirely captivated by this pot of rice!
She poured in the mixing sauce, gave it a stir with her spoon, and took a huge bite. The richness of the rice, paired with the salty, sweet, and savory flavor of the Chinese sausage and the subtle hint of soy sauce, had Yang Hong eating with her head down, never looking up.
The other two customers who had ordered the claypot rice were doing exactly the same, devouring their food in silence.
Another customer swallowed hard and asked Mother Wen if they could order a portion too.
Mother Wen said apologetically, “I’m sorry, we’re all out.”
Her daughter had bought those sausages herself—only three of them—and had barely managed to squeeze out six servings.
“Will there be more tonight?”
Wen Fan lifted the kitchen curtain. “We’ll have pork rib rice tonight.”
“I’ll reserve one!”
“…Then I’ll reserve two in advance.”
“Old Wen, I’ll take two. I’ll have one of my shop assistants come pick them up tonight.”
…
Mother Wen didn’t agree immediately; instead, she pulled her daughter aside.
“Why did you agree to that? How are you going to manage all that work!”
Mother Wen still hadn’t shifted her mindset; she felt that studying was the most important thing.
“Even if you aren’t going to cram school, you should spend this summer break reading. Your father and I can handle the shop!”
Wen Fan hugged her mother’s arm. “It’s fine. Making claypot rice isn’t that much trouble.”
“That won’t do!” Mother Wen said distressedly. “It’s so hot in the kitchen, and there isn’t even an air conditioner. If you keep busy like this every day, you’ll wear yourself out!”
Before Wen Fan could say anything else, Mother Wen had already made up her mind.
“I know you want to help us, but your father and I don’t have the heart to let you suffer. Stay out of the shop’s business; go home this afternoon and study.”
Their voices weren’t quiet; at the very least, Yang Hong, who was closest to the counter, heard them clearly.
Yang Hong originally wanted to tell Mother Wen she wanted four portions—she planned to get a delivery driver to take them to her mahjong parlor to show those friends who had mocked her yesterday for never having eaten anything good.
But hearing this, Yang Hong realized she might have misunderstood something significant.
So, that bowl of fried rice hadn’t been made by Father Wen!
No wonder—no wonder the fried rice at noon was so different from the one in the morning.
Hearing Mother Wen say she wouldn’t let her daughter cook anymore because there was no AC in the kitchen, Yang Hong grew anxious.
“Hey, it’s just an air conditioner, right? I’ll install one for you!”
Yang Hong forced a smile, acting more amiable than she ever had in her life.
“Sister, look, you should have said so earlier. The kitchen really is hot, and I understand you worrying about the kid. How about this? I’ll pay for it and have a unit installed in the kitchen. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you for a cent!”
She owned many properties and was familiar with people who traded second-hand furniture; pulling an air conditioner out for them wasn’t any trouble at all.
Mother Wen was stunned. What was going on now?
“Sister Yang, I didn’t mean it like that…”
She hadn’t intended for the landlord to provide an AC unit.
Yang Hong insisted, “It’s settled then. Sister, it’s a good thing the kid wants to help you out. Xiao Fan, right? I can tell she’s a quiet and filial girl! Don’t worry, if you have any requirements regarding the facilities, just tell me. I like kids like you…”
While Mother Wen was speechless, Wen Fan secretly smiled.
In the kitchen, Father Wen used a rice scoop to pry up a piece of the rice crust. Not waiting for chopsticks, he used his fingers to pinch a piece of the crispy rice and chewed.
The golden, crispy crust emitted a sharp crunch the moment he bit down. A charred aroma filled the air. The thin layer of oil at the bottom had been absorbed perfectly—the crust was crispy without being greasy. The sauce Wen Fan had adjusted several times had seeped through the rice to the very bottom, giving the rice grains attached to the crust a savory and slightly sweet flavor.
This taste filled Father Wen with pride, but also a layer of defeat.
He was proud of his daughter’s extraordinary talent, but defeated because he felt that after years of culinary training, he was still inferior to his daughter’s bowl of claypot rice.
Wen Fan walked into the kitchen with a light step and immediately saw Father Wen’s dejection.
“Dad, why don’t you help me this afternoon?”
Wen Fan wasn’t someone who had to do everything herself. Especially during her time in the Imperial Kitchen—if she had done everything personally, she would have worked herself to death and never maintained her position as the head of the kitchen.
Knowing how to delegate and use people’s strengths was vital.
Wen Fan had tasted Father Wen’s cooking and her evaluation of him wasn’t bad.
Father Wen’s knife skills were good, but his seasoning was a bit lacking, and his control of the heat was mediocre. Given Father Wen’s background in learning the trade, Wen Fan understood perfectly.
Old masters in any era were the same.
Teach the dish but not the brine; teach the brine and the master starves.
Pastry masters had their “soul of the dough,” and stir-fry masters hid their “golden fry.”
Pass down the recipe but not the quantities; pass down the quantities but not the heat control.
Father Wen’s knife skills were practiced day after day, but if no one taught him with sincerity, the secret methods for seasoning and heat control were impossible to find; he could only drift through small restaurants.
