Chapter 12

When Qian Xiaomi was renovating the house, the neighbors all came over out of curiosity to take a look. Once the signboard for “Qian Xiaomi’s Shop” was hung, their curiosity grew even more. Wasn’t Qian Xiaomi still in high school? Why was she opening a shop? Was she dropping out of school?

Qian Xiaomi had previously set up her street food stands in the eastern, southern, and western parts of town—nowhere near her home. Though Zibo City isn’t large, Qian Jianing had only been setting up stalls for a short time. It was the height of summer, and unless necessary, everyone was staying at home to escape the heat. So, none of the nearby neighbors actually knew that Qian Jianing had been out selling food and had even gained some fame.

Staring at the signboard, the neighbors caught Qian Jianing and asked, “Xiaomi, what kind of shop are you planning to open? It’s not obvious at all from the sign.”

For the curious neighbors, Qian Jianing smiled patiently. “A restaurant.”

“You can’t use this kind of signboard for a restaurant,” said an older aunty with plenty of opinions. “The name doesn’t say it’s a restaurant; will customers even think to come in? Look at Meiwei Restaurant at the north end of town—their name very clearly draws in customers. Take my advice and rename your place before you officially open.”

“Exactly,” chimed in several others, who began offering their own takes. “You’ve got this huge courtyard but only planted flowers and grass—it’s such a waste of space. You can only fit a few tables indoors. Listen to me, get rid of all that and put up a canopy—you can fit in way more tables that way.”

Qian Jianing merely smiled gracefully. “I’m the only one running the place—I can’t handle too much. This setup is just right. Besides, I’m only opening on weekends when I’m off school.”

Upon hearing that, the neighbors looked at her like she was crazy. Just as they were about to offer her more “advice,” a truck delivering tables and chairs arrived. Qian Jianing quickly ran over to help the workers move everything inside.

Seeing the antique-style Eight Immortals tables, the aunties shook their heads in unison. “This kid is so thoughtless. How many people can those small tables seat? Look at Meiwei Restaurant—big round tables everywhere. Not as pretty, maybe, but they seat way more people, and that’s how you make money.”

“What thinking? Who runs a restaurant like it’s a game? Not even open during the week—what a joke.”

“You said it. And to think Li Wanzhen and her husband are just letting her do whatever. They bought the house and left it to the kid without a second thought. Aren’t they afraid she’ll lose money? By the way, I haven’t seen Li Wanzhen around lately. What’s she up to?”

“I saw her this morning around 5 a.m. riding a tricycle loaded with stuff—maybe she’s out selling at a stall somewhere.”

“Oh, this family really is something. Li Wanzhen quit a perfectly good job to go sell things on the street. Just watch—there’ll be a day she regrets it.”

A group of middle-aged aunties loitered at Qian Jianing’s front gate, gossiping non-stop until nearly noon, when they remembered their husbands were coming home for lunch. They hurried away to start cooking.

Li Hong, the owner of Meiwei Restaurant, stood at her restaurant’s entrance and watched the delivery truck drive off, then walked back inside frowning. She tugged at her husband, who was drinking beer and eating peanuts. “Still drinking? Did you see? Another restaurant is opening on the south end of the street.”

Her husband, Zhao Dazhuang, replied casually, “I already asked the construction crew—it’s that high school girl from the Qian family. They said she’s only opening on weekends and holidays.” He popped a peanut in his mouth and scoffed. “What does a little girl know about cooking? She’s only open once a week. Trust me, she won’t last long.”

Li Hong grew more curious. She sat across from Zhao Dazhuang and refilled his beer. “And Old Qian and his wife are just letting her mess around like this? Their family isn’t even well-off. At most, she can make 100 bucks a month. Aren’t they afraid she’ll lose money?”

“You know how they spoil their kid,” Zhao Dazhuang replied, then took a gulp of cold beer and let out a satisfied sigh. “Just wait for the grand opening. No one will show up—you’ll get a good laugh out of it.”

Hearing that, Li Hong was relieved. Both Qian Guosheng and his wife worked regular jobs. Qian Jianing had just turned eighteen. In their entire family, not one person could really cook or had business sense. She’d been worrying for nothing.

***

On the morning of opening day, Qian Jianing got up early and passed through the small gate between the two courtyards. She began kneading dough, chopping meat, and prepping fillings for the day’s breakfast menu. Zibo City is in northern China, where locals prefer wheat-based foods, so she focused on those. Neatly pleated soup dumplings were stacked in ten-layer steamers; one hundred delicate shrimp wontons rested on trays; hand-pulled noodles lined the flour board. At that moment, Qian Jianing was simmering meat sauce with pork belly in a large pot, while a big bowl held pre-marinated pickled vegetables.

Once the rich, fragrant sauce was ready, she served it out. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she saw it was already 6:30. She took off her apron and nervously asked, “Is anyone outside?”

Treasure Bowl bragged proudly in her mind, “Of course! You’re the Food Elder’s one and only disciple in the human world. Have some confidence in your skills! Even your pickled radish tastes better than other people’s braised pork.”

Qian Jianing straightened her clothes in the glass, walked to the door, took a deep breath, unlatched the lock, and opened the gates—only to jump back in surprise at the long line of people waiting outside.

Unlike the stunned Qian Jianing, a grandpa at the front of the line was brimming with energy. “Breakfast ready? I got up at 4 a.m., determined to be first in line!”

Snapping out of it, Qian Jianing quickly stepped aside. “Come on in, Grandpa. But my shop is small—I can only serve 25 people at a time.” She glanced at the line. There had to be at least 50, maybe 60 people out there.

When he heard that only 25 could be let in, the grandpa raced forward like a teenager. Although surprised by the crowd, what shocked Qian Jianing more were her own neighbors. On their way to work or out shopping, they froze when they saw dozens of people lined up on the south end of the street.

