Chapter 34 The Fang Residence

Chapter 34: Fang Residence

The remaining man, dressed as a servant, was short in stature but carried himself with an arrogant air, a stark contrast to the woman who had just left.

"You, a little gong'er, should be scurrying back to the back, showing your face out here—ain't you ashamed? Our Third Master wants two orders of those fried dough things to try, so hurry up and make 'em!"

Song Tingzhou's face went ice cold, and he was clearly pissed. Though he was a scholar, he had the decisiveness of a warrior—someone who'd rather throw a punch than talk.

Clenching his fists, Song Tingzhou took a step forward, but Meng Wan, seeing trouble brewing, quickly grabbed him. Afraid that pulling at his clothes wouldn't hold him back, Meng Wan wrapped his arms around one of Song Tingzhou's arms.

"Cousin, go out back and tend the fire. I'll handle this."

They had just arrived in town to start their business. The old folks trying to take advantage were pushy, but they'd back down seeing Song Tingzhou's tall, intimidating frame. This servant, though, talked with his nose in the air, like he had serious backing.

There weren't that many rich families in town. The only ones bold enough to pull this were He Xiucai, the town's sole scholar, the landlord in the east part of town, and the only salt merchant in town, the Zhu family.

He Xiucai was currently tutoring Song Tingzhou, and pretty much every literate scholar in town had studied under the old man. It wasn't about money—it was his huge network and the respect he got. Even the landlord had to show him respect.

Every New Year, gifts would pile up filling a whole alley. The Song family had also sent pork and fruit after the New Year, but they probably got buried in the pile, never even opened.

He Xiucai's servants should know Song Tingzhou, so this guy probably wasn't one of his. Meng Wan remembered Chang Jinhua saying the Zhu family's main house wasn't in town; the salt shop was run by a manager, just a hired hand. No matter how rich, a manager's people wouldn't be this cocky. That only left the landlord in the east.

Meng Wan's mind spun, and he plastered on a smile. "Little brother, it's not that I won't make 'em now, but these fried dough things are complicated to make. I can't whip 'em up in a hurry."

Just as the servant's eyes went wide, about to blow up, Meng Wan added, "But since Master Fang thinks highly of our little shop, I'll make sure to get some ready for you to take back. How 'bout this: you don't gotta run back and forth. I'll deliver 'em to the Fang place this afternoon, alright?"

The servant's anger slowly turned into smugness. He snorted and said, "At least you know your place, boy. My master don't care about your snacks—it's the young master who wants a taste. Fine, make about twenty sticks and send 'em to the Fang place. Remember to knock on the northwest corner door and ask for Fang Liu."

With that, he left with his head held high. Meng Wan watched his cocky attitude and thought he acted more like the landlord's dad than a servant.

Funny thing—the higher the master's status, the more humble the servants ought to be. If this guy pissed off the wrong person, the master would be the first to throw him under the bus.

Meng Wan remembered the young lady he'd met when he first crossed into this world, along with her elderly maid. That maid was a real force to be reckoned with, managing everything for her mistress and even influencing her decisions. If it weren't for her words, Meng Wan's body would be rotting by now.

"Wan gong'er, what do we do? Can we pull it off?" The dough from last night is all gone. Chang Jinhua saw that Meng Wan had let it sit overnight before frying it this morning—could they manage in time?

Meng Wan had Song Tingzhou shut the shop and reassured Chang Jinhua, "It's fine, Auntie. We'll stoke the fire and put the dough basin on the warm kang to rise. Two hours ought to do it."

Though it was winter, Chang Jinhua was sweating from all the hustle. She felt like she'd talked more this morning than in the last half of her life.

Hearing that, she relaxed. The three of them went inside to start working. Meng Wan scooped up and kneaded the dough, Chang Jinhua handed him the starter, and Song Tingzhou crouched to light the fire.

"Once you're done with the stove, go catch some sleep on the kang. Otherwise, you'll be wiped out for school tomorrow." Meng Wan kneaded the dough, frowning at the bags under Song Tingzhou's eyes.

He and Chang Jinhua were beat too, but Song Tingzhou had barely slept before coming over—he must be dead tired.

Now that the room was warm from the kang, and he and Chang Jinhua were busy in the kitchen, no one would barge in during the day.

Chang Jinhua also urged him, "Go on, Dalang. There's nothing left to do."

Song Tingzhou didn't argue. He washed his hands and face, lay down on the kang in his clothes, and closed his eyes to rest, still hearing the hushed voices from the kitchen.