Wen Fan said, “Pork rib rice is very easy to make, but my hands aren’t strong enough to make too much.”
The difference between the original owner’s body and her previous physical fitness was too great. In the past, Wen Fan could easily lift half a pig and process the meat alone like a master butcher, but now she couldn’t. The original owner was the type who would pant and see black spots after running six hundred meters in PE class; Wen Fan had to build up her constitution slowly.
Looking at his daughter’s small frame, Father Wen suddenly felt a surge of courage. “Alright! You tell me, and I’ll do it!”
Father Wen braved the scorching sun to go to the market and brought back dozens of pounds of pork ribs.
Wen Fan continued to study in the shop as usual. Mother Wen had borrowed a folding bed from somewhere.
“If you aren’t going back, sleep in the shop for a bit. I’ve already ordered a new one online; it’ll arrive tomorrow.”
In the past, neither of them could bear to spend money on a folding bed, but now that their daughter was staying at the shop regularly, Mother Wen placed the order immediately.
Mother Wen continued to nag, “This is only for the summer break. Once school starts, you must focus on your studies. Your father and I don’t expect you to make big money in the future; we just want you to sit in an office comfortably, away from the wind and rain…”
Wen Fan let Mother Wen’s words go in one ear and out the other. She really didn’t find cooking to be a burden.
She didn’t do everything herself! It had been the same in the palace; she used her voice more than her hands. Aside from some crucial sauces and seasonings, she directed others to do the rest.
With modern society being so convenient, there was no reason she should be busier. Cooking in the intervals of her studies felt more like a form of relaxation to her.
Father Wen’s skin was flushed red from the sun. He gulped down two glasses of water upon entering and said excitedly, “I happened to find a place with fresh ribs. Xiao Fan, come take a look.”
Wen Fan leaned over and wasn’t particularly satisfied.
Though the pork was fresh enough, it was still a far cry from the pork raised on the Imperial Farm.
However, she knew this wasn’t Father Wen’s fault.
After all, that was the Imperial Farm—the royalty was supported by the blood and toil of the people, and the pigs ate fine grains, living better than the commoners outside the city.
“It’ll do.”
Wen Fan put down her book and started processing the ribs.
She didn’t speak much. Father Wen could only see her adding this and that. When he asked why she added things in that way, she simply said, “It should be added.”
Father Wen: “…”
His daughter seemed like a different person when she cooked; her gaze became much sharper.
Wen Fan efficiently marinated a portion of ribs and then gestured for Father Wen to do the same.
“Marinate it just like that.”
Father Wen: “…”
He touched his face, feeling it burn with embarrassment.
“Daughter, how about… you do it one more time? I didn’t catch it just now.”
Wen Fan looked at him strangely. “This is all very simple.”
The reason she chose claypot rice to teach was that it was easy. It skipped the part where you had to control the heat for stir-frying. You just needed to marinate the meat, put the rice on the stove, and pay attention to the steps.
And even then, Father Wen couldn’t do it?
Wen Fan was deeply concerned, wondering if she should downgrade her evaluation of Father Wen.
Father Wen was practically in tears. The way his daughter looked at him with suspicion was like a classic look from a genius staring at a fool.
“Daughter, slow down. I’ll go find a pen.”
Father Wen found a ledger and a pen from the shop and followed along with twelve points of enthusiasm this time.
Alright. Wen Fan pursed her lips and patiently explained a second time.
“Do you understand now?”
Father Wen was somewhat dazed. “I think… you said an ‘appropriate amount’ of oil. Exactly how much is that?”
The corners of Wen Fan’s mouth almost twitched. “It’s just an appropriate amount. Just enough so that it roughly covers the seasonings.”
Father Wen wanted to ask more, but seeing his daughter’s expression, he didn’t quite dare.
Wen Fan stepped aside. “Dad, you try.”
Dripping with sweat, Father Wen taped the paper he had written on to the side and strictly followed the steps.
Wen Fan: “…”
“Too much salt!”
“I said you can’t put too little of this seasoning!”
“The oil isn’t hot enough!”
…
Wen Fan sat behind the counter, huffing.
Mother Wen found it amusing and came over to persuade her. “Your father just hasn’t processed it yet.”
Wen Fan remained silent, thinking about how she had finally decided to teach someone, yet the progress was so slow!
You should know that back in the Imperial Kitchen, she already thought the apprentices she took in were stupid enough, but her father was even worse than them!
Mother Wen opened a bottle of Coke for her daughter and wiped her sweat. “What should we do then? Your father’s brain is just a bit slow. How about you just use him as an assistant?”
Wen Fan took a sip of the Coke from her mother’s hand. “Sigh.”
The sigh made Mother Wen want to laugh.
After finishing the Coke, Wen Fan went back into the kitchen to “torment” her father again.
For the entire afternoon, Father Wen was under the fierce gaze of his daughter, feeling like he was being withered.
Fortunately, the pork rib rice turned out well. That night, not only did the pre-orders receive rave reviews, but even the shop’s online delivery platform exploded with orders, selling a record-breaking seven portions!