Chapter 208 – Pan-Fried Steak

Just then, Zhou Xucai suggested, “How about we play a round of Duo Lian San?”

No one around objected. They all nodded in agreement.

Duo Lian San is a game where you hold a sickle in your right hand and continuously chop at the ground, while your left hand waves back and forth along the surface, chanting, “Chop one, chop two, chop three in a row, the pony follows the big horse through, the big horse won’t eat the pony’s meat, chop chop chop to make sixteen.”

The game isn’t just physically demanding; it also requires intense concentration and coordination between both hands.

It starts off slow, but as the game progresses, it gets faster and faster until it reaches a certain speed and the game ends.

It’s a way for people to relax after intense labor, while also training their reflexes and physical coordination. It helps break the monotony of repetitive work and adds a bit of fun to the day.

Zhou Xucai said, “Since it was my idea, I’ll go first!”

In Duo Lian San, the beginning is slower, so the difficulty isn’t too high at first, but later on, many struggle to keep up.

“Xucai, isn’t it usually that the one who suggests the game goes last?” one of the older uncles commented.

The others joined in, “Exactly, Uncle’s right. Xucai, you should be last.”

Zhou Xucai didn’t mind. He had confidence. He shrugged and said, “Alright then! If Uncle says so, I’ll agree.”

Uncle said, “Then I’ll give a demo!”

He began chopping the ground with his sickle, his left hand waving across the dirt as he chanted, “Chop one, chop two, chop three in a row, the pony follows the big horse through, the big horse won’t eat the pony’s meat, chop chop chop to make sixteen.”

The next person followed, imitating Uncle, and the pace grew faster and faster. Soon, some players made mistakes and were eliminated. Those waiting in line would take over when someone dropped out.

Because there were so many people, it was a few minutes before it was Zhou Xucai’s turn.

He didn’t react quickly enough and was eliminated right away. Frustrated, he said, “Guys, how about giving me another chance? I can definitely get it right.”

“Xucai, that’s not going to fly. If everyone asked for extra chances, would we ever finish harvesting the wheat?” Uncle said sternly.

Cheating, in any era, is looked down upon. But in this era where reputation is everything, it was even more despised.

Those who had already been eliminated were also thinking: if Zhou Xucai got a second chance, they should too. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair.

Seeing the serious expressions all around him, Zhou Xucai realized he had said something wrong. He quickly responded, “Everyone, I misspoke. I’ll cut an extra twentieth of an acre to make up for it.”

After all, he hadn’t married yet. If word of something like this got out, it would ruin his reputation—and probably his chances of ever getting a wife.

Uncle nodded at that. It showed Zhou Xucai understood the gravity of the situation. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have doubled the usual punishment on his own.

Normally, those who failed to keep up in Duo Lian San had to cut an extra fortieth of an acre—about sixteen square meters. A twentieth would be thirty-two square meters.

That wasn’t easy. The regular punishment was manageable—just about half an hour of extra work. But a twentieth of an acre? That was going to take serious effort.

In the 1960s, harvesting wheat was grueling, time-consuming physical labor.

An adult man could only harvest about an acre of wheat a day, because it required strength, time, and patience. The work was inefficient by nature.

Farmers would often start at dawn and work until evening, with only the briefest of breaks, to meet their daily quotas. The work was intense and a serious test of endurance.

“Xucai, want to play another round?” Uncle asked with a laugh.

The village had designated how much wheat each person had to cut. If one person harvested more, someone else could cut less. So those who had just won wanted to ride the momentum.

Zhou Xucai immediately backed down. “Uncle, please spare me! That extra twentieth means at least another hour of work. I’ll be cutting until nightfall. If I lose again, I won’t finish before midnight.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Zhou Xucai ignored them and quietly went back to harvesting wheat.

Once the person who started the game got back to work, no one else was in the mood to keep playing. Except for a few who had just lost and wanted a rematch—but Duo Lian San required unanimous agreement to play. Otherwise, someone could just deny they lost and refuse to accept punishment.

Laifu and Laitai, the two brothers, walked along swinging a snake back and forth, worried it might come back to life. The walk wasn’t far, and after a few minutes, they brought the snake home.

The moment Zhou Yimin saw the snake, he broke out in goosebumps. He had always been terrified of snakes. “Laifu, stop right there! Don’t bring that thing in here!” he shouted.

Though he had been from the south in his previous life, he had never eaten snake meat.

“Big bro, this one’s not poisonous,” Laifu quickly explained.

