These past few days, Su Chi had been experimenting with new recipes at home, with Xie Yushu—a picky eater—acting as taste tester and advisor.
The kitchen chimney never stopped smoking.
Ye Youchun had come by once during this time, bringing four large baskets of vegetables on Aunt Niu’s ox-cart. Wang Wen had asked her to deliver them.
Knowing the young couple must be running low on vegetables, Wang Wen had sent a batch. He’d given Ye Youchun their new address in town, saying the house was easy to spot—and indeed, she’d found it without trouble.
Wang Wen had offered to pay her, but she refused. She was heading to the ferry anyway—it was on the way, and it wasn’t worth much.
Su Chi asked about his father, and hearing that he was well, in good spirits, and stronger than before, he felt relieved.
Ye Youchun also brought a bag of tender bamboo shoots—wild ones she’d dug up in the mountains. A small gift for their housewarming.
Xie Yushu accepted everything with thanks. Since she’d come, it was a good chance for Ye Youchun to familiarize herself with the place for future message deliveries.
Su Chi had been about to go buy vegetables, but his father’s four baskets solved that problem—saving them some money.
—
The day the bun shop opened was carefully chosen by Xie Yushu, based on the almanac.
At the fifth watch, the sky was still dark. Autumn had arrived, and the nights were cold and damp. Outside, everything was pitch black and chilly. Various stalls were bustling with preparations for opening. Su Chi woke up too.
He’d gone to bed early the night before, so he was well-rested despite the early hour.
He carefully got up, tucked the blanket around the still-sleeping Xie Yushu, dressed—adding an extra layer for the cold—and quietly left the room.
He took the keys and walked to the shop in the dim light, unlocked the padlock, and got straight to work in the kitchen.
Before bed, he’d told Xie Yushu to cook herself some wontons for breakfast when she woke up.
One of his new opening specialties was fresh meat wontons.
Because Su Chi excelled at dough-based dishes—especially anything with fillings—Xie Yushu had encouraged him to try wontons.
He’d been hesitant at first. Wontons weren’t rare—many breakfast stalls sold them, and most were decent. He worried his wouldn’t stand out.
Xie Yushu told him not to worry—she was confident she could help improve them.
Encouraged, he made his first batch.
Xie Yushu, playing the role of a critical foodie, set aside personal feelings and judged purely by taste. They were delicious—better than other shops. But there was still room for improvement.
He listened eagerly, ready to follow her advice.
She’d tried wontons from several other shops in town. For people of this world, they were decent—but to her modern palate, they were just average.
Forget the flavor—the texture of the filling was the main issue. Every shop made theirs soft, mushy, lacking spring or bite.
She knew what the problem was: temperature.
For a springy, smooth filling, low temperature was key. In modern times, you’d chill the meat in the fridge for an hour or two—impossible here. But they had a well. The temperature down there was lower, perfect for cooling meat.
Before mixing the filling, she’d lower a bucket with a long rope into the well—not touching the water, just hanging along the side—for an hour.
The resulting filling was perfectly springy and firm—exactly what she’d wanted.
That was the base filling. It could be used straight or mixed with other ingredients for compound fillings.
She’d also helped Su Chi improve the broth and overall flavor, making it fresher and more delicious.
Since it was opening day and they might be overwhelmed, Su Chi decided to stick with plain pork wontons. With all of Xie Yushu’s input, the wontons were truly excellent.
Besides the usual red bean buns, today’s menu added: saucy meat buns, green pepper and eggplant buns, preserved mustard green and bamboo shoot buns, and scallion and minced pork sauce flower rolls.
The bamboo shoots—sent by Ye Youchun—were plentiful, so they used some for the buns.
Kneading and preparing dough was second nature to Su Chi, but making this much was still exhausting.
So the night before, they’d prepped what they could—dough, vegetarian fillings, and saucy meat filling—all in large basins, covered, ready for Su Chi to wrap the next morning.
