Chapter 15

The Cheng and Qian families lived three doors apart and had been neighbors for many years. The man of the Cheng family was named Cheng Tianxiang. A couple of years ago, the factory where he worked went bankrupt. Unlike other workers who were drowned in despair, he grabbed the little money they had at home and went to the provincial capital. He returned with a bulk of mirrored sunglasses and long stockings, which were quickly sold out. Having tasted success, Cheng Tianxiang set his sights on street vending. To cut costs, he took the train down south, staying away for more than ten days at a time, while Cheng Dazao stayed home and ran the stall. Both husband and wife were hardworking, and in the past two or three years, they had managed to save quite a bit of money. Now, the Chengs had their own clothing shop and even employed sales assistants. Neighbors who ran into Cheng Tianxiang would greet him as “Boss Cheng.”

Cheng’s son, Chengyu, was about the same age as Qian Jiafeng and was the only child of Cheng Tianxiang. Although Cheng Tianxiang was strict with Chengyu’s studies, he did his utmost to provide him with the best food and clothing. As he often said himself, “What’s the point of earning money if not to give your kid a good life?”

A few days ago, Cheng Tianxiang had just brought back a new shipment from the south and had been lounging at home under the fan, eating watermelon and planning to relax for a few days, when Chengyu, who had just finished breakfast and dashed out to play, came running back, loudly demanding to eat the buns sold at Qian Xiaomi’s shop.

A bun didn’t cost much, so Cheng Tianxiang told him to take money from his bag and go buy whatever he wanted. Chengyu happily grabbed three yuan and ran out, but came back a couple of minutes later looking dejected: “They’ve run out of numbers today. If I want to eat buns, I have to line up early tomorrow.”

“You even need to line up for buns?” Cheng Tianxiang was intrigued. Wearing loose shorts, he stepped out to take a look outside the door, and—whoa—there was a dense crowd of people. Just then, two elderly men came out of the shop, burping contentedly as they passed by the Chengs’ doorway.

“I’ve never eaten anything this delicious in my life,” one of them said with admiration. “Let’s go find a place to have some tea to help with digestion. We’ll come back at ten to queue for lunch. It’s been a whole week since I’ve had any of Qian Xiaomi’s cooked food, and I can hardly eat anything else now.”

Cheng Tianxiang watched the two old men walk away, then turned to observe the other patrons. He noticed that everyone leaving Qian Xiaomi’s place looked completely satisfied, practically glowing with the delight of someone who had just had a royal feast. Cheng Tianxiang had eaten in many places while traveling for business and considered himself pretty well-versed in food. Seeing such a packed restaurant stirred his curiosity. He waved Chengyu over and said, “Later, you line up here. I’ll treat you to a meal at this place for lunch.”

Chengyu beamed with joy: “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re in the first batch.”

At home, Cheng Tianxiang gnawed on half a watermelon. Around noon, Cheng Dazao returned from the shop to prepare lunch. Cheng Tianxiang pulled on a tank top and said, “No cooking today. I’m treating you both to a restaurant.”

Cheng Dazao thought of the long line she’d seen on the way back and couldn’t help asking, “Are we going to Qian Xiaomi’s place? I saw so many people there.”

Cheng Tianxiang nodded. “Your son already got us a number. We can go straight there.”

The couple locked the door and walked over. As soon as they greeted their son, Qian Jianing opened the entrance and cheerfully announced, “Customers number one to ten, please come in. The rest, please wait in the courtyard.”

Though Cheng Tianxiang had only been outside for five minutes, he was already drenched with sweat. As he stepped into the courtyard, a gentle breeze greeted him, bringing a pleasant coolness. He looked around and noticed how the yard had transformed compared to his memory of Aunt Zhang’s place. What was once a cluttered area had become peaceful and picturesque. A wooden frame built between the wall and eaves was now covered with lush green plants, providing shade from the blazing sun and allowing a breeze to pass through.

The ten tables of customers quickly took their seats. Qian Jianing stood in the middle of the hall with a cheerful smile and announced, “This afternoon, our restaurant has prepared six cold dishes, five braised items, ten hot dishes, and five desserts. The menu is on the wall. If you’ve made your choices, just let me know. Also, the kumquat lemon tea on your table is a complimentary summer drink. If you find it too sweet and sour, you can switch it for mung bean soup or watermelon juice.”

As soon as she finished speaking, an old man in a printed shirt shouted, “Xiaomi, this isn’t right—you’re taking advantage of an old man with weak eyes. Come read it out for me!”

Qian Jianing smiled with curved eyes. “That’s my oversight. Today’s cold dishes are shredded chicken liangpi, spicy tripe salad, shrimp oil cucumbers…”

As she crisply and clearly listed the dishes, Cheng Tianxiang nodded in approval. Regardless of the food, the service alone was already better than all the restaurants in Zibo City.

After reading the menu, Qian Xiaomi took orders table by table. At table three sat Cheng Tianxiang. Qian Jianing came over with a bright smile and asked, “Uncle Cheng, Aunt Cheng, what would you like today?”

Chengyu, a meat lover, eagerly raised his voice: “I want the braised pork knuckle.”

Cheng Tianxiang loved watching his son eat and quickly nodded. “Add that, and also one deep-fried pigeon.” Then he turned to his wife, “You pick something too.”