Zhou Yimin didn’t recognize the species, but the snake’s bright colors made him uneasy. “Just look at it—you can tell it’s bad news. You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Truly, the courage of the young is boundless.

“This kind of snake makes top-tier medicinal wine,” the old man chuckled.

Soaking snakes in liquor was common in rural areas. Many households would have a jar of it. From a distance, it looked terrifying.

Traditional Chinese medicine holds that snake wine can invigorate blood circulation and nourish the body. It’s said to be especially effective for bruises and injuries, and thus was extremely popular. People even studied which species made the most effective wine.

In China, it seemed like anything could be soaked in alcohol—stink bugs, geckos, deer penises, leeches, scorpions, antlers, black ants, mole crickets, wasp nests, centipedes, shed snake skins, deer horns, toad skin, bull penises, tiger bones—the list went on and on.

A dazzling array of ingredients.

“Let Third Uncle brew it for you, Grandpa!” someone suggested.

Zhou Yimin, however, was not going near that thing.

In his past life, he had even heard a story about a snake that had soaked in wine for years but hadn’t died—and it still managed to bite someone. Just thinking about it gave him chills.

And that story wasn’t even a rumor.

If the wine jar wasn’t properly sealed and air could get in, the snake might enter a dormant state due to lack of oxygen, thus surviving longer. What’s more, if the snake wasn’t completely submerged in alcohol—especially around the head—it might not die immediately and could live for some time in a hibernation-like state.

Back in his room, Zhou Yimin took out the heirloom that Old Man Xu had given him.

It was a porcelain cup—or more precisely, a small bowl.

That’s right! This thing was none other than the legendary Chicken Cup from later generations.

The cup had a slightly flared rim, gently tapering sides, and a flat base with a recessed foot. Delicate and compact, its silhouette was elegant and balanced, with soft curves that appeared straight and subtle angles that revealed graceful arcs. It had a dignified yet charming aesthetic, refined and exquisite.

The outer wall was decorated with two groups of hens and chicks, interspersed with lake rocks, roses, and orchids—evoking a vibrant early spring scene. The foot rim was unglazed around the edge.

At the center of the base, within a double square blue border, were six characters in regular script: “Made in the Chenghua Period of the Great Ming.”

Zhou Yimin examined the Chicken Cup in his hands, unsure if it was the real deal.

One shouldn’t assume that there were no counterfeits in this era. Fakes had existed throughout history—especially for such famous artifacts, which were a prime target for imitation.

Because of the Chicken Cup’s value, imitations were endless. During the Qing Dynasty, Kangxi, Yongzheng, Qianlong, Jiaqing, and Daoguang all produced copies.

Only professionals could tell the difference.

Kangxi-era replicas had slightly taller bases than the originals, with a narrower base diameter and a wider unglazed rim. The six-character mark on the base filled the entire space, with thick strokes and heavy coloring; the decorations tended to be stiffer in style. There were even dense blue dot accents on the painted rocks—something the genuine versions did not have.

Qianlong-era fakes sometimes had tall, recessed bases and even bore imperial poems, with inscriptions reading “Qianlong Imitation of Antiquity” on the base. Republic-era counterfeits had a bluish glaze and pale, floating blue designs that looked lifeless and dull.

Zhou Yimin was no appraiser, so of course he couldn’t tell.

But he knew that if this was an authentic Ming Chenghua Doucai Chicken Cup, then in the 21st century, it would be worth hundreds of millions.

He remembered hearing, before he transmigrated, that a collector in Magic City had once bid HK$280 million for one.

That was a much better investment than trying to get his hands on a siheyuan courtyard house.

Now wasn’t the time to stockpile siheyuans anyway. If he really wanted to, he could wait until the 1980s when the spring breeze of reform would sweep through the land. At that time, those courtyards weren’t even that expensive.

Zhou Yimin planned to give the Xu family 500 jin of corn, plus a barrel of rapeseed oil. He couldn’t let them suffer too much of a loss.

After admiring the cup, Zhou Yimin put it back in his store’s inventory—or rather, his supermarket storage locker. The available storage space had increased now.

Then he pulled out a small handful of pine nuts to snack on.

“Big Brother, what are you eating?” Laifang slipped in quietly.

That little girl was always after snacks.

Lately, she had visibly plumped up. Still not exactly chubby, but for this era, she was doing just fine.

In fact, it wasn’t just Laifang. All the kids in Zhoujiazhuang had visibly rounder cheeks.

