Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Meng Wan couldn't finish all the leftover oil from frying dough sticks at home each day. After using it a second time for a while, he always worried something might go wrong.

Chang Jinhua hated wasting so much oil daily and often said she'd save it for herself or send it back to the countryside for Sixth Aunt Song or Second Aunt Zhang Xiaoyu.

Meng Wan called Song Tingzhou over, and the three sat together to discuss the issue. "Oil isn't cheap, but the darker it gets with use, the more impurities—meaning toxins—it contains. It might not cause problems in the short term, but what if it's used for a long time? If something goes wrong with our health, it'll be too late to regret saving money on this used oil. Since we're still making a profit after costs, let's not skimp on oil money. Treat it as if we've used it all up, and don't give it to anyone else even if they ask."

Meng Wan deliberately made the matter sound serious and was unusually firm. Selling it cheap was out of the question—that would be making money off bad oil. Giving it away risked causing trouble over time, so it was better to fry more items that day, use it up, and discard it.

Song Tingzhou made the final call. "Then we won't use it at home either. We don't use much oil at home anyway, so we should stick with good oil."

Chang Jinhua looked left and right but had to go along with them.

She had given leftover oil to their neighbor Lü Shi and sent leftover fried dough and tofu pudding a couple of times. Lü Shi had been warm and friendly with her, but after Chang Jinhua followed her son and Meng Wan's advice to discard the leftover oil daily, Lü Shi caught her doing it.

"Oh my, what a waste! Sister Song, if you don't want it, just give it to me."

Chang Jinhua wasn't as thick-skinned as Meng Wan and explained awkwardly, "This oil is too dirty to use; it might not be good for people to eat."

Lü Shi's smile faded. She thought to herself: If it's not good for people, why did you give it to me before? You're probably making excuses. Her family of five had eaten it for days without anyone falling ill. That Meng xiaoge must not want others to benefit, preferring to throw it away rather than give it away.

Pah, that black-hearted little slut, no wonder he's always laughing and chatting with the streetwalkers from Willow Lane—cut from the same cloth!

"I'm not asking for charity, lest people say I'm taking advantage. How about I buy your leftover oil for five coppers a pot? I don't really care about the oil, I just hate to see you waste it." Lü Shi lifted her chin, trying to pressure Chang Jinhua.

But Chang Jinhua wasn't some naive young girl. She noticed Lü Shi's change in attitude and, picking up the dirty oil bucket, replied coldly, "If this oil makes someone sick, we can't take the blame. Sister Lü, if you want oil, just buy good stuff from the oil shop."

"Oh, look at the rich folks, too good to take easy money." Lü Shi muttered sarcastically and left.

After that, the two families grew distant, barely exchanging words even though they shared a courtyard. Meanwhile, the tenant in the west wing had returned from the countryside—an old man and a young one, who left early and came back late every day, their business unknown.

Every day, they had Meng Wan set aside three or four fried dough sticks and two bowls of tofu pudding.

Meng Wan packed the two bowls of tofu pudding and four fried dough sticks into a basket, hung it on a hook outside the west wing's window, and tapped lightly on the door. "Master Ge, your fried dough is ready. Remember to pick it up."

Sometimes someone was in the room, sometimes not. To keep stray cats and dogs from stealing it, Meng Wan always hung it high.

This time, someone was home. As Meng Wan turned to leave, the west wing door opened, and a lean, fair-faced man stepped out.

He was quite tall. In the Yu Kingdom, one chi (about 23 cm) was the standard measure. This man was just under eight chi—about 1.8 meters—a bit shorter than Song Tingzhou.

His face was strikingly handsome, like the pale-faced scholars in storybooks.

Meng Wan was already the palest person in town, but this man was even paler, with a sickly, almost white complexion. Meng Wan guessed it was due to his irregular schedule.

The man took down the basket and handed Meng Wan a few coppers. "Thank you, Meng xiaoge."

"Brother Ge, no need to be polite." Meng Wan accepted the coins with a smile. Since he wasn't married yet, he avoided too much interaction with strange men, so he took the money and returned to the east wing.

Lü Shi glared coldly at Meng Wan as he passed, muttering under her breath, "Shameless brat."

Her granddaughter Xiaoyan heard her and looked at Meng Wan. "Mom says Brother Meng is amazing."

"Your mom doesn't know anything! Go inside and don't come out to find him."

The man surnamed Ge carried the basket inside. A man in his sixties sat on the kang and asked, "Ge Quan, did Meng xiaoge bring the fried dough?"