"Wan gong'er, how did you know that man was from Master Fang's household?"

From the town to the surrounding villages, everyone knew this local tycoon. He owned vast fields in many villages, with tenant farmers growing his grain. Marrying a daughter or gong'er to him as a concubine was considered an honor—it meant exemption from rent and the protection of being called Master Fang's in-laws.

"Not only do I know he's from the Fang residence, but I also guess he serves the master's legitimate son. Master Fang's legitimate sons are all grown up. The 'young master' he mentioned must be Master Fang's legitimate grandson, a young gong'er."

Master Fang had married twelve concubines and had countless children, some of whom he probably didn't even know by name, wasting away in obscure corners.

The servant's arrogance suggested he served a favored master. Meng Wan guessed he was attached to the eldest legitimate son of the Fang household.

Song Tingzhou lay on the kang, pondering Meng Wan's words. After some thought, he realized they matched up perfectly. He couldn't help but think: If Wan gong'er hadn't stopped me, even if the Fang family wouldn't fall out with me over a servant, I would have offended this all-powerful local tycoon. In the worst case, Wan gong'er and my mother might have suffered because of me.

He resolved not to act so impulsively in the future. He needed to weigh the consequences and ensure his family's safety.

Without Meng Wan, Song Tingzhou—a man with no background, bound by rigid education, climbing the ranks step by step from the bottom—would have been the perfect pawn for those in power. But who knew that a few years later, the Song Tingzhou entering the capital would be a pro-enhanced version?

"Auntie, did you see how I pounded the dough last night? From now on, we'll prepare the dough every evening for the next morning. We also need to keep the starter ready at all times—don't wait until it's gone to make more, or it'll be too late."

Based on today, there should be returning customers tomorrow. They'd also need to make a sign to hang outside the shop, simple enough for people to know what they were selling at a glance.

They were also running low on flour and firewood, which needed restocking. The oil was soybean oil bought from the town's oil mill, costing forty-five wen per catty. A pot of oil lasted a day, requiring at least one and a half catties.

The cost was high here. If business was good, they'd fry at least a hundred sticks a day, earning three hundred wen. After deducting sixty-seven wen for oil, twenty wen for flour, two or three wen for firewood, and seventeen or eighteen wen for rent, they'd have nearly two hundred wen left—that was profit.

Meng Wan pondered how to cut costs further. If they arranged to buy oil from the mill regularly, could they get a discount?

He recalled from his past life that oil production technology was advanced, with not only sesame oil, rapeseed oil, perilla oil, and soybean oil for cooking.

There were also almond oil, perilla seed oil, turnip seed oil, cocklebur seed oil, Chinese tallow seed oil, and tung oil. The last two weren't suitable for eating—the former was used for candles, the latter for oiled paper umbrellas and rain boots.

He didn't know if the Yu Kingdom had such exotic oils, but soybean oil was already well-developed.

Most villagers still preferred to buy fatty pork to render lard, thinking it more satisfying.

Poorer villagers bought soybean oil sparingly, using a catty or two for half a year. As a result, the town's oil mill had mediocre soybean oil sales, while sesame oil sold like hotcakes.

But Chang Jinhua wouldn't spend one hundred twenty wen per catty on sesame oil. She thought it better to buy pork instead, though town households used it often.

Meng Wan watched as Lu's daughter-in-law bought a small pot of sesame oil, its rich aroma lingering long after she passed by.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. A pot of oil always had leftovers—maybe he could fry some sesame cakes to sell?

In the afternoon, around three to five, the market was still bustling, with more vendors selling lanterns and flower lanterns. Song Tingzhou got up and hung two lanterns outside the shop, gifts from Bookshop Manager Huang. The paintings were by Meng Wan—one showed a rabbit eating yuanxiao, the other a snake coiled around a candied hawthorn stick. They fit the festive mood, showing the manager's thoughtfulness.

The shop wouldn't open that afternoon. Meng Wan sent five fried dough twists to Manager Huang, left three for Chang Jinhua to give to Lu, and the other tenant in the yard had supposedly returned to their village and hadn't come back.

For the last twenty sticks, Meng Wan and Song Tingzhou headed out together. The shop was west, the Fang residence east, so the walk doubled as a lantern festival stroll.

But Meng Wan had no mind for the scenery or festivities—he just wanted to deliver the goods and be done.

Finding the Fang residence, Meng Wan located the northwest corner door the servant had mentioned. It was closed. Looking both ways from this small door, the walls stretched endlessly, with no sign of the main gate. The estate was enormous, likely covering acres.

