Three days before the Spring Equinox, the weather warmed, and new buds emerged on the pagoda tree at the mouth of the alley. The shutters of the Four Seasons Eatery were just propped open; Auntie Zhou was wiping tables in the front hall, Zhao the helper was squatting at the door chopping wood, and the alley was quiet and still.
A small sedan chair carried by two men stopped at the alley’s entrance. The curtain was lifted, and out stepped a chubby man with a round face, dressed in a sapphire blue brocade jacket, a string of copper coin charms dangling from his belt and clinking with every step. He was followed by two young servants: one holding a purple clay teapot, the other shielding him with an umbrella. Since the March sun was far from harsh, the umbrella seemed unnecessary; Zhao straightened up and glanced at the newcomer.
The chubby man stepped into the eatery. Before his feet were steady, he sniffed the air and swept his eyes over the front hall: four tables, bench stools, and a cold iron wok on the stove. He smacked his lips and shook his head. “Well, so this is the ‘Four Seasons Eatery’?”
Auntie Zhou looked up. She recognized him, and her grip on the rag tightened. “Manager Qian.”
The visitor was indeed the manager of Zui Xian Lou (Drunken Immortal Pavilion), surnamed Qian—his given name was Fu, or Qian Fu. In the catering business of Bianjing, he was simply known as Manager Qian.
Qian Fu ignored Auntie Zhou and walked straight to a window seat to sit down. A servant immediately spread a cloth over the table and placed the purple clay teapot on it. “Where is Manager Qin?” he asked, crossing his legs and waving his fan. “Come out and let’s have a word.”
Yaoyao was in the kitchen prepping ingredients. Hearing the commotion, she put down her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and lifted the curtain to walk out. She gave the man a quick glance: the sapphire brocade, the copper coin charms, the servants—everything about him screamed of grandiosity. “And you are?”
Qian Fu looked her up and down, his gaze sliding from the wooden hairpin in her hair to her plain cloth shoes before he revealed a knowing smile. “Qian Fu, from Zui Xian Lou. So, you’re the manager of the Four Seasons Eatery? So young.”
Yaoyao stood still before him, refusing to sit. “Manager Qian, since you’ve graced us with your presence, are you here to taste the food?”
“Taste the food?” Qian Fu laughed, setting his fan on the table. “Manager Qin, I’ve come to give you some sound advice.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if playing the role of an elder. “I had someone come to taste your food a couple of days ago. The flavor is indeed… interesting. But little girl, in this business, talent isn’t enough. Location, prestige, connections, suppliers—which of these can you compete with Zui Xian Lou on?”
Yaoyao remained silent, waiting for him to finish. Seeing she didn’t take the bait, Qian Fu felt emboldened. He leaned back, crossing his legs again. “I’m a kindhearted person; I hate seeing young people take the wrong path. Your beef tallow hot pot base? Between us, it’s just child’s play compared to Zui Xian Lou. Our storefront on East Street seats eighty tables, we have sixteen private rooms, and twelve kitchen stoves alone. You have four tables in this alley…” He shook his head, looking unimpressed. “Manager Qin, I’m here out of kindness. Before your shop loses everything, close it down and come to Zui Xian Lou. Your craft isn’t half-bad; you’d be more than qualified to work as a kitchen hand under me. I, Qian Fu, am showing a bit of charity; at least I can guarantee you a meal.”
Auntie Zhou stood to the side, wringing her rag until water dripped. Zhao the helper stopped chopping, his hand white-knuckled around the axe handle, his face flushed red.
Yaoyao pulled out the bench opposite him and sat down, placing her hands on the table. “Manager Qian, you just said you had someone taste my food?”
Qian Fu nodded. “The taste is alright.”
“But have you, personally, ever tasted it?”
Qian Fu paused. “I…”
“You haven’t,” Yaoyao answered for him, her tone flat. “You haven’t tasted my cooking, yet you call my shop child’s play. Manager Qian, your tongue is even sharper than the stoves in your kitchen.”
The smile on Qian Fu’s face stiffened. Of course he hadn’t tasted it. He prided himself on being the top restaurant manager in Bianjing; he couldn’t possibly be seen eating in a small hole-in-the-wall—it would be beneath his station. Moreover, he knew everyone in the city; he couldn’t afford to be caught here.
Yaoyao continued, her voice clear and resonant. “You didn’t come here today out of kindness to find me a job; you’re afraid that the customers who ate at Zui Xian Lou might turn around and fall in love with our pot base, aren’t you?”
Qian Fu’s fan snapped shut. “You!”
“As for being a kitchen hand,” Yaoyao stood up and pushed the bench back into place, her voice devoid of emotion, “I am the master of my own kitchen. Keep the menial labor for your own staff, Manager Qian.” She paused, watching his flushed face, and added, “By the way, if you’re not in a rush, we open at the si hour (9:00 AM) in a moment. Why not sit down and have a bowl? It’s on the house. You can judge whether I’m just playing around after you’ve finished.”
Qian Fu stood up abruptly. His chair clattered backward, and the teapot on the table nearly slid off, with a servant scrambling to catch it. “Fine! Fine!” He pointed at Yaoyao, his finger trembling. “Manager Qin, you’re quite the tough one! Very well, let’s see how long you last!”
He swept his sleeves and marched out, nearly colliding with Zhao’s axe handle at the door. He stumbled, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. His two servants helped him into the sedan, the curtain snapped shut, and the chair wobbled away into the distance.