“Pine nuts. Here, have some.” Zhou Yimin pulled out a big handful and stuffed her pockets full, telling her to go outside and eat them.

Laifang happily left her big brother’s room and ran back home to stash most of the pine nuts away.

So far, she’d filled up two jars. She had already eaten anything perishable; the rest was all stuff that kept well—candy, dried fruit, nuts, and the like.

She counted her stash every day, only feeling at ease once everything was accounted for.

She thought she was being sneaky, but the two adults at home knew exactly what she was up to.

After eating a few more pine nuts, Zhou Yimin headed off to cook.

He figured he’d let Grandpa and Grandma try some marbled beef too.

Why not make steak? They had probably never eaten that before.

He took out a piece of snowflake beef and sliced it into several portions, each about the size of two palms.

He sprinkled a bit of salt and black pepper on both sides and massaged the seasoning gently into the meat. Then he let it marinate for a while.

The little fire-tending helper was ready.

Once the oil in the pan reached the right temperature, Zhou Yimin placed the marinated beef into the pan, searing it for 2–3 minutes until one side turned golden and crispy. Then he flipped it to sear the other side until both sides had a beautiful caramelized crust.

As for knives and forks—forget it!

That wasn’t how they ate around here. Chopsticks were perfectly fine. Even the beef had to follow local customs!

“Wow! That smells amazing.” The little fire-tender stared at the steak in the pan, practically drooling.

“The fire’s too strong,” Zhou Yimin reminded Laicai.

Laicai immediately adjusted the flame.

He was so practiced at it, it was a little heartbreaking. But Laicai enjoyed it—he loved tending fires, loved watching others cook, and loved to eat.

To be honest, in this era, who didn’t love to eat?

Things like eating disorders were practically nonexistent back then.

“Grandpa, let’s have some wine tonight—grape wine,” Zhou Yimin suggested to the old man.

The old man certainly had no objections!

He liked drinking. Whether it was baijiu or red wine, as long as it was alcohol, he liked it. Of course, he preferred baijiu with its higher alcohol content. As he often said, red wine was about as strong as horse piss.

“Alright, then let’s open a bottle of red wine.”

His eldest grandson had prepared a wine cabinet for him, and it was stocked with plenty of good liquor.

Only in Zhoujiazhuang could Zhou Yimin dare to do this, even be a little flashy—no problem.

It was safe.

“Yimin, aren’t you going to cut it up a bit?” the old man asked again.

Such a big piece—were they just supposed to eat it by hand?

“Grandpa, this is the Western way of eating. It’s usually paired with a knife and fork—you cut while eating. In a moment, I’ll slice it into smaller pieces so we can eat with chopsticks,” Zhou Yimin explained.

The old man was surprised.

That’s how Westerners ate?

Learned something new today.

Once the steaks were cooked, Zhou Yimin was quite satisfied with his work.

If he had a big plate, he could’ve placed one piece on it, added some sauce, garnished with some greens—this one plate alone would easily cost a thousand-plus yuan.

It echoed what internet users would say in the future: the essence of Michelin cuisine was “big plates, small portions, smeared sauce, and decorative grass.”

A very accurate summary.

After Zhou Xuqiang returned, he went to deal with the snake and stuffed it into a bottle of liquor, asking the old man to help store it.

“Tighten the bottle cap,” Zhou Yimin reminded.

If there’s air in there, the thing could stay alive for years. Just thinking about it was creepy. It was said that snakes held a strong grudge. In his previous life, Zhou Yimin had heard plenty of stories about snakes taking revenge.

That’s why adults used to warn him—if you’re going to kill a snake, you have to make sure it’s completely dead.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Zhou Xuqiang said with a grin.

His eyes drifted to the sizzling steaks, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from watering.

“Wash your hands, it’s time to eat!” Zhou Yimin called out.

Thanks to his influence, washing hands before meals had now become a family habit—even the old man and old lady followed it without exception.

Third Aunt was nursing little Qianqian first and wasn’t in a rush to eat.

Nowadays, that little girl could even crawl.

Except for Zhou Yimin, everyone else was eating steak for the first time.

To respect everyone’s preferences, Zhou Yimin didn’t go for any rare doneness; instead, he made them medium-well.

“This is beef?” Zhou Xuqiang exclaimed after taking a bite.

He’d eaten beef many times and knew what it was supposed to taste like, but this steak tasted nothing like the beef he remembered.

“Yeah, it’s higher-quality beef,” Zhou Yimin said without going into too much detail.

(End of this chapter)