They’d also minced a basin of meat and used the small mallets Xie Yushu had specially ordered to pound it into a smooth paste. Covered with cloth, it was still fresh and odorless the next day.
As the sky gradually brightened, Su Chi didn’t dare stop. His fingers flew as he wrapped buns—one steamer for each filling. Soon, five steamers were full, and he’d pressed out a batch of flower rolls too.
Both pots were filled with water, and Su Chi stacked the steamers on top. While the buns steamed, he took out the prepared wonton wrappers and quickly wrapped enough for ten portions.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he placed a wrapper in his palm, added a level spoonful of filling, folded it over, pressed the edges with the spoon, and gave it a gentle push—each wonton plump and round, ready in seconds.
He soon filled a large tray.
The deep clay pot in the back was also bubbling away. A dark, fragrant broth simmered, with tea leaves unfurling inside, releasing a unique aroma of braised spices and tea.
These were five-spice tea eggs, improved according to Xie Yushu’s suggestions.
There was nothing particularly special about tea eggs, but after Xie Yushu’s tweaks, Su Chi had eaten two before he could stop himself.
The spice blend was far from ordinary: star anise, cassia bark, bay leaves, Sichuan pepper, fennel, cloves, cardamom, tangerine peel, and dried chili.
The proportions of each spice were fixed—too much or too little would throw off the balance. Xie Yushu and Su Chi had spent two days perfecting the blend at home.
Spices weren’t cheap. Su Chi had visited several shops, explaining he was opening a business and would be a regular buyer, which got him better prices.
He’d used coarse tea leaves, aged soy sauce, salt, sugar, and enough water to cover the eggs. After boiling them the night before, he’d let them steep overnight—allowing the flavors to fully penetrate.
He’d prepared thirty eggs today, using the ones they had left at home.
He felt today’s offerings were still limited—he had so many more ideas—but he’d take it step by step. He’d see how customers responded and adjust accordingly.
After heating the tea eggs, Su Chi moved the deep pot to the front counter, alongside the steaming buns. The counter was now full—busy and inviting.
At dawn, shops along the street began removing their wooden panels and opening for business. Pedestrians trickled out—some with baskets, some with packs, others with families—coming out for breakfast.
Ge Shanyun’s ship had just docked at the ferry. They’d run out of supplies, and she’d sent her crew to restock. She was starving, so she’d rushed into town for breakfast.
She often came to Songwan Town when her ship docked—she’d tried almost every shop. This time, she’d been craving the old auntie’s saucy noodles. But when she arrived, the shop was gone—replaced by a “Su’s Bun Shop.”
The old auntie was gone too, replaced by a young husband.
The last time she’d eaten those noodles, they’d been perfect—exactly what she was craving. She’d come all this way, only to find a different shop.
Disappointed, she was about to leave when the aroma of tea eggs stopped her in her tracks.
Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the young husband.
“What can I get you, customer?”
She pointed at the deep pot on the stove. “What’s that?”
The pot was covered to keep the heat in, with two small holes on the lid to let steam escape.
Su Chi lifted the lid, revealing the contents. “Five-spice tea eggs. Would you like one?”
The aroma burst out, hitting Ge Shanyun square in the face. She took a deep sniff—it smelled incredible. Her stomach growled loudly.
She’d been annoyed—coming all the way for those noodles and finding them gone. She was still debating whether to try this new shop that had taken its place.
She glanced at the pot—dozens of tea eggs nestled in dark brown sauce, the top ones showing fine cracks, the sauce seeping in and staining them a rich, appetizing color.
They must be well-infused, she thought.
She’d had tea eggs before, but none ever smelled this good. She decided to give it a try.
“I’ll take one to try. What else do you have?”
Su Chi listed the buns like a menu, then added, “And freshly wrapped pork wontons.”
Her stomach growling, Ge Shanyun ordered, “One tea egg, a bowl of wontons, and two green pepper and eggplant buns and two saucy meat buns.”
Su Chi asked, “The wontons come in a clear broth—would you like chili oil?”
