Ever since Little Lin Manor’s self-service canteen opened to the public, the folks west of the city had their eyes opened.
They’d never seen eating done like this—you take a wooden tray, walk along the long counter, point at whatever you want, and the server ladles it onto your plate.
Vegetable dishes were five wen, meat dishes ten, soup was free, and rice was all-you-can-eat.
If you were willing to spend a bit more, you could add a special “rainbow watermelon ball” or “chilled watermelon juice.”
Cheap, fresh, with plenty of variety—and the flavors were excellent.
Within a month of opening, long lines formed at the canteen entrance every day at noon and dusk.
There were craftsmen working nearby, traveling merchants, and even a few scholar-types who said they were there to “experience the hustle and bustle of everyday life.”
A Li ran the canteen with impeccable efficiency.
She’d hired four quick-handed women to serve the food, two elderly men to clear bowls and wipe tables, and she herself sat behind the counter at the entrance, working the abacus and collecting payments—her eyes sharp as a hawk’s; anyone trying to sneak a discount wouldn’t escape her notice.
Business was booming, and Lin Shuying was happy to stay out of it.
She’d handed over full management of the canteen to A Li and focused her energy on tending her melon fields and the rare seedlings in the greenhouse.
Until one noon, trouble arrived.
A green-curtained carriage stopped at the canteen entrance.
The carriage wasn’t extravagant, but the two horses pulling it were pure white, their hooves shod with brass—clearly not from an ordinary household.
The curtain was drawn aside, and an elderly man with snow-white hair and beard stepped out.
He was lean, wearing a half-worn navy-blue silk robe, leaning on a red sandalwood cane. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp as knives.
Behind him followed a capable middle-aged servant, holding a brocade box and staring straight ahead.
The old man stood at the canteen entrance, looking up at the sign. “Little Lin Self-Service Canteen”—the characters were written by Lin Shuying herself. Not particularly beautiful, but round and adorable, with a little watermelon drawn beside them.
“This is the place?” the old man spoke, his voice a little hoarse.
“Yes, Your Highness, this is it,” the servant replied respectfully.
Your Highness.
A low murmur rippled through the queue.
Some sharp-eyed ones had already recognized him.
This was the old Prince Jing, who had long since retired from military power—the current Emperor’s uncle by marriage, famous for his eccentric temperament.
The old prince paid no attention to the onlookers. He walked through the threshold with his cane.
A Li was tallying the morning’s revenue behind the counter. When she looked up and saw the newcomer, her heart skipped a beat.
She recognized that bearing—it wasn’t something ordinary wealthy families had.
“Sir, are you here for a meal?” A Li stood up with a smile. “This is a self-service place—over there, you can see the counter…”
The old prince didn’t even glance at the counter. He walked straight to a freshly cleared table and sat down. His red sandalwood cane struck the floor with a thud: “Call the person in charge here.”
A Li hurried out from behind the counter: “Sir, what can I do for you?”
“You’re not the person in charge.” The old prince lifted his eyelids. “Call the real one—the melon-growing girl.”
A Li’s heart skipped another beat. She forced a smile: “My mistress is busy with farm work at the estate—she’s usually not here. If you have any requests, you can tell me just the same.”
The old prince snorted: “Tell you? Can you make me a dish of ‘chilled watermelon sprinkled with fine white sugar—the sugar must be the third-milled powder from Lingnan tribute sugar, the watermelon must be picked at the third watch of dawn, the sweetest part of the heart, cut into half-inch cubes, each piece evenly coated, arranged in the pattern of seven stars surrounding the moon’?”
A Li: “…”
The queue: “…”
Even the servers had stopped ladling, staring in disbelief.
That request… was that even humanly possible?
A Li opened her mouth and said with difficulty: “Sir, this is a budget canteen—we don’t do such fine work…”
“You don’t?” The old prince struck his cane again. “Then close down! What’s the point of hanging a sign and opening shop?”
The atmosphere turned tense.
No one in line dared speak; those eating also put down their chopsticks. The middle-aged servant stood expressionless, holding the brocade box steady.
Just as A Li’s forehead was beading with sweat and she was wondering whether to send A-Gua back to the estate to summon her mistress, a crisp voice came from the entrance: “A watermelon picked at the third watch of dawn—by now it’s already noon. It’s been sitting for three or four hours; moisture has been lost, and sweetness would have changed. It wouldn’t be as good as one picked fresh and eaten right away.”
Everyone turned.
Lin Shuying stood at the entrance, carrying a small bamboo basket filled with a few freshly picked young cucumbers.
She had clearly just come from the fields—there was mud on the hem of her skirt, a rosy flush on her face from labor, but her eyes were bright and clear.
The old prince looked her over: “So you’re the melon-growing girl?”
“Yes.” Lin Shuying walked in, handed the basket to A Li, and brushed the dirt off her hands. “Sir, did you order some watermelon? We do have chilled watermelon here, but arranging it in the pattern of seven stars surrounding the moon… that takes some effort.”
“If it takes effort, then don’t run a restaurant,” the old prince said gruffly. “If you can’t meet a customer’s demands, what kind of skill is that?”
Lin Shuying smiled: “You’re right, sir. But your request isn’t really about eating—it’s about testing the cook.”
“What if it is?”
“Nothing much.” Lin Shuying walked behind the counter and washed her hands. “A Li, go to the kitchen and get the best watermelon from this morning’s harvest—the sweetest part of the heart. Then go to my room—there’s a small porcelain jar on the dressing table, containing Lingnan tribute sugar that my sister the Consort gave me. It should be unopened.”
A Li was taken aback: “Miss, do you really…”
“Go get it.” Lin Shuying rolled up her sleeves. “Since the gentleman has placed an order, we have to make it. It’s just chilled watermelon with sugar—arranged as seven stars surrounding the moon. By the way, would you like honey with that? We keep our own bees—our honey is quite pure.”
The old prince stared at her: “You’re quite composed.”
“Running a business means all guests are welcome.” Lin Shuying took a cucumber from her basket and bit into it with a crunch. “Please wait a moment, sir—it won’t be long.”
In the back kitchen, Auntie Liu the cook was pacing anxiously: “Miss, are you really going to do it? