Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 12: The recipe is the bones, the ingredients are the meat.

Aunt Zhou said that Wu Ling looks like her grandfather when he was young.

He really didn't know what his grandfather looked like when he was young.

There were no photos at home, and Grandpa himself had never mentioned it, but he had seen this woman with flour all over her hands before.

Wu Ling wanted to ask about the egg pancakes, but before he could speak, another person in the courtyard spoke first.

He was in his early twenties, with a round face, wearing a short jacket and cloth shoes.

A newspaper was spread out on the stone table in front of me, with words written in pencil on the edge of the newspaper, crooked and messy.

There was a half-plate of peach shortbread on the side.

"Manager Wu?" The young man stood up and smiled. "You've come to Grandpa Zhou's house too?"

"Who are you?"

"My surname is Che. I work for a newspaper. I saw you once at the teahouse last time, don't you remember?" He patted the crumbs of peach shortbread off his hands. "But I remember you. You were on stage talking about the future of Chengdu, and you even made Master Liu stop making copper coins."

Wu Ling remembered.

Last time when I was telling stories, a young man did come in from the audience, sat for a while, and then left.

"Brother Che writes about food at the newspaper, travels all over Chengdu, and has a very discerning palate."

Old Zhou sat down at the stone table.

Che Fu grinned and pointed to the half-plate of peach shortbread on the stone table at Wu Ling.

"Why don't you try some first? I've already had four pieces today."

"You're still eating after four pieces already?"

"I couldn't resist the delicious taste, so I went to over a hundred restaurants. But when I got to Aunt Zhou's place, I realized that restaurant food is just not as good as homemade. I wrote three articles about this peach shortbread, but I still couldn't capture its flavor."

Aunt Zhou was busy in front of the stove.

Wu Ling's gaze fell on her hands.

Those hands were very thin, with protruding knuckles, and flour stuck in their fingernails that couldn't be washed off.

There are several shallow burn scars on the back of my hand, which are whitish in color and are old injuries.

She doesn't need to look while kneading the dough; she just presses her palm down and rolls it out, turning the dough over under her hand before rolling it back up.

Each beat was steady, as steady as breathing.

Old Zhou once said, "Tell people's stories, not knowledge," and Mr. Li also said, "Try telling a person's day."

What kind of people are worth talking about?

The woman in front of me.

Before dawn, I started a fire, rendered lard, and kneaded dough.

Day after day, the same stove, the same iron pot.

The well in the yard had its rim worn smooth.

This is a day in a person's life, a day that repeats itself for forty years.

After the dough was kneaded, Old Zhou stood up from the stone table and walked to the stove.

Aunt Zhou pinched off a small piece of dough, rolled it into a ball, and flattened it into a cake.

The thickness was determined entirely by feel; I never measured it.

They were placed one by one into the iron pot, which was lined with a thin layer of oil paper.

Old Zhou placed a shovel of charcoal on the pot lid.

"Listen," he said.

The fire in the stove below was very small, and the charcoal on the pot lid above was only slightly red.

The iron pot was wrapped in two layers of torches, and the rich aroma of lard filled the entire courtyard.

"The fire shouldn't be too strong. The charcoal on the lid shouldn't be too bright either. It's done when the smell of lard comes out."

Wu Ling ended up squatting by the stove to watch.

Aunt Zhou stared at the thin wisps of smoke drifting out from the gap in the pot lid.

Without opening the lid, rely on the smell.

Her face was bathed in a warm yellow glow from the charcoal fire, softening her wrinkles.

About fifteen minutes later, she lifted the lid of the pot and took a look.

The surface of the peach shortbread has several cracks, and its color is dark amber.

With a gentle scoop, she placed the peach shortbread steadily onto the plate.

Aunt Zhou glanced at Wu Ling, who was squatting by the stove, and smiled.

"Just like your grandfather. When he was young, he was the same way, squatting by the stove watching me cook. He would sit there for half an hour without moving."

Wu Ling's hand rested on his knee.

He glanced down at his posture.

Squat down, place your hands on your knees, lean forward, and tilt your head slightly.

Was Grandpa like this when he was young?

Two pomegranate petals fell at his feet.

He bent down to pick it up, held it in his hand, and only put it on the stone table after a while.

stand up.

"Eat it while it's hot," said Aunt Zhou.

Wu Ling picked up a piece.

broken.

From the moment your teeth touch it, it melts in your mouth, layer by layer.

