Chapter 33 Opening for Business

Chapter 33: Opening Day

"It's fine. Let's go check the blacksmith's later to see if the wok is done." Tomorrow morning they'd open for business, and Meng Wan felt there were still a mountain of chores left unsettled.

"We need to buy more firewood too, and bowls. Ordering a wooden table won't make it in time, so let's just buy two ready-made ones from the carpenter."

They'd brought a bag each of rice and flour from home; if that wasn't enough, they could go back for more.

That afternoon, Song Tingzhou and Meng Wan retrieved the iron wok. It was slightly larger than the stove burner, so Song Tingzhou packed some loess around the rim before setting it in place.

Lyu Shi had recommended where to buy firewood. Her family relied on purchased wood for winter, and many households in the villages near town sold it. Song Tingzhou made a trip, paid on the spot, and the family delivered two cartloads of firewood.

The carpenter had no storefront but kept a stock of finished goods at home. Meng Wan picked out two long tables and several wooden chairs, which the carpenter's son delivered to the shop. They spent the rest of the day rearranging tables and wiping chairs, leaving all three of them exhausted.

That evening, they didn't light the stove. Song Tingzhou bought some steamed buns instead. After eating, he prepared to head back to the village, but Meng Wan grew uneasy.

"No, it's too late tonight."

Song Tingzhou's gaze softened. "It's fine. Half an hour's walk and I'll be home."

Chang Jinhua also urged him, "The roads are bad at night. Drunkards and thugs are one thing, but what if a wild beast comes down from the mountains?"

"Wild beasts in the hills? That's even worse." Meng Wan firmly opposed Song Tingzhou walking home alone in the dark.

"There's an inn in town. Spending a dozen coppers on a shared bed will do."

In the end, Meng Wan's words carried weight. Song Tingzhou headed alone to the inn, the plain vegetable steamed buns he'd eaten still feeling sweet in his stomach.

That night, Meng Wan lay down early, afraid of oversleeping, so he never let himself fall into deep slumber. In the small hours, the night watchman's wooden clapper sounded four times. Groggy, Meng Wan sat up, thinking: the fifth watch—that must be three in the morning.

At the alley's mouth stood a public stone roller mill. When Meng Wan opened the courtyard gate, Song Tingzhou was already waiting outside.

"When did you get here? Why didn't you knock?"

Song Tingzhou took the bucket Meng Wan was carrying. "I just arrived. I'll grind the soybeans—you go inside."

The sky was still dark, and Meng Wan hadn't dared go out alone anyway. He'd just been afraid Song Tingzhou would come early and stand foolishly at the door. As it turned out, his guess was right.

Chang Jinhua was also up. "Wan Geer, teach me how to make that fried dough you mentioned."

"Coming." Meng Wan watched Song Tingzhou walk away before lightly closing the courtyard gate.

On the first day, Meng Wan wasn't sure how much they'd sell, so he decided to start with a small batch. The night before, he'd let a basin of dough rise. Since they had no baking soda or baking powder, he used a sourdough starter—the traditional leavening method before yeast, suitable for both mantou and baozi.

Through the back door and into the shop, Meng Wan noted that today, the fifteenth, had a daytime fair and an evening lantern festival. Some early vendors were already setting up their stalls.

Meng Wan didn't open the front door yet. Instead, he propped open the street-facing window. In front of the window, he placed a table with a stack of bowls and spoons.

With the back door open, the outdoor cooking stove faced the shop's window directly. Meng Wan grabbed a bundle of firewood, lit the stove to dry the square iron wok, while inside, Chang Jinhua lit another fire to prepare tofu.

After a while, Song Tingzhou returned with ground soybeans. They'd brought all their tofu-making equipment, cramming the tiny room full. Conditions were indeed cramped.

"Auntie, this time we won't make tofu blocks—we'll make tofu pudding. It's much simpler." Not ready to fry the fried dough sticks yet, Meng Wan first taught Chang Jinhua how to make tofu pudding.

They dissolved a bowl of brine, filtered the raw soy milk, and heated it in the kitchen's iron wok over low heat until it turned pale yellow.

For firm tofu, you had to add the brine while boiling. Tofu pudding was different: pour the warm soy milk into a basin, add the dissolved brine, and let it sit for about the time to drink a cup of tea—then it was done.

"That's it? That really is simple." Chang Jinhua, accustomed to making tofu, understood at once.