He knocked lightly twice, waited a few seconds with no response, then knocked harder.

From inside came a stream of curses: "Coming, coming! What's the rush? You trying to hurry me to my death? Bah! Spit... hurry your grandmother!"

The door swung open, and a gong'er about Meng Wan's age planted his hands on his hips, launching into a tirade without even seeing who it was.

"Can't you hear a single knock? Knock, knock, knock..."

He stopped mid-sentence as the door opened fully. The young gong'er before him was as beautiful as a painting—eyebrows as if finely drawn, a face fairer and smoother than if powdered, topped with a gray rabbit-fur hat that made his features even more delicate. His cheeks still held a youthful roundness, and his smile was endearing.

Oh my goodness, how could anyone be this good-looking!

Seeing the gong'er staring at him silently, Meng Wan apologized, "I'm truly sorry. I'm new here and don't know the customs. I hope you'll forgive me."

The young man who opened the door snapped back to reality, his cheeks slightly flushed. He quickly bowed to the side in a stiff, awkward manner, like he'd just learned it from someone on the spot.

"What 'Han'? What's that? Uh... I don't think we've got anyone by that name here."

Meng Wan was almost amused by his words. He took the basket from Song Tingzhou's hands, lifted the burlap cloth off it, and showed it to him. "Fang Liu ordered twenty fried dough twists from our shop. He told us to deliver them once they're ready."

The young man figured out he'd messed up, blushed, and reached out for the basket. "That's gotta be for our young master. I'll take it to him."

Meng Wan kept a grip on the basket, his smile still in place. "Fang Liu hasn't paid yet."

The young man, sharp-tongued as he was, immediately cursed, "Damn that Fang Liu, buying stuff without a deposit!"

When he turned to Meng Wan, his voice dropped. "Then hang on while I go grab the money. I'll be right back."

Meng Wan set his basket aside. "I'll wait right here for you, young sir. No rush."

The young man seemed to really like how Meng Wan talked so easygoing, kept looking back at him. "I'm Fang Yun. What's your name?"

"Meng Wan."

"Alright, Meng Wan. Wait for me. I'll be quick."

Fang Yun was true to his word. In less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, he returned with a money pouch.

"How much for this basket of fried dough twists?"

Meng Wan handed him the basket. "Three coppers each. There are twenty in total."

Fang Yun tried counting on his fingers twice, then gave up. "Just tell me the total."

Meng Wan held up his hand, tucking in three fingers and sticking out his thumb and pinky. "Sixty copper coins."

Fang Yun opened his pouch and counted out the coins for Meng Wan.

Meng Wan took the cash and asked, curious, "What if I'd ripped you off?"

"Huh? Rip me off? How?" Fang Yun looked confused, unable to figure out why Meng Wan would say that.

Meng Wan shook his head, smiling. "Nothing. My shop is at the mouth of the second alley east of the bookshop. If the fine folks at your estate want more, just let me know, and I can deliver it."

This was a wealthy household—best to keep good relations.

When they returned, Chang Jinhua had already kneaded the dough for the next morning, filling two large basins. The beans were soaked in the same amount as that morning. That day's tofu pudding sales had been mediocre, mostly given away at half price or for free, and she felt a pang of regret, thinking they hadn't made much money.

She had also heated the kang in the back of the shop. "Dàláng, you should stay in the shop tonight. That kang seems about ready, though it's a bit narrow."

Meng Wan estimated the kang was only about 1.2 meters wide and less than 1.9 meters long. Given Song Tingzhou's height, lying on it would definitely be cramped.

Song Tingzhou moved his bedding over, thinking it was fine. At least his mother and Meng Wan were nearby, and he could help them with chores every day.

All three were exhausted and reluctant to spend money on outside food, so Chang Jinhua boiled a pot of thick congee and sliced some pickled radish. Even so, the entire pot was eaten clean.

After dinner, Meng Wan asked Chang Jinhua for a piece of gray linen, cutting it to make a shop banner. His brushwork was now very skilled, and his writing was no longer as oversized as before.

He ground the ink, lightly dipped the brush, and with a flick of his wrist, two fried dough twists and a steaming bowl of tofu pudding appeared on the linen.

It was still Meng Wan's familiar simple style—a few strokes brought the images to life, making it clear at a glance that the shop sold food.

Meng Wan handed the painted banner to Song Tingzhou. Being tall, he could hang it high. So the next day, a crude yet distinctive banner was hung at the top of the shop's entrance.