The crumbs fell in a flurry, landing on my hands and clothes.

The aroma of lard comes first, not the aroma of industrial oil, but the aroma of lard that comes from simmering over low heat for two hours. It is rich, mellow, and has a commanding presence.

Then the caramel sweetness of brown sugar rises from the middle, the sweetness carrying the roughness of sugarcane, and that roughness is actually quite nice.

Finally, there's the slight astringency of walnut, lingering at the back of the tongue.

The taste lingered in my mouth even after I finished eating.

The spokes react differently.

He picked up a pencil stub from the stone table and quickly wrote a line in the blank space of the newspaper.

After finishing writing, I looked up at Wuling.

"How is it?"

"Compared to Qin Xiaowan's egg pancakes...it's not even the same thing."

"What's the point of comparing egg pancakes and peach shortbread?"

"It's not about comparing the food. It's about comparing the spirit. Her egg pancakes are delicious too, they have everything you need. But the taste lingers in your mouth after you finish eating them. This... it stays there even after you've finished eating it."

"That's right."

Old Zhou took over the conversation.

"Whether it's egg pancakes or peach shortbread, yours is 80% perfect, while my wife's is 100% perfect. The missing 20% ​​is the ingredients. The lard and brown sugar were made this morning, the flour was ground at the stone mill on East Street, and the walnuts were dry-fried by her."

"Are they all from today?"

"The ingredients for making peach shortbread cannot be left overnight. If they are left overnight, they will not taste the same."

The spokes nodded beside him.

"Manager Wu, what Uncle Zhou was talking about wasn't the recipe, it was time. The lard rendered today will be just a hair's breadth away from being ready tomorrow. It takes a lot of human effort. Just like last time you were on stage talking about the future of Chengdu, I sat for a while and then left." Che Fu chewed on the last crumb of peach shortbread. "It sounded nice, but I forgot about it as soon as I left the teahouse. It's like eating a bowl of noodles without any flavor, it's lively in your mouth, but empty in your stomach."

He tucked the pencil stub behind his ear and said nothing more.

"There's something else you should try."

Old Zhou nodded to his wife.

She brought a bowl out from the stove.

White, chopstick-thick strips, trembling in a bowl, topped with a layer of chili oil and Sichuan peppercorn powder.

The red chili oil spread on the white jelly looks like a bucket of fire being poured into the snow.

"Sad Jelly Noodles".

Why is it called heartbreak?

"It's so spicy it makes my eyes water. But once the tears are gone, I'm not sad anymore."

Wu Ling took a bite.

It's made with pea flour and melts in your mouth.

Then the chili peppers and Sichuan peppercorns are fried at the same time.

First, the tip of my tongue goes numb, a trembling kind of numbness, and then the spiciness burns up from my throat.

My eyes are burning; it's purely from the heat.

After the third spicy bite, the flavor from the bottom emerged.

The sweetness of pea flour is enhanced by the chili and Sichuan peppercorns, so you can't taste it when you eat it, but it comes back after you swallow it.

Old Zhou held the covered bowl and watched Wu Ling wipe away her tears. His lips twitched, but he didn't laugh.

He ate most of the bowl without batting an eye.

"You won't find another place in Chengdu that serves Zhou Da Niang's cold noodles."

Old Zhou snorted.

"Stop talking about it outside."

"I know, I know. I'm very tight-lipped."

Che Fu finished the cold noodles in his bowl, patted the crumbs off his clothes, and stood up.

"Manager Wu, I'll come to your teahouse to listen to your storytelling another day."

He rolled up the newspaper and left the yard.

The courtyard fell silent.

The pomegranate tree's shadow fell on the stone table, swaying in the wind.

Wu Ling stood up, ready to leave.

Aunt Zhou pulled out a piece of oiled paper from under the stove, wrote on it with a charcoal pencil for a while, and handed it over.

"Here are the recipes for peach shortbread and jelly. Take them."

Wu Ling did not reach out.

"Auntie, I came here today to figure out what's wrong with my egg pancakes, not to ask for the recipe."

"I know."

Aunt Zhou placed the oiled paper on the stone table and weighed it down with a bowl.

"Your grandfather's help to us is something that can't be repaid with just a few prescriptions. Take this."

Wu Ling couldn't refuse, so he eventually accepted it.

As he left, Old Zhou escorted him all the way back to the alley entrance, where the lights had already dimmed.

A vendor selling steamed cakes pushed his rooster cart from the opposite side of the road, the wheels creaking as they rolled over the stone slabs, and white steam billowing from the steamer.