Song Tingzhou carried the soy milk basin into the shop, and Meng Wan prepared the topping. They'd saved two baskets of wild mountain produce over winter, but little remained. Meng Wan thought that if the breakfast business went well, he'd visit nearby villages to buy more mushrooms and wood ear.

The topping's main ingredient was finely diced pickled radish, with a handful each of diced mushrooms and wood ear. In a hot pan with a little oil, he fried dried green onion pieces until fragrant, added the radish and mushrooms, then plenty of water, and let it simmer.

The topping container was a tall wooden bucket, about the size of a small water pail.

Chang Jinhua carried the bucket into the shop to open for business, while Meng Wan started heating oil to fry the fried dough sticks.

On the street, scattered villagers hurried to the fair to shop. Other food stalls in town were already wafting out aromas.

Song Tingzhou helped Meng Wan tend the fire beneath the stove. When the oil was hot enough, Meng Wan stacked two dough strips together, gently stretched and slid them into the oil.

Each batch fried six sticks at once. He'd specially made a pair of extra-long chopsticks to constantly flip the swelling dough sticks.

After a minute, the dough sticks were golden and crispy. Meng Wan used his chopsticks to lift them into a basket lined with wax paper—a basket Zhang Xiaoyu had made for free, not accepting Chang Jinhua's coins.

Meng Wan set five aside and left one in a large bowl, handing it to Song Tingzhou. "Try one first to see if it's cooked."

Whether it was cooked was obvious. He and Chang Jinhua had each already had a bowl of soy milk, but Song Tingzhou had been busy all morning without eating.

Song Tingzhou took the bowl and bit into the dough stick. It was crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside, and fragrant—a breakfast he'd never tasted before, clearly to his liking. As soon as he finished one, another appeared in the bowl.

Meng Wan smiled. "It's our own goods—just a bit of dough. From now on, you'll have your fill."

"Mm."

Song Tingzhou's heart swelled with mixed emotions. The last time anyone had said something like that to him was when his father was still alive. After his father passed, he became the family's backbone, growing quieter around others—afraid of being underestimated for his youth. Over time, he'd truly sealed his lips.

Wan Geer was his betrothed, meant to be looked after by him. Now it felt like the roles were reversed.

Meng Wan continued frying dough sticks. The preparation was troublesome, but they cooked quickly. He planned to fry just two batches to put out front; if more were needed, he could fry them fresh.

When the second batch was done, Meng Wan carried the basket to Song Tingzhou. "I'll check the front. Come over in a bit."

The sky was turning pale, and more people filled the streets. Many hungry villagers coming to the fair were reluctant to spend money on food in town—Meng Wan and Song Tingzhou had been the same once. But some wealthier families, or those indulging their children, would buy a couple of steamed buns. No one yet knew about the new food stall tucked away in the alley.

Chang Jinhua watched the steamed bun shop across the street, packed with customers, and grew anxious. Meng Wan came in, set the basket on the table, and, having anticipated this, handed her a dough stick. "Auntie, try one first. Just watch me."

Meng Wan tore three dough sticks into small pieces, divided them into two bowls, and walked to the shop entrance to call out: "New shop opening! Free samples! Two bowls only—first come, first served!"

On his second shout, people perked up. They hadn't caught much, but "free samples" rang clear.

"Young man, is your shop really giving away food for free?"

Someone couldn't resist and spoke up.

Meng Wan smiled warmly. "Ma'am, of course it's true. Just small pieces to taste. We're selling a new snack called 'fried dough,' and since folks might be hesitant to buy something unfamiliar, we're offering free samples."

He picked up a piece of dough stick with his chopsticks and offered it to her. "Try it. No need to buy if you don't like it."

Seeing he was a young man, the woman wasn't afraid of being pressured into a sale. She reached out, took the piece, and nibbled it slowly.

Anything soaked in oil was a treat, and the flavor hit her immediately. She exclaimed, "Oh my, is this really made with oil and fruit? How is it so fragrant?"

One bite wasn't enough. She reached for more, but Meng Wan moved the bowl away, still smiling. "Ma'am, only one piece per person."

"Well..." She withdrew her hand, her eyes darting. "Then how much are these fried dough things?" Anything involving oil and fruit, she assumed, wouldn't be cheap. She'd ask out of curiosity, and if it was too pricey, she'd walk away—after all, the young man had said it was free.

Meng Wan gestured toward the window. The table was level with the sill, where the dough sticks and a covered large basin were displayed.

"Auntie, come see for yourself—a pair of these big fried dough sticks is only three coppers. They're oily and filling; for someone like you, one stick and a bowl of tofu pudding would leave you too stuffed to walk!"

