Chapter 35: Fang Xuanling Is Delighted!

Fang Qingjun subconsciously licked her lips. As the tip of her tongue brushed against that lingering numbness, her mind instantly drifted back to the gluttonous feast in the Imperial Kitchen’s back courtyard.

“I… I wasn’t stung.”

Fang Qingjun cleared her throat. Deciding to just give up on excuses, she set the food box, which was still radiating a fiendishly tempting aroma, onto the low table before Fang Xuanling. “Your daughter went to… inspect the conditions of the common folk.”

“Inspect the conditions of the common folk?”

Fang Xuanling laughed in exasperation. “Inspect them all the way into the Imperial Kitchen’s slop buckets? You reek of kitchen grease!”

“Father, don’t make it sound so unpleasant,” Fang Qingjun said, deftly opening the food box.

She lifted the lid.

That rich aroma, bottled up for the entire journey, finally found its release.

Boom!

Fang Xuanling felt as if someone had punched him right in the nose.

Not with pain, but with pure fragrance!

An aggressively potent aroma.

Inside the food box sat a rough clay pot, half full of bright red, glistening chili broth.

A dense layer of white sesame seeds floated on the surface, with a dozen bamboo skewers sticking out at an angle like inverted weapons.

Threaded onto the skewers were thinly sliced lotus roots, tripe with distinct dark and light textures, and a few cubes of meat from unidentified cuts.

“What is this?”

Fang Xuanling’s Adam’s apple bobbed involuntarily.

He had only had a bowl of plain congee for dinner, and now, struck by this rich, savory, spicy fragrance, the gluttonous worms^[1] in his stomach woke up instantly and began thrashing about.

“Cold pot skewers.”

Mimicking Su Mu’s tone, Fang Qingjun picked up a skewer of lotus root and held it out. “Father, give it a try. This was… specially made by that master.”

“A master?” Fang Xuanling took the bamboo skewer with suspicion.

It was bright red and dripping with oil. Was this even edible?

Yet the scent was simply too seductive.

Tentatively, he put the lotus root into his mouth.

The lotus root felt pleasantly cool in his mouth.

Just as Fang Xuanling was about to say “Nothing special,” the numbing spice lurking beneath the red oil violently exploded across his tongue!

“Hiss!“

As prime minister of the realm, second only to one and above ten thousand, Fang Xuanling’s eyes snapped wide as he sucked in a sharp breath of cold air.

Spicy!

A heart-piercing heat!

Yet wrapped within that heat was a rich, mellow savoriness.

It was the essence of dozens of spices awakened by hot oil, mingled with the nutty aroma of sesame seeds, sliding down his throat and blazing into his stomach, instantly banishing every trace of hunger and chill.

The lotus root was delightfully crisp, crunching loudly between his teeth.

“Haa…”

Fang Xuanling opened his mouth, wanting to vent the heat, but loath to lose the lingering fragrance, he swallowed it right back down.

A fine layer of sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.

“Father, how is it?”

Fang Qingjun looked at him expectantly, as if presenting a rare treasure. “Is your tongue dancing?”

“Nonsense! How could a tongue dance!”

Fang Xuanling scolded her with a stern face, yet his hand honestly reached toward the clay pot. “Give me another skewer… What is that dark one?”

“Tripe.”

Fang Qingjun hurriedly handed one over. “This one is the crispiest. Young Master Su… Master Su said to swirl it twice through the chili oil.”

Forgetting about chopsticks, Fang Xuanling grabbed the skewer directly, swirled it twice in the red soup until it was coated with chili oil and sesame seeds, and stripped it into his mouth in one bite.

Crisp! Tender! Numbing! Savory!

The tripe was prepared exceptionally well, without the slightest hint of gaminess, retaining only its distinctive, springy snap. The moment his teeth sliced through the tripe, the broth trapped inside burst across his palate, delivering a rush of satisfaction that made his scalp tingle.

Skewer after skewer.

