At first, it was faint and elusive, mingling with the warm afternoon breeze like someone simmering chicken broth. But soon, the aroma shifted—first came the rich, solid fragrance of lard rendered to perfection, followed by the caramelized sweetness of scallion segments bursting in hot oil, and then, surprisingly, a subtle hint of seafood’s umami.
His hand holding the rag paused.
There were still two tables of customers in the shop—dockworkers who had just finished their shift, drinking and chatting over a plate of peanuts. Su Dashan couldn’t just leave the customers, so he suppressed his cat-scratch-like curiosity and continued wiping tables, sweeping the floor, and arranging the stools.
But the aroma grew stronger and more assertive.
Like an invisible hand, it stretched out from the kitchen, slipped through the gaps in the door curtain, crept along the floor, crawled over his feet, and drilled into his nostrils, reaching straight to his core. He couldn’t help but take a deep breath. It was fragrant, truly fragrant.
This wasn’t his style of cooking. Nor could he cook like this.
His cooking emphasized substance. Oil had to be ample, salt sufficient, heat strong, and the dish had to be served quickly. It was aromatic, but straightforward, like a dockworker carrying sacks—honest and direct.
This aroma was too refined. Like an essay written by a scholar, it had a beginning, development, and conclusion, each layer unfolding gradually, with a lingering aftertaste that left one itching for more.
“Boss Su,” one of the customers chuckled, “what treasure are you hiding in your kitchen today? The aroma is so enticing I can’t even enjoy my drink.”
Su Dashan forced a smile. “Just the kid messing around. Sorry to make you laugh.”
Though he said this, the cloud of suspicion in his heart grew thicker. Nian He? Could that girl really create such a stir?
Finally, the last table of customers paid their bill and staggered out the door. Su Dashan quickly tidied up, tossed the rag into the washbasin, and turned to head toward the kitchen.
He lifted the cloth curtain—
And ran straight into his wife, Zhou Yunniang, emerging from the shadows of the kitchen, carrying a large bowl.
The bowl steamed with heat, white mist curling upward. Yet even through the haze, Su Dashan could see it clearly—a clear broth, snow-white and finely textured noodles, a few specks of emerald-green scallions floating on the surface, and a layer of golden oil shimmering like cicada wings, glowing with a gentle warmth. The aroma now hit him head-on, unobstructed.
Su Dashan froze in the doorway, still clutching the half-lifted curtain.
Seeing him, Zhou Yunniang’s eyes lit up. She hurried over and placed the bowl on the nearest table. “Dashan, quick, come and taste this! Nian He made it—Yangchun Noodles!”
Her voice brimmed with barely contained excitement, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove.
Su Dashan didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on that bowl of noodles.
“What are you staring at?” Seeing him motionless, Zhou Yunniang picked up another pair of chopsticks from the table and shoved them into his hand.
Su Dashan mechanically took the chopsticks, walked to the table, and sat down.
The rim of the bowl was still hot to the touch. He lowered his head, leaned close to the bowl, and took another deep breath.
He picked up a strand of noodles with his chopsticks and brought it to his mouth. The caramelized aroma of scallion oil exploded on his tongue first—rich, mellow, carrying the unique satisfaction of animal fat. His teeth gently closed—
Su Dashan’s pupils contracted slightly.
These noodles… were so springy.
Not hard, but pliant and elastic. There was a clear resistance when biting down, but they snapped cleanly, releasing the fragrance of wheat slowly as he chewed. They were nothing like the noodles he usually made, which turned soft and sticky after boiling too long.
He couldn’t help but take a sip of the broth.
Scalding hot, and utterly delicious.
Su Dashan set down his chopsticks, raised his head, and looked at his wife.
Zhou Yunniang was gazing at him eagerly, her eyes sparkling: "How is it?"
He did not answer, but instead stood up and walked straight toward the back kitchen.