Curiosity is in the Chinese DNA. Seeing such a crowd, everyone rushed over to ask what was happening—especially the same aunties who’d been predicting the Qian family’s business would fail. Eyeing the crowd suspiciously, they asked, “What are you all doing here?”

One middle-aged woman from the west side of town, irritated at just missing the first batch, snapped back with attitude, “What does it look like? We’re queuing for breakfast!” She fanned herself and grumbled to someone behind, “It’s all my husband’s fault. He left and then realized he forgot his money and had to run back. We missed our bus! Otherwise, I’d have been up front.”

“You’re lining up for breakfast?” the neighborhood aunties said, dumbfounded. “Here?”

Just then, a few young men came racing up on bicycles. They almost couldn’t stop in time and scrambled to park their bikes, shouting, “We’re late! We’re late!” as they rushed to the back of the line.

Something felt off. The Qian family didn’t even set off a single firecracker for the grand opening, yet this many people were here? The spectators looked at each other in confusion.

While the neighbors were bewildered, local breakfast vendors were thrilled. This street only had about thirty households, and only half came out for breakfast on a typical day. Usually, they’d have to move on to the next street. But today, with so many people from outside, maybe they could sell everything right here.

Old Zhao finished handing out sesame biscuits to the regulars, then called his wife over to move their cart across the street from Qian Jianing’s house. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hot sesame biscuits, steamed buns, Xiaomi rice porridge! Fresh and piping hot!”

To his surprise, the crowd didn’t even flinch. No one turned around.

He paused, wondering if he wasn’t loud enough, and shouted again: “Sesame biscuits, buns, Xiaomi porridge—no need to line up, eat as soon as you buy!”

“Hey, quiet down!” snapped a cranky auntie in the queue. “Trying to deafen me with that volume?”

Overpowered, Old Zhao meekly argued, “No line here.”

“My regular breakfast downstairs doesn’t have a line either,” the auntie retorted.

Confused, Old Zhao asked, “Then why are you here?”

The auntie gave him a pitying look, like he’d lost his mind, shook her head in silence, and turned away.

Old Zhao scratched his head awkwardly while the neighbors buzzed with chatter. It was the liveliest East 1st Street had ever been.

A gossipy onlooker edged up to the line and voiced what everyone was thinking: “Where are you people from? Relatives of Xiaomi here to show support?”

“Oh if only!” laughed a thirty-something woman. “I’d kill to have a relative like Xiaomi. I live in the power plant residential complex on the west side. Xiaomi used to sell food there. I’m telling you, her stuff was incredible.” She looked at the watchful neighbors with disbelief. “You live this close and didn’t come earlier to line up? Forget it—you’re not getting any today.”

The aunties tried to imagine how good “incredible” tasted, but couldn’t. Looking at the line, one finally asked, “Is it because Xiaomi’s stuff is cheaper? If her buns are cheap, I could take some home for my grandson.”

Immediately, the people in the queue laughed. “Cheaper? Her buns are twice the price of those from other street vendors.”

The auntie’s foot froze mid-step. She looked back, stunned. “Twice the price and you still came? You burning money?”

The queue looked back at them with pity. “With stingy thinking like that, you’ll never get to taste what Qian Xiaomi makes.”

***

Qian Jianing got the first 25 people settled. Qian Jiafeng handed out number tokens and let numbers 1 through 20 into the courtyard to wait. He did his best to maintain order, afraid tensions would rise and fight might break out.

Though the courtyard wasn’t huge, it was tidy. There were jujube trees, grapevines, and two water tanks with lotus flowers and koi fish.

Several grandpas saw the stone chess table and rushed to grab playing spots. The rest gathered around to spectate. A few aunties sat on wooden benches beside the water tanks, enjoying the flowers and fish. Two young women opted for rocking chairs under the jujube tree, chatting and swaying gently. The last few, without particular preferences, sat under a small trellis draped with grapes—picking and popping them into their mouths, pleasantly surprised by the sweet flavor.

Qian Jianing gave them a quick heads-up and went back inside to work. The first batch of customers, watching the mist curling from steaming bamboo baskets, delicate wontons, and glossy meat sauce through the big glass window, couldn’t help but swallow their saliva.

She rewashed her hands, stood at the window, and shouted, “Number one—step up and order!”

The grandpa at number one jumped up. He’d memorized the wall menu earlier and was ready. “One basket of soup dumplings and a bowl of wontons. Do you sell pickled vegetables, girl?”

“Pickles are free today,” Qian Jianing said. She put the wontons in the pot and replaced the steamers with ten more filled with freshly proved dumplings. “Just drop the money in the box over there,” she added. “I’ll get your dumplings.”

He placed a handful of small bills in the box and received his bamboo basket at the pickup window.

“It’s fine—I’ve got good legs,” he said, hurrying to a table. Without even grabbing the pickles, he eagerly bit into a dumpling. Its thin wrapper burst, releasing savory broth into his mouth. Enchanted by the rich flavor, he forgot the vinegar and devoured it in two bites. Licking the juice off his lips, he exclaimed, “This tastes even better than the big rou bao Xiaomi made before!”

Qian Jianing handed over the wontons and called, “Grandpa Li, your wontons!” Number two was already too eager. “Two baskets of dumplings and a bowl of zhajiang noodles!”

Qian Jianing frowned slightly. “Grandpa Wang, there are too many people in line, so we don’t do takeout.”

“Take out?” Grandpa Wang boomed, patting his belly. “This may not even be enough for me!”

Hearing his loud voice, the grandpa playing chess outside jumped up, forgetting to capture his opponent’s cannon. He shouted toward the window, “Old Wang, I’m warning you—don’t eat all the dumplings or else!”