Fang Xuanling had initially tried to maintain his prime ministerial dignity, eating with refined restraint. But this spiciness was addictive. The spicier it grew, the more he craved it, and the more he ate, the more impossible it became to stop.

Before long, he rolled up his sleeves, planted one foot on the table’s crossbar, and went at the skewers with both hands.

“Cough, cough… Water! Pour me some water!”

Fang Xuanling’s face was flushed bright red, tears nearly spilling from the heat, yet he kept shouting in delight, “Exhilarating! Absolutely bloody exhilarating!”

In this moment, court rivalries, droughts, and locust plagues were all cast to the winds by the domineering spice.

In his mind, there was only this pot of red broth, only this simple, raw joy.

“This was… made by that master you mentioned?”

Having devoured seven or eight skewers in one breath, Fang Xuanling finally slowed down, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as a sharp gleam lit his eyes.

“Indeed.”

Seeing her father’s total lack of decorum, Fang Qingjun laughed inwardly. It seemed Su Mu was right: before fine food, even a prime minister had to bow his head.

“This person… possesses great talent!” Fang Xuanling murmured, gazing thoughtfully at the pot of chili oil.

This was not merely a dish.

To take the cheapest offal, along with the lotus root and potatoes that no one usually bothered eating, and turn them into something so breathtaking. If such an ability to turn the mundane into the extraordinary were applied to statecraft…

“Father, what are you thinking about?”

Seeing her father lost in thought, Fang Qingjun could not help asking, “Do you still want those chicken feet? The boneless ones have the best chew.”

“Eat them! Why wouldn’t I!” Fang Xuanling waved his hand with the grand flair of a leader mapping out an empire. “Tomorrow! Go again tomorrow! Bring me another portion!”

Fang Qingjun covered her mouth and giggled. “Though Young Master Su said he doesn’t know what he’ll make tomorrow. It depends entirely on his mood.”

“Depends on his mood?”

Fang Xuanling raised an eyebrow and let out a cold snort. “What an arrogant brat. To dare keep even the reigning Emperor hanging on his whims. I would like to see just how capable he truly is.”

He picked up the last skewer of chicken gizzards and took a fierce bite.

“Still… with flavor like this, he certainly has the right to be arrogant.”

…

…

The old locust tree in the Imperial Kitchen’s back courtyard was truly having a rough time today.

The sun had only just begun to slant downward when a plume of smoke billowed up beneath the tree, choking the cicadas into silence.

With a sweat cloth draped over his neck, Su Mu was squatting before a row of freshly laid red brick troughs, busily at work.

In the trough, the charcoal burned glowing red, waves of heat distorting the surrounding air.

“Cough, cough, cough!”

Before the courtyard gate was even fully open, a fit of violent coughing drifted in.

Fang Qingjun covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief while shielding an exquisite food box with her other hand, tears streaming down her face from the choking smoke.

“Young Master Su, is… is there a fire?”

Li Lizhi followed close behind, her brows knit tightly as well.

She had specifically changed into a dirt-resistant, deep purple Hu robe^[2] with narrow sleeves today, looking quite sharp, but the sight before her brought her to a halt.

“What fire?”

Su Mu did not even turn around. Gripping a large cattail fan, he fanned vigorously at the coals. “This is called the smoke of everyday life^[3].”

“The smoke of everyday life?”

Xiao Sizi squeezed out from between their legs, not minding the choking smoke in the slightest. Instead, she tilted her little nose up and sniffed hard. “Smells so good! Big bwother, what are we eating today? Why does it smell kind of… burnt?”

“Lamb skewers.”

Su Mu tucked the cattail fan into the back of his waistband, then turned and lifted a large handful of prepared skewers from the cutting board.

The lamb chosen for today was exceptionally fine.

As luck would have it, the Bureau of Culinary Service had just received a fresh batch of Western regions tribute sheep that were dripping with fat.

Su Mu had claimed the prime hind leg meat, balanced at thirty percent fat and seventy percent lean, and cut it into mahjong-sized cubes.

The skewers had not hit the fire yet, alternating red and white along the bamboo sticks, looking hearty and substantial.