"Yes."

Two rolled-up quilts were piled at one end of the kang and pushed to the other. A low, square-legged kang table sat in the middle. Ge Quan took out the items from the basket, a bit clumsily, spilling some tofu pudding onto the table.

Old Ge winced and kicked him. "You wasteful brat, easy does it! I need it for my booze."

Ge Quan dodged nimbly, went to the kitchen, grabbed two spoons from a basin, and returned. The west wing's kitchen was dusty, with a thick layer of grime on the pot lid. The stove had some ash, with faint embers still glowing deep inside, showing the teacher and student never cooked or cleaned, only fired up the stove for the bed.

Old Ge took the spoons, placed them by the bowls, and pulled out a small jar slightly larger than a palm from under the covers. He uncorked it, and the aroma of wine filled the air.

He took a sip—a bit warm—then a spoonful of tofu pudding—silky and tasty—and finally a bite of fried dough—crispy on the outside, soft inside.

"This Meng xiaoge's skill is top-notch. I've been all over and eaten all sorts of good things, but I've never seen fried dough or tofu pudding like this."

Ge Quan sat on the kang, took a spoonful of tofu pudding, and drank it. It was warm but not hot—he preferred it hotter. The fried dough was freshly made, crispy and crunchy.

Unlike his master, he wasn't a heavy drinker. He focused on eating, slurping down a bowl of tofu pudding in no time.

"It's good, but I'm sick of it. I heard Meng xiaoge is making some new treats. I'll buy some for you when he does."

Old Ge sipped his wine between bites of tofu pudding. "Ah, this kid's got skills, way better than this old fart."

Ge Quan didn't see how they could be compared. "You don't say. A kid running a business—he seems more impressive than his fiancé."

"You're twenty-one this year. If you could find a wife like that, I'd die content." Old Ge, tipsy from the wine, couldn't help but sigh.

Ge Quan laughed at his wishful thinking. "His fiancé is a proper Scholar Lang from a respectable family. How could he look at me? Even if not him, no ordinary family would marry their child to a bum like me."

Old Ge's forehead was flushed from drinking, and he glared at him. "Good-for-nothing, you ain't got my guts. At your age, you haven't even dared to hit a whorehouse—you embarrass me."

Ge Quan pretended not to hear his master's mockery, focusing on eating his fried dough.

Old Ge cursed him twice without getting a response and gave up, turning to business. "Take it easy tonight. We're working tomorrow night."

"Mm."

Meng Wan didn't hear their conversation. He was busy buying glutinous rice flour to make oil cakes and large and small dough twists, ready for Fang Yun to pick up.

Chang Jinhua was steaming red bean paste in the kitchen. Meng Wan started with the dough for the oil cakes. This dough was trickier than the one for fried dough sticks—the latter was tedious but usually foolproof. If the oil cake dough had too little water, it turned hard when fried; too much, and it wouldn't hold shape, easily leaking the filling.

Meng Wan recalled techniques from his breakfast shop job. He mixed the glutinous rice flour into a flocculent texture, added a small piece of starter dough and half a spoon of cooked oil, kneaded it, and placed it on the kang, covered with a lid and a quilt.

Chang Jinhua's red bean paste wasn't ready yet, so Meng Wan didn't rush the oil cakes. He kneaded dough for the large twists, which was simpler: add sugar, eggs, and starter dough to the flour, then let it rise. His family now made starter dough every other day, and Chang Jinhua, who slept on the kang, said she stank of sourdough.

The hardest part of the large twists was kneading until stretchy. Meng Wan's hands ached from the effort, so he called Chang Jinhua to help twist them. She twisted two following his example, but she was all thumbs, and the results weren't as neat. They kept those two to eat.

After twisting the large twists, Chang Jinhua took them out to fry. The small twists were even simpler: mix warm water, eggs, sugar water, starter dough, and flour, let it rest briefly to soften.

Meng Wan started rolling them out. After a while, Chang Jinhua finished frying the large twists and came in. They each tried one—it was softer and more fragrant than Meng Wan expected, but missing honey. Honey wasn't yet farmed artificially and was extremely rare, a rare wild treat too expensive for Meng Wan to afford now.

He rolled out a full tray of small twists, and Chang Jinhua fried them. Meng Wan scooped the steamed red beans into a wooden basin, added some sugar water, and mashed them with a wooden spoon until the beans turned into a paste.

Then he took the rested sticky dough, formed it into small balls, gently flattened them, added a spoonful of red bean paste, and carefully sealed the dough with his palms, rolling it into smooth balls and lightly pressing them flat.

