Shen Qingqing stared at the line on her phone screen for three seconds, then swiped upward with her thumb. The text disappeared, replaced by a new line.
[The host must actively demonstrate god-tier heat control and capture customers through scent.]
She lifted her head and glanced toward the alley entrance. People flowed left to right and right to left, yet not a single pair of feet turned in her direction.
Next door, the stout vendor’s voice exploded again, “Fried skewers, fried skewers, rice cake skewers buy three get one free! Freshly fried chicken strips!”
The oil crackled loudly, and two more people joined the line.
Shen Qingqing tightened her grip on the spatula, her palm so sweaty the wooden handle felt softened.
She lowered her gaze to the wok.
The base oil had begun to smoke, rippling in fine waves across the surface. The temperature was perfect.
“To hell with it.”
She set the spatula briefly against the rim, grabbed a handful of bean sprouts from the sack, then plucked two eggs from the basket and cracked them one-handed against the wok’s edge. The yolk and whites slid into the oil.
With a sharp sizzle, oil splashed half a foot high.
She shifted slightly to avoid the splatter, scooped up the spatula, and spread the egg across the wok. Before it could fully set, she flipped it once, breaking it into golden fragments. The bean sprouts went in next, and she swept the spatula along the bottom in a clean arc. The sprouts collided with the egg, and the wok erupted in a rapid series of pops.
She still hadn’t added the noodles.
This wasn’t cooking yet. This was building aroma.
The temperature surged. The wok bottom glowed faintly red. The richness of pork lard, the caramelized protein fragrance of egg, and the moisture bursting from snapped bean sprouts twisted together under high heat, forming a single, rising thread of scent.
The system interface flickered.
[S-grade heat control activated. Aroma diffusion radius: 5 meters… 8 meters… 12 meters… 15 meters.]
Shen Qingqing didn’t slow down. She cranked the flame to maximum. Blue fire shot out beneath the wok, licking its base. Her spatula moved faster, three strokes, five strokes, each scraping tight against the bottom, metal striking metal with a crisp, ringing sound.
The wok hei exploded.
Not ordinary smoke, but a fragrance with weight. White steam rolled upward, carrying layers of scent, caught by the night breeze and pushed toward the alley entrance.
The first thing it crushed was the stench of the toilet.
That acrid odor was smothered beneath the thick richness of lard, like filthy water drenched in hot oil. The choking ammonia retreated within seconds, shrinking back beyond a five-meter radius.
Next, it overtook the fried skewer stall.
The neighboring oil still bubbled, its scent usually drifting seven or eight meters. Now it was struck head-on by Shen Qingqing’s rising wok aroma and forced back, collapsing into its own stall.
She flipped the wok again, wrist snapping cleanly. Bean sprouts and egg fragments leapt into the air, spun, and landed with a sharp cha.
The flames surged higher. The aroma rolled from the alley’s end toward its entrance, ten meters, twelve, fifteen.
Across the street under a plastic canopy, four dyed-hair punks lounged on stools, drinking beer. Peanuts, edamame, and half a plate of pig’s ear sat on their table.
The yellow-haired one lifted a cigarette toward his mouth, then paused. His nostrils twitched.
The cigarette hung midair.
He sniffed again, turning his head left, then right, nostrils flaring like small vents.
“Damn.”
The cigarette slipped from his fingers, landing in the peanut shells.
The buzz-cut beside him looked up. “What?”
“Smell that?”
The buzz-cut inhaled, cheeks still full of peanuts. His eyes shifted.
“Holy crap, that smells amazing. Whose is it?”
“No idea. Never smelled anything like it.” The yellow-haired one stood, scraping his stool back with a screech. “Not barbecue, not hot pot. Something fried… with lard.”
“Your nose turned supernatural or what?”
“Cut the crap, let’s go.”
He led the way, the others following. The four of them pushed through the crowd, noses working like radar.
Seven or eight meters in, the scent grew stronger.
At twelve meters, it was thick enough to make their throats itch and saliva pool.
By the time they reached the alley’s end, they saw it. A small wok stall is set beside the toilet.
The one who stepped forward first wasn’t the yellow-haired guy, but a shorter one with green hair, wearing a floral shirt and flip-flops slapping lazily against the ground. He stopped in front of the stall, stared into the wok where bean sprouts and egg fragments tumbled, and swallowed.
“Boss.”
Shen Qingqing looked up, spatula still moving.
The green-haired guy swallowed again and pointed at the wok. “This… fried noodles, right? One serving. Extra spicy.”
Shen Qingqing’s eyes lit up.
She tapped the spatula against the rim with a crisp ring.
“Ten yuan per serving. Extra egg one yuan, extra meat two. No bargaining.”
“Ten?” He dug into his pocket. “Fine. One with egg and meat. Thirteen, right?”
“Thirteen.”
She grabbed a portion of soaked rice noodles, flicked her wrist, and sent them sliding into the wok. The moment they hit the oil, they exploded with a sizzle.
First flip. The noodles loosened, each strand coated in lard.