Three coppers per stick was lower than the woman had expected. She was already tempted to buy one for her grandchildren to share, but out of habit, she haggled, "Even a pure meat bun is only three coppers, and your fried dough has neither meat nor vegetables..."

Meng Wan cut her off, "Auntie, you're clearly someone who knows good food. How about this—since you're my first customer, I'll give you half a scoop of tofu pudding for free, how about that? We sell that for two coppers a scoop too."

Since the tofu isn't pressed, the same soybeans make more tofu pudding than tofu blocks. So the cost mostly goes into the brine, which has salt, wood ear mushrooms, and other ingredients—balancing out to about the same cost as selling tofu blocks.

Still, Meng Wan treated it as a freebie, just making a little for his labor. The real profit came from the fried dough sticks—oily, filling, and loved by everyone. Buns and noodles you can make at home, but fried dough sticks? You have to come to his shop. Just flour, no other ingredients, low cost, and quick to make. How many fried dough sticks can a pot of oil fry in a day?

The woman, hearing Meng Wan's offer and wondering about the free tofu pudding, handed over three coppers before she knew it. She inwardly grumbled—that was the money she'd promised to buy candied hawthorns for her grandkids.

Before she could back out, Meng Wan handed her a fried dough stick. Oil paper was expensive—the cost of buying it could almost match the cost of his fried dough sticks—so he never bothered. In the Yu Kingdom, ceramic craftsmanship was already quite advanced, making ceramic bowls and plates the most practical option.

Seeing the woman take the fried dough stick and carefully put it in her basket, Meng Wan scooped half a ladle of tofu pudding, drizzled it with brine, and handed it to her with a spoon. "Auntie, since you're my first customer today, this half scoop of tofu pudding is a gift for you. It's windy outside—come inside and eat!"

He raised his voice, and soon the onlookers crowded around.

"Young man, really free samples? Give me a piece."

"Young man, me too!"

"If I buy, do I get that tofu pudding too? Then I'll take one."

"I'll take one too—I brought my bowl. Can I take it home to eat?"

The front of his small shop was a chaotic mess with a lot of people gathered. Meng Wan dashed inside and explained from the window, "Uncles, aunties, folks—today's our opening day. Everyone gets a free sample, but only two bowls' worth, first come first served. Please line up—even for buying, we need order. The first ten customers each day get half a scoop of tofu pudding free, eat in or take home in your own bowl. But only for the first three days; on the fourth, you'll have to pay."

Even though Meng Wan said to line up, some still pushed forward for samples. Chang Jinhua panicked, holding her bowl and backing away, while others barged in through the door.

Meng Wan pursed his lips and shouted, "Cousin, come quick!"

Song Tingzhou, who had been tidying up in the backyard, rushed over at Meng Wan's call, his steps hurried, worried that something had happened to him and Chang Jinhua.

"What's wrong?"

The small shop, already cramped with tables and chairs, felt even more oppressive as Song Tingzhou, over six feet tall, strode in.

Those who had squeezed inside quickly and obediently filed out.

Meng Wan pulled Song Tingzhou outside and said with a smile, "Could everyone please line up nicely outside?"

Turning around, he whispered to Song Tingzhou, "Keep an eye here for a while. I'll go fry more sticks in the back. We'll sell until we're out, then close up, no matter the time."

After that, the crowd gradually settled. Even after the free samples were gone, the gathered crowd drew curious onlookers. Hearing it was a new snack, some young masters, ladies, or young gentlemen from town households sent their servants to buy a few sticks to try.

Meng Wan fried over a dozen more batches in the back, while Song Tingzhou worked like a waiter, bustling back and forth.

When all the dough was used up, Meng Wan washed his hands and went to the front. "Auntie, we're out of dough. Close up once you've sold what's left."

The market was still lively, with people coming and going. If there'd been more dough, they could have sold for a while longer.

A couple of customers lingered at the window, buying the last sticks. There were two scoops of tofu pudding left, but the fried dough was the bigger draw.

The front customer bought the last two sticks. Meng Wan apologized to those waiting behind, "Sorry, young master and miss—those two were the last. There's nothing left for you."

The woman, around thirty, softened at being called "miss" by Meng Wan's sweet voice, her irritation melting away.

She chuckled, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief. "What a shame. I'll come back tomorrow."

Meng Wan saw her out. "Miss, you're as kind as you are beautiful. How about this—I'll set some aside for you tomorrow, so you won't come for nothing."

She waved her handkerchief. "It's a deal."