By the time Chang Jinhua finished frying the small twists, Meng Wan had almost finished shaping the cakes. He taught her the technique to prevent cracking.

Once everything was ready, Meng Wan grabbed a small twist and went out to fry the cakes. Just as he finished, Song Tingzhou returned from his midday break.

Meng Wan carried a plate and called out, "Cousin, come quick! I've made new treats—try them."

Song Tingzhou set his book box under the eaves. Knowing Meng Wan liked cleanliness, he washed his hands at the well before following him into the kitchen.

Meng Wan handed him a pair of chopsticks and said, "Try these and see which one you like best?"

Meng Wan had torn the large fried dough twist into several pieces. Song Tingzhou first picked up a piece, tasted it carefully, then reached for the smaller, more delicate one. After eating it, he looked a little surprised. "It's actually crunchy?"

"Yeah, try this too—it's more filling." Meng Wan slid the plate of fried cakes toward Song Tingzhou. Song Tingzhou didn't like sour or spicy stuff, but he had a sweet tooth.

Sure enough, after finishing a whole fried cake, Song Tingzhou said, "I like the fried cakes best, but the small crunchy twists are good too. The big ones are just okay."

Meng Wan had already figured that out, and hearing it sealed the deal. "Our shop will focus on breakfast stuff. With just me and Auntie, we can't handle too many things. Let's start with the fried cakes for now, and figure out the rest later."

Meng Wan basically called the shots at the shop, and Chang Jinhua didn't argue. She just had more work to do every day. At night before bed, she had to prep the dough for the next morning and steam the red bean filling.

Fang Yun still hadn't shown up, and Meng Wan couldn't sit still. Just then, Song Tingzhou finished eating at home and was heading back to the private school, so they left together.

Song Tingzhou was carrying his book box and two baskets, drawing stares from people on the street. Meng Wan said, a little embarrassed, "Let me carry one."

"No need. I walk fast, so we can get there quicker." Song Tingzhou didn't care about others' gazes.

Meng Wan had no choice but to follow behind, pretending Song Tingzhou's body hid him so no one could see.

As they passed the street outside the private school, a group of students were heading in together. Someone recognized Song Tingzhou.

"Is that Brother Song?"

"Yes, it's him, wearing the same robe as this morning."

"What's he doing? Carrying baskets like a woman—isn't that improper?"

"Exactly."

"Who's that behind him?"

"He looks like an unmarried guy. I heard Song's engagement was called off, and then he got engaged to a distant cousin again before the new year."

"Is that his fiancé?"

The group went quiet, their eyes showing a bit of sympathy.

Meng Wan was about 5'7". He was naturally slim, but in his bulky winter clothes, he looked taller and sturdier than other guys from behind.

Looking up, he had on a gray rabbit fur hat that looked warm. His face and wrists were pale, but that just made the dense black spots on his face stand out more.

After a long silence, someone finally spoke, struggling to get the words out, "Is Brother Song's future in-laws very prominent?"

"Probably..."

Song Tingzhou escorted Meng Wan to the northwest side gate of the Fang residence. As soon as they arrived, Meng Wan urged him to leave. "If you don't go back now, you'll be late for the private school. You just got back from leave—that wouldn't be good."

Song Tingzhou was reluctant to let him go alone and wouldn't agree.

Meng Wan was exasperated. "Look at my face full of freckles—am I some kind of treasure? This side gate leads to Young Master Fang's courtyard. If I accidentally offend him, that would be bad. Go on, quickly."

Seeing his firm attitude, Song Tingzhou had no choice but to leave, looking back repeatedly.

Once he was far away, Meng Wan began to knock on the door.

"Knock, knock, knock."

"Who is it?" A soft voice came from behind the door.

Meng Wan called out through the door, "I'm looking for Fang Yun."

The door opened a crack, revealing a fair, youthful face. The person looked about fifteen or sixteen, younger than Meng Wan, not tall but with delicate features, round and cute cheeks, medium-sized eyes that were clear and pure, a red pregnancy mole beside his nose, and his hair half-down, the top half tied up in a golden crown with two ribbons also wrapped in gold thread.

Don't doubt the authenticity of that golden crown and threads—Meng Wan certainly didn't believe they were copper.

He wore a moon-white robe, likely made of cotton, but not the kind commonly sold in fabric shops.

His shoes were the same color, clean on the light-colored surface except for a few stains at the edges.

"What business do you have with Fang Yun?"