In the Bianjing city of March, the biting chill of late spring still lingered, but inside the Four Seasons Eatery in Qin Family Alley, the atmosphere was steaming hot.
Since the introduction of the medicinal spicy hot pot, the shop had truly made a name for itself in the neighborhood. Diners who craved spice or simply wanted to try something novel would arrive in groups of threes or fives. Yaoyao and Auntie Zhou were kept constantly on their feet, leaving them no choice but to hire a helper named Zhao from the West Street talent broker. Zhao was stout, simple-minded, and not much of a talker, but he was honest and diligent when it came to chopping wood, fetching water, and tending the fires.
For ten consecutive days, the queue in front of the eatery stretched from morning until night. Yaoyao had set the rules: fifteen copper coins for the pot base, with side dishes priced by the plate. After deducting the daily procurement costs and wages, Qin Xiaoman would count the night’s earnings, clutching two coarse clay jars brimming with copper coins and grinning until his white teeth were fully visible.
The change came swiftly.
Returning from the South Market with her vegetable basket, Auntie Zhou wiped the fine beads of sweat from her forehead, her expression troubled. “Manager Qin, there’s trouble. The Zui Xian Lou (Drunken Immortal Pavilion) on East Street has hung up a red silk notice; they’ve also launched a spicy hot pot base. They’re marketing it as a beef-tallow-based, secret-spice recipe, claiming it wards off the cold and nurtures the stomach.”
Yaoyao was scraping fish scales with a wooden scraper, her hands never stopping. “What’s their price?”
“Twenty-eight coins,” Auntie Zhou sighed, setting her basket down on the stone steps. “That’s nearly double our price. But look at where they are! A three-story tower with rosewood tables, heated private rooms, and even singers. I just passed by and heard a few merchants in silk robes saying that since both places have spicy pots, they might as well go to Zui Xian Lou to eat in comfort.”
Recipes leaking was common, especially for a broth base—one look at the red oil was enough to make an educated guess at the ingredients. Auntie Zhou was terrified that the shopkeeper’s livelihood would be squeezed out of existence by the larger restaurant.
Yaoyao worked with brisk efficiency, finishing the scales, then gutting and cleaning the fish. “Then let them go eat there.”
Within two days, business visibly dwindled. Their regulars, like Old Huang, still came, but they lost more than half of their new customers. During meal hours, the tables that used to be fought over were now two or three seats empty. Zhao the helper, simple lad that he was, spent his time wiping the doorframe over and over, his eyes constantly darting toward the alley entrance.
Auntie Zhou grew anxious. Looking at the prepped ingredients on the cutting board, she asked in a low voice, “Manager Qin, shouldn’t we think of a way? Add a few new dishes, or drop the pot base to twelve coins?”
“Drop the price?” Yaoyao placed a row of sliced winter bamboo shoots into a celadon plate and turned to look at her, her expression calm and resolute. “Fifteen coins is the fair value; lowering it further would be smashing our own signboard. The people who go to Zui Xian Lou are paying for the spectacle; the people who stay with us are paying for the taste. Our customers won’t run away.”
Auntie Zhou opened her mouth to argue, but seeing Yaoyao’s unshakable confidence, she swallowed her words.
Once the shen hour (3:00 PM – 5:00 PM) passed, Yaoyao set up a small clay stove by herself. Today, she had changed the recipe for the base she prepared for Bai Qi. The fiery red oil from previous days was exhilarating, but because of his chronic stomach ailments, he couldn’t handle intense heat every single day.
She halved the Zanthoxylum (Sichuan pepper), added carefully processed aged dried tangerine peel, and a piece of thoroughly braised old ginger, subduing the sharp pungency and leaving only a warm, gentle heat. She also simmered a bowl of rock-sugar pear soup in a small pot, placing it at the bottom of the food box and leaving the usual note.
The you hour (5:00 PM – 7:00 PM) arrived, but Chang An did not appear. Instead, an unfamiliar Dali Temple official stood outside and bowed: “Manager Qin, Officer Chang has been tied up with his superior on official business outside the city. He said not to prepare the food box for today.”
Yaoyao acknowledged this, turned back, sealed the food box tightly, and placed it inside the iron wok, which still held some residual heat, to keep it warm.
At the xu hour (7:00 PM – 9:00 PM), as night descended, Auntie Zhou and Zhao went home. Yaoyao lit the oil lamp and sat behind the counter in the front hall to balance the books. The revenue was down thirty percent from their peak, so she opened the other blue-bound notebook tucked underneath.
The pages were densely filled with notes written in her own hand regarding Bai Qi’s dietary preferences and his reactions to her medicinal meals.
Suddenly, she heard two soft horse hoofbeats on the bluestone outside. The curtain was lifted by the night wind, and Chang An stepped in first, followed immediately by a tall, slender figure.
Clad in a black round-collared silk robe, cinched with a plain jade belt, Bai Qi carried the chill of the spring night in his brow. He swept his gaze over the spotless front hall and walked straight to the table in the corner to sit. Chang An discreetly retreated to stand guard outside the door.