Zhao watched them leave and snorted, returning to his wood-chopping with extra force. Auntie Zhou waited until they were well away, spat on the ground, and leaned toward Yaoyao, lowering her voice. “Manager Qin, this Qian Fu is no good. He originally ran a small pub in the South City, but then he somehow climbed into favor with some noble and skyrocketed to manager of Zui Xian Lou. I’ve heard he keeps a gang of thugs to sabotage his competition. The Liu noodle shop north of the alley was run out of business by him.”
Yaoyao wiped the table where Qian Fu had sat. “Auntie Zhou, thank you for the warning.” She hung the rag back over the basin and smiled. “But he’s just a manager; he doesn’t call the shots. I’m more interested in knowing who is standing behind him.”
Auntie Zhou froze, wanting to say more but holding back. She turned and went to the back to prep ingredients. Yaoyao stood at the doorway, watching the alley entrance, the smile in her eyes fading. Zui Xian Lou, the Chen shop—she wondered if they were all part of the same thread or separate ones. No matter. Whatever comes, I will meet it; whatever the challenge, I will cook my way through it.
Just after the si hour (9:00 AM), a visitor arrived at the alley. Leading the way was a youth, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in a moon-white brocade robe with a high-quality jade pendant at his waist. He had refined features but was furrowing his brows, looking deeply unhappy. Following him was a servant of sixteen or seventeen, holding an oil-paper umbrella and smiling as he tried to persuade him.
“Young Master, why don’t we just go to Zui Xian Lou? They have private rooms, it’s quiet, and the tea is excellent. Look at this alley…”
The youth kept walking, not turning his head. “I’ve listened to you nag the entire way—this ‘beef tallow pot,’ that ‘Zui Xian Lou.’ Tell me, did Zui Xian Lou come up with that base themselves?”
The servant choked. “Well… not exactly. I heard they learned the recipe from someone else…”
“What’s the point of an imitation?” the youth scoffed, his tone determined. “If you’re going to eat, eat at the place that made it first. The authentic one is always the authentic one. No matter how good the copy is, it’s always missing a certain spirit.”
The servant looked pained, glancing left and right at the narrow alley, the low eaves, and the simple boy chopping wood at the door. His mouth twitched, still wanting to persuade him.
But the youth had already crossed the threshold of the Four Seasons Eatery. He stood in the front hall, his gaze sweeping over the four tables, the handwritten menu board on the wall, and the coarse clay bowls stacked in the corner. Before he could even frown, his nose caught a scent.
The aroma drifting from the kitchen was bone-broth-based, with hints of tangerine peel and wolfberry—warm, gentle, and non-intrusive. It was completely different from the choking, oily smoke he had smelled on East Street.
The youth’s brows smoothed out. “This is the place.”
He sat at the table closest to the stove. The servant stood by, looking helpless, and pulled a cloth from his sleeve to wipe the bench for him. The youth waved him off. “Enough, stop being so fussy.”
Yaoyao came out from the kitchen and caught sight of the pair, her eyes lingering on the youth for a second. The moon-white brocade, the jade pendant—the fabric was high-quality Suzhou silk, and the jade was of the finest grade. She didn’t look too long. She walked over and greeted him with a smile. “Young Master, is this your first time? What would you like to eat?”
The youth looked up at her, startled—he clearly hadn’t expected the manager to be a girl his own age. He quickly withdrew his gaze and adopted an air of maturity. “I heard your beef tallow hot pot base is the best in Bianjing?”
“It is.”
“Bring me a serving.” He paused. “The best kind you have.”
Yaoyao examined him. His face was pale, his lips lacked color, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and his stomach was clearly weak.
She asked, “Young Master, do you eat spicy food often?”
The youth was taken aback, but the servant jumped in, “Our Young Master doesn’t have much of an appetite, and he doesn’t really eat spicy food.”
The youth glared at the servant, who shrank back.
Yaoyao had her answer. “Please sit for a moment, Young Master. I will prepare a suitable serving for you.”
She turned and went back to the kitchen. Auntie Zhou peeked at the youth’s attire and leaned in to whisper, “Manager Qin, that little young master is definitely not from an ordinary family.”
Yaoyao dropped a slice of Angelica root into a clay pot without looking up. “Whether he is from an ordinary family or not, once he enters my shop, he is a guest. A guest deserves to be fed well.”
In the front hall, the youth tapped his fingers on the table in boredom, his eyes landing on the menu on the wall. The calligraphy was elegant: “Jingzhe: Leek and River Shrimp,” “Spring Equinox: Toon and Tofu,” “Seasonal: Aged Tangerine Peel Beef Tallow Pot.” He stared at the characters for a long time, and his tapping fingers slowed to a stop.
“Using the twenty-four solar terms as a basis for cooking…” he murmured, a flicker of genuine interest lighting up his eyes. He tapped his finger against his jade pendant. “Quite interesting.”
The servant hadn’t heard him clearly. “Young Master, what was that?”
The youth ignored him and looked toward the kitchen, where the sounds of the fire and the rhythmic chopping of a knife on a cutting board drifted out.
A gust of wind blew through the alley, and the new buds on the pagoda tree rustled.
On the second floor of the Chen Family Restaurant next door, a window opened a crack. Someone peered through the gap toward the Four Seasons Eatery, and then, the window closed without a sound.