Someone had set up a stove at the alley entrance to roast sweet potatoes. The white smoke carrying a sweet aroma drifted over, completely different from the lard smell in the courtyard just now.

When passing by a general store, Old Zhou stopped and went in to exchange Wu Ling's silver dollar for a copper coin.

"Use copper coins to buy things; silver dollars are too conspicuous."

"Your grandfather didn't know either. The first time he tried to buy a sesame seed cake with a silver dollar, he almost scared the person away."

"The recipe can be passed on, but the ingredients can't. The ingredients there are different from those here, so the taste won't be the same. Don't force it."

"Then what do I even do?"

Old Zhou thought about it.

"It tastes like the ones from your area. Not quite here, but it's not bad either."

Wu Ling bought twenty eggs from a stall at the alley entrance.

The stall owner wore a blue apron, and the eggs were stacked in a bamboo basket, covered with a layer of straw.

He counted out forty copper coins from his cloth bag and gave them to her.

When I returned to the modern world, it was almost dawn.

Wu Ling placed the eggs on the kitchen stove.

He picked up a pen to write a note, wrote three words, and then crossed them out.

Rewrite: "For my aunt. I got it from a friend."

He learned his lesson when copying the recipe.

Last time, when Dan Honggao wrote down the amounts of money and liang, Qin Xiaowan stared at him and questioned him for a long time.

This time, everything was replaced with grams.

150 grams of lard, 500 grams of flour, 100 grams of brown sugar, and a handful of walnuts.

This can't be exchanged; it's a handful, and he doesn't even know how many grams it weighs.

Modern flour is all machine-ground, and you can't buy real stone-ground flour on the market.

The original flavor of lard cannot be rendered, and that cannot be changed.

We can only do what we can do well for now, maybe 80% or 80%.

As dawn broke, Qin Xiaowan arrived.

She first saw the eggs, picked one up and weighed it in her hand, then looked at the note.

"You actually managed to get it. I'm glad you remembered it." The voice softened slightly.

She didn't ask who her friend was, and popped one into her bowl.

The egg yolk is orange-red and stands upright in the middle of the egg white without disintegrating.

"They're even better than the last ones. My mom's appetite will definitely be whetted when she sees the color of this yolk."

She carefully placed the eggs one by one into the basket.

"I'll take all of these with me after get off work so my mom can eat them slowly. I can just use the egg pancakes I bought before."

Then Qin Xiaowan saw the recipe that Wu Ling had handwritten on the stove, picked it up and looked at it.

"This time you know to write 'ke' (a type of Chinese currency)." She glanced at Wu Ling. "Last time, when you spent money on those egg pancakes, I thought your friend had traveled from the Qing Dynasty."

"No way!"

It was the Republic of China, not the Qing Dynasty.

Wu Ling picked up his teacup and took a sip.

Qin Xiaowan turned to the page about cold noodles and pointed to a line.

"The phrase 'Pound your own Sichuan peppercorns, they're not as good as store-bought ones' doesn't sound like something you would write. You don't usually use this tone in your writing."

"That's exactly what my friend said, I just copied it."

"He wrote the recipe for egg pancakes, and he also wrote the recipe for peach shortbread and jelly. Does your friend actually have that many recipes?"

"I don't know. Give me one and I'll copy it."

"OK."

She folded the recipe and stuffed it into her apron pocket.

"I, Qin Xiaowan, work for you. I'll find out sooner or later what you're hiding."

She turned and went into the kitchen.

Two hours later, she had finished making the first batch of peach shortbread.

As soon as the kitchen door opened, the aroma of lard and brown sugar filled the front hall.

Grandma Zhao actually turned her head at the window; this was the first time Wu Ling had ever seen her turn her head because of food.

The plate was placed on the counter.

The peach shortbread was still steaming, its shape was not very uniform, and there were several cracks on the surface.

It's almost exactly the same as what Aunt Zhou made.

Qin Xiaowan picked up a piece, took a bite, then stopped, held it to her nose to smell it, and then broke it open to look at the cross-section.

Without saying a word, he pushed the plate in front of Wu Ling.

Wu Ling took a bite.

good to eat.

It's crispy, fragrant, and sweet—it has everything you'd expect.

After he finished eating, he stood there for a while, holding the plate.

I can't quite put my finger on what's different, but the piece I ate in the yard last night still left something in my mouth after I swallowed it.