“The food box wasn’t picked up today. I was passing by, so I thought I’d stop in,” Bai Qi said, his voice cool.
From the Dali Temple to the Taiping Ward in the South City, there was no way to rationalize that as “passing by.” Yaoyao didn’t call him out. She rose, went to the back, and brought out the food box she had been keeping warm, laying the dishes out one by one.
Steam drifted up, carrying the refreshing scent of tangerine peel mixed with a very faint heat. Bai Qi picked up his bamboo chopsticks, but his gaze landed on the account book behind her. “Business is suffering; aren’t you worried?”
“Worrying is useless.” Yaoyao sat across from him, her hands tucked into her sleeves, meeting his gaze squarely. “Does my Lord know why Zui Xian Lou’s base doesn’t fetch a higher price?”
Bai Qi didn’t answer, instead picking up a slice of mushroom and placing it into the broth.
“To save on costs and cook faster, they use seventy percent rapeseed oil and only thirty percent beef tallow. They use low-quality spices—heavy on star anise and cinnamon—to mask the raw, unpleasant smell of the inferior oil,” Yaoyao said, her tone level but tinged with the pride of an expert. “That kind of base is stimulating at first, but it leaves you parched, with heartburn and insomnia by night’s end.”
She paused, smiling faintly. “My base uses only premium pure beef tallow, supplemented by thirty-two kinds of spices, seven of which I process by hand myself. The timing and sequence of adding ingredients are so precise that even a fraction of a second’s difference ruins the flavor. If you eat my pot, you’ll work up a sweat, but you’ll never damage your stomach the next day. You don’t need to fight for repeat customers—once they eat their fill of bellyaches at Zui Xian Lou, they’ll naturally come back.”
Bai Qi swallowed the lamb; it was tender, sweet, and devoid of any gamey odor. The warm, mellow sweetness of the tangerine peel flowed down his throat and settled into his stomach, feeling incredibly satisfying. He set down his chopsticks and looked at the girl—barely in her teens—sitting across from him. The lamplight fell on her face, revealing no sign of restlessness, only a calm, composed demeanor.
“If you ever encounter a predicament you cannot resolve, send someone to the Dali Temple,” Bai Qi said, picking up the bowl of rock-sugar pear soup. His tone was as flat as ever, yet each word landed with the weight of a decree.
Yaoyao was slightly startled, then offered a shallow, grateful smile. “Thank you, my Lord. But these minor waves aren’t enough to disturb the tranquility of the Dali Temple.”
Bai Qi said nothing more. His gaze dropped, landing on the open blue-bound book on the counter. With a single glance, he recognized the tiny, neat script—it was identical to the handwriting on the notes in his food box every day.
Yaoyao followed his gaze, her heart skipping a beat. With a nonchalant motion, she reached over and pulled the account book toward her, covering the blue volume completely.
When the bowl of pear soup was finished, Bai Qi stood up and adjusted his sleeves. Yaoyao escorted him to the door and lifted the curtain. Outside, the night wind whipped the lanterns under the eaves across the street.
As Bai Qi stepped over the threshold, he paused, not turning his head. “Today’s pear soup…”
“It was too sweet.”
His deep voice drifted away on the wind. Chang An had already brought the horse over. Bai Qi mounted it, his black cloak cutting a sharp arc in the night as he rode off.
Yaoyao stood in the doorway, scoffing at the retreating figure in the darkness before turning to bolt the door.
Complaining it’s too sweet yet finishing every drop.
Returning to the counter, she reopened the book, dipped her brush in ink, and added a line after today’s entry: “Tangerine peel broth finished. Pear soup finished. Claims it is too sweet, yet consumed the entirety. Two-faced. Same recipe next time.”
Setting the brush down, she turned the page, beginning to plan the new dishes for the Spring Equinox. If the large restaurant wanted to steal her business, she would drag them down with a series of innovative new dishes.
Meanwhile, in a dark alley at the end of the Taiping Ward in the South City.
The side gate of the Chen Family Restaurant’s back courtyard stood wide open. Several large carts covered in oilcloth glided silently from the direction of the canal pier, one after another, and were pushed into the courtyard. Manager Zhou of the Chen shop stood at the gate, bent like a shrimp, directing the guards to move the heavy wooden crates.
In the darkness, a carrier pigeon fluttered its wings, streaking across the silent ward walls and heading straight for the North City.
Inside the Dali Temple offices, Bai Qi had just removed his cloak when he saw the pigeon land on the windowsill. He removed the bamboo tube and unfolded the thin silk inside.
After reading the secret report, he slowly crumpled the silk in his palm and walked to the candle to burn it. The flames reflected in his cold, stern eyes. The deficit on the books was too large; they finally couldn’t wait any longer and were risking the waterways to smuggle in goods and launder money.
He returned to the desk, dipped his brush deep into the cinnabar ink, and without the slightest hesitation, drew a bold, crimson line of execution through the name “Lin Chongyuan” in the files.