Second flip. Soy sauce streamed in, turning to vapor upon contact, bursting into a wave of savory aroma.
Third, Minced garlic. Fragrant.
Fourth. Bean sprouts. Crisp.
Fifth. Egg fragments and diced pork belly went in. She scooped and flipped, sending everything airborne before it settled evenly across the wok surface, noodles, egg, pork, sprouts, garlic all perfectly distributed.
Chopped scallions came last, green and white scattering over golden noodles.
She scraped once more along the bottom. The wok hei surged upward, white steam exploding with layered fragrance.
“Done.”
With a flick, she tipped the wok. The noodles slid neatly into a paper bowl, forming a small mound topped with two glistening pieces of pork crackling.
From order to completion, two minutes and forty seconds.
The green-haired guy took the bowl and glanced down. Before even tasting, the smell alone nearly unsteadied him. He crouched by the steps, plunged his chopsticks in, and shoveled a large bite into his mouth.
He chewed twice.
Then stopped. His cheeks puffed, eyes widening as if struck from behind.
“Holy shit!”
The words squeezed out through clenched teeth, noodles still in his mouth.
The yellow-haired one leaned in. “What?”
He swallowed, eyes still wide, then exhaled sharply. “Insane.”
“What’s insane?”
“This! These noodles. I’ve eaten fried noodles at the most expensive restaurant in town, thirty-eight a plate. This beats it. Not even the same level.”
“You’re bullshitting.”
The buzz-cut leaned closer.
The green-haired guy pulled the bowl protectively to his chest, guarding it with his chopsticks exactly the way Shen Qingqing had guarded Huo Yan’s portion before.
“Don’t touch it. Buy your own.”
He took another bite, crunching into pork crackling. A crisp crack sounded, oil bursting between his teeth. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction, cheeks working with rhythm.
“Damn, even the cracklings are insane. Crispy outside, juicy inside.”
The yellow-haired one didn’t wait anymore. He turned and shouted, “Boss! Four more! All with egg and meat!”
“Coming!” Shen Qingqing’s voice rang out, her spatula striking the wok rim in rapid succession.
Her hands moved swiftly, grabbing noodles, cracking eggs, tossing ingredients. Flames roared beneath the wok, smoke and aroma surging together toward the alley entrance.
Four servings, each done in under three minutes.
The green-haired guy crouched nearby, scraping his empty bowl with chopsticks until it was spotless. He picked out the last speck of garlic stuck to the side and popped it into his mouth.
Then he pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the empty bowl.
“What are you doing?” the buzz-cut asked.
“Posting.” His thumb swiped across the screen. “End of Shizi Street alley, next to the toilet. Ten-yuan fried noodles. I’m blown away.”
“You even mentioned the toilet?”
“How else will people find it? No sign, no lights. Without that, nobody would locate it.”
The yellow-haired one, cheeks stuffed, mumbled, “Boss.”
Shen Qingqing was flipping another batch without turning. “Yeah?”
“With skills like this, you’re wasted in this spot.”
She flipped the noodles again, lips curving slightly. “The location’s not great.”
“Not great?” He stepped back, wrinkling his nose toward the toilet. “You’re running a Michelin in a damn pit.”
The buzz-cut slurped noodles beside him. “Honestly, once I smelled this, I stopped noticing the toilet.”
“Same,” another chimed in. “This aroma suppresses it completely.”
Shen Qingqing finished the batch, plated it, and handed it over. Four servings, fifty-two yuan total. She took the bills, counted quickly, and returned two yuan in change.
The green-haired guy stood, dusted off his pants, gave her a thumbs-up, and shuffled away in his flip-flops.
After five steps, he turned back and shouted, “Boss! Are you coming tomorrow?”
“Of course! Every day!”
“Good, I’ll bring people!”
Shen Qingqing clenched the cash in her hand, feeling the crisp texture against her fingertips. Fifty-two yuan.
Real! She turned to glance at Huo Yan.
He sat on the stool, posture unchanged, hands resting on his knees, sunglasses reflecting the lights across the street.
“Did you hear that?” she grinned. “We opened! Fifty-two yuan!”
Huo Yan tilted his head slightly.
“Mm.”
Just one sound, low and restrained. His thumb brushed lightly against his knee, pressing into the fabric.
Shen Qingqing didn’t notice. Her eyes were already fixed on the alley entrance.
The group had returned to their table, still chewing, phones glowing. The buzz-cut leaned in, pointing at the screen with the green-haired one.
At the alley entrance, two passersby slowed down, sniffing the air, turning their heads toward her stall.
Shen Qingqing tapped the wok rim.
They were coming.
At the fried skewer stall next door, the stout vendor froze mid-motion, chopsticks hovering above the oil. Her eyes locked onto Shen Qingqing’s stall, watching the punks eat with exaggerated delight.
Her gold tooth bit into her lip.
She shoved the chopsticks back into the skewers, wiped her hand on her apron, pulled out her phone, and dialed. Her voice dropped low.
“Hello, Brother Qiang? There’s a new stall at the end of Shizi Street. Come take a look.”