This one is not available.

Old Zhou's words came back to him again: the missing 20% ​​was the key ingredient.

Qin Xiaowan looked at his expression.

"no?"

"It's delicious. It tastes even better than what you buy outside."

She stared at him for a second, snorted, turned around, and went back into the kitchen.

Wu Ling placed a plate on Granny Zhao's table and put one down.

The old man glanced at it but didn't reach out.

After Wu Ling left, she picked it up and took a small bite.

Chewing very slowly.

The sound of a stone mortar and pestle pounding came from the kitchen.

Qin Xiaowan moved a small stool and sat at the entrance of the kitchen, placing the stone mortar between her knees, pounding the mortar once and then turning it in a different direction.

The recipe said, "Pound the peppercorns yourself; store-bought ones don't taste as good," so she really didn't buy them.

I carried half a pound of dried Sichuan peppercorns back from the grocery store and pounded them myself.

Half an hour.

The numbing flavor permeated the kitchen and spread all the way to the front of the dining room.

An old man at the table near the door sneezed twice, picked up his covered bowl, smelled it, and, confirming it wasn't a problem with the tea, put it down again.

The first bowl of "sadness jelly" was served in the afternoon.

White jelly is cut into strips about the thickness of chopsticks, and then topped with chili oil and Sichuan peppercorn powder, creating a clear contrast between the red and white.

Qin Xiaowan took a bite herself first.

It was so spicy that I had to close my eyes.

He brought a bowl to Wu Ling.

Wu Ling took a bite, and it tasted just like peach shortbread.

"How is it?"

"tasty."

"What did your friend's cooking actually taste like? Your expression while eating mine wasn't quite right."

Qin Xiaowan wiped her eyes.

"I can't really explain it. It's just that it's still in my mouth after I've finished eating."

The two middle-aged men at the table by the window kept looking this way.

"Boss, what kind of chili oil do you use to make this?"

"Sad Jelly Noodles".

Why is it called heartbreak?

Qin Xiaowan took two bowls over.

"You'll know once you try it."

After the first sip, both of them reached for the teacup at the same time.

One was so spicy it made them gasp for breath, the other was so spicy it brought tears to their eyes.

"This Sichuan peppercorn powder of yours..." The one whose eyes were watering from the spiciness took a while to recover, "Where did you buy it?"

"I pounded it myself."

"No wonder it has this numbing flavor." He scraped the bottom of the bowl clean. "Another bowl, please."

The person next to them also pushed an empty bowl over.

Me too.

There were still three tables occupied in the front hall when the sun went down.

The aroma of tea, the caramelized scent of peach crisps, and the spicy flavor of cold noodles mingled together and wafted to the alley entrance.

The last table of guests to leave stopped at the door and turned back to ask a question.

"When will you storytellers start again?"

"Soon."

Qin Xiaowan was collecting the bowls when she paused, glancing at Wu Ling.

The door is closed.

The alleyway quieted down.

Qin Xiaowan flipped the chair onto the table and started mopping the floor with the mop wet.

Stop halfway through.

"Let's get down to business. I've been working with you for almost two months now, and we need to finalize the profit-sharing."

She leaned the mop against the wall and took the notebook out of her apron pocket.

"I'll take 30%."

"Forty percent."

"Thirty percent. The rest is for buying supplies, repairing the house, and getting new equipment. If your teahouse goes out of business, I'll lose my thirty percent too. I'm not greedy for that ten percent; I want this shop to survive."

Clever, so clever that it's admirable.

"Okay. Thirty percent."

The two people signed their names in the notebook.

Daily revenue, after deducting costs, is split 30% between Qin Xiaowan and 70% between Wu Ling, with settlements made on the last day of each month, and taxes borne by each party respectively.

Qin Xiaowan picked up the calculator and pressed a few buttons.

"Last month, we collected 18,300 in tea fees and snacks. After deducting the costs of raw materials, water, electricity, and other miscellaneous expenses, the net profit was 12,000. You made 8,400, and I made 3,600."

She glanced up at the blackboard, then looked down and pressed the button.

"With the peach shortbread and jelly now available, we conservatively estimate next month's revenue at 25,000 and net profit at 16,000. You get 11,000, and I get 5,000."

"Okay, I'll transfer it to you in a bit."

Wu Ling had 30,000 yuan in savings two months ago and was wondering if he could last for twelve months.

Unexpectedly, two months later, I now have more than 40,000 yuan in my hands.