She shook her head. She didn’t eat spicy food.
He told her to sit and wait—it would be ready soon.
The buns had just finished steaming. Su Chi used long chopsticks to pick out two of each and placed them on a large plate. He scooped out a tea egg with a strainer, placed it on a small plate, and thoughtfully added half a spoonful of sauce.
The wontons cooked quickly. He brought the buns and tea egg to her first.
Inside, Ge Shanyun found the two different seating arrangements novel.
One type was the standard square table, seating four. The other was a long table running the full length of the wall, with seven or eight stools.
The wall table was interesting—she’d traveled far and wide and had never seen anything like it. She quickly settled into a seat at the long table.
She noticed a bamboo cylinder on the table, holding clean chopsticks and spoons.
She smiled—convenient. The shopkeeper was clever.
Still marveling at the thoughtful setup, she was surprised when the young shopkeeper brought her buns and tea egg almost immediately.
She wasn’t one for formalities—she grabbed a saucy meat bun with her bare hand.
Fresh out of the steamer, it was scalding hot. She yelped and dropped it, then sheepishly pulled out a pair of chopsticks from the bamboo cylinder, picked up the bun, blew on it, and took a careful bite.
After one bite, her eyes widened in disbelief.
The dough was perfectly proofed—soft, airy, and not too thick, with a subtle sweetness and springy texture that bounced back when pressed.
Half the bun’s skin was soaked in the rich juices from the filling. Before the meat hit her tongue, the savory broth awakened her dormant taste buds. Then her tongue met the tender, juicy, richly flavored minced pork—bursting with incredible taste.
She was instantly won over.
She eagerly tried the green pepper and eggplant bun—one bite, two, then finished it in two more.
The eggplant filling was thoroughly steamed and mashed, with the fibrous bits removed, leaving only a smooth, silky paste that melted in her mouth without chewing.
Then came the green pepper—mild, not spicy, with its own distinct fragrance, finely chopped and hidden within the eggplant.
She could tell the vegetarian filling had been gently sautéed in oil—savory and delicious, with a satisfying richness beyond mere vegetable freshness.
Without hesitation, she polished off both buns and reached for the lone tea egg.
It had cooled enough to handle. She peeled it cleanly, revealing a glossy, deeply infused five-spice tea egg.
The egg white was a rich brown—lighter than the crack lines. One bite, and both the firm white and the soft, fluffy yolk were fully flavored—the tea and spices perfectly balanced, not too salty or bland. Absolutely wonderful.
She devoured it in two or three bites, then licked the sauce off her fingers.
Convinced, she ordered two more and waited eagerly for her wontons.
Su Chi quickly brought the two eggs and a bowl of pork wontons without chili oil.
When she tasted the steaming wontons, she nearly wept. What had she been eating before? This was a real wonton.
There were ten in the bowl—fewer than other shops, but each was plump and bursting, their round bellies nearly splitting the skins.
The wrappers turned translucent when cooked, revealing the pink, tender filling. A tempting sheen of oil floated on the hot broth.
The freshly boiled wontons were scalding hot. She blew on them patiently before taking a bite.
The filling had a texture she’d never experienced—tightly packed, springy, with a slight chew, tender beyond belief.
She had no idea how they’d achieved such flavor. Half a wonton and her mouth was filled with savory freshness—better than she’d imagined.
And the broth—the shopkeeper had called it “clear broth,” but she’d expected plain salted water. Instead, it was richly layered and delicious, far from bland.
She asked the shopkeeper, who said he’d added a spoonful of “black scallion oil.” She’d never heard of it, but she could taste its magic—it elevated the entire soup.
One spoonful of broth, one wonton—she ate with her head down, spoon moving nonstop, until she broke into a warm sweat.
She was more than satisfied. Before leaving, she ordered takeout for her crew: twelve tea eggs and six of each bun type. If wontons had been easier to pack, she’d have taken six portions of those too.
She paid, carried two large bags of steaming buns and tea eggs, and headed back to her ship.
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