Cheng Dazao gave the father and son a side-eye. “In this sweltering heat, won’t pork knuckle and fried pigeon be too greasy?” After studying the menu for a bit, she hesitantly said, “Fine, one shredded chicken liangpi, a vegetarian goose, and three bowls of plain noodle soup.” Qian Jianing nodded to indicate she had noted the order, then moved to the next table.

As she walked away, Cheng Dazao lowered her voice and muttered to Cheng Tianxiang, “This place is really not cheap.” Cheng Tianxiang glared at her, and she immediately fell silent.

After noting all ten tables’ orders, Qian Jianing returned to the kitchen, put on a white chef’s hat, fetched a piece of braised beef from the pot, placed it on the cutting board, picked up a butcher knife, and swiftly sliced the three fist-sized pieces of beef into thin slices, placing them neatly onto a tray and delivering them to the customer.

After slicing the beef, she began preparing the shredded chicken liangpi. The liangpi, made in-house, was crystal clear and extremely springy. She sliced it thin, then laid it over a bed of shredded carrots, cucumbers, black fungus, and chicken. After drizzling the specially prepared sauce on top, she carried the dish out.

Cheng Tianxiang picked up his chopsticks, mixed the contents of the plate, and scooped some into his bowl. Shredded chicken liangpi wasn’t rare in Zibo City—come summer, nearly every restaurant had it. He had assumed they all tasted the same. But the moment this translucent liangpi slid into his mouth, he was enchanted by its smooth and tender texture. Then a bite of the chicken—Cheng Tianxiang realized it wasn’t the usual dry breast meat but tender, skin-on thigh meat. Paired with the liangpi, it was smooth and flavorful. He was surprised that such a simple dish could be this delicious, and his expectations for the main courses soared.

After handing out the number tags, Qian Jiafeng came in to help serve. Cheng Tianxiang asked him for a cold beer. Just then, glancing up, he saw through the glass that Qian Jianing was preparing the deep-fried pigeon and craned his neck for a better view.

The pigeons had already been cleaned and dried. She coated them inside and out with a special marinade, placed them under a copper dome, then poured hot oil over them again and again. Even through the glass, Cheng Tianxiang couldn’t hear the sizzle or smell the aroma, yet the shimmering oil dancing on the pigeon skin made him swallow involuntarily.

Four pigeons were placed on a clean white plate. Qian Jianing set the plate at the pickup counter: “Jiafeng, table three, one deep-fried pigeon.”

Seeing Jiafeng busy getting someone a beer, Cheng Tianxiang quickly stood up and went to fetch it himself. “I’ve got it. Wow, that smells amazing.”

Though freshly cooked and still steaming, he couldn’t resist. He reached out several times before managing to tear off a wing, carefully avoiding the heat, and took a big bite. The skin was crispy and fragrant; the meat inside was tender and juicy.

This dish originated from Guangdong. Cheng Tianxiang had ordered it once while treating a local business partner in Huadu. At the time, he marveled at how delicious it was. But now, tasting Qian Jianing’s version, he felt the skin of the pigeons he’d eaten in Huadu wasn’t crispy enough, the meat not tender enough, and the flavor lacking.

After devouring one pigeon, just as he reached for a second, Chengyu, mouth already greasy, snatched it and took a huge bite. Cheng Tianxiang burst out laughing in mock anger, “You little rascal, stealing food from your old man!”

Mouth full of pigeon meat, Chengyu mumbled, “Why don’t you order another one?”

That wasn’t a bad idea. But just as Cheng Tianxiang was about to call Qian Jiafeng, his braised pork knuckle was served.

To Cheng Tianxiang, braised pork knuckle held an almost sacred status. During the tough years, meat was a rarity, with meals mostly consisting of coarse grains. Even during the New Year, one had to ration a pound of meat just to make dumplings. It wasn’t until his first year working, when his factory hurried production to meet quotas, and after two full months on-site, the factory director was so pleased with the results that he bought an entire shipment of knuckles for a celebratory lunch. Though over a decade had passed, Cheng Tianxiang still remembered that day vividly. The canteen chef, inexperienced in such large meat dishes, had slightly burnt the knuckles. Cheng Tianxiang got a piece with a charred edge and still remembered the bite—the combination of fatty meat and scorched skin, soft, oily, and indescribably delicious. It was the most flavorful thing he’d ever eaten.

Just as he was reminiscing about that flavor, a bright, glistening pork knuckle was brought to the table. Cheng Tianxiang reached out with his chopsticks, pulled off a piece with the skin still on, and put it in his mouth—rich in flavor, melt-in-your-mouth tender, fatty but not greasy, enveloping his senses in savory joy.

“Delicious!” he exclaimed. “I’ve had no shortage of knuckles in my life, but this one’s the tastiest by far.” After a pause, he added, “Even better than the first one I ever had.”

Hearing this, Cheng Dazao added a piece for him, “You’ve been complaining about food being too greasy in this summer heat, but not this, huh?”

“Well yeah. Try this and you’ll understand why Qian Xiaomi dares to charge so much.” Cheng Tianxiang took another bite, his face lost in bliss. “With this taste? Totally worth it.”

Author’s Note:
Cheng Dazao: Xiaomi, your Uncle Cheng says your pork knuckle is amazing—where did you learn to make it?

Qian Xiaomi: Page 18 of the master recipe book.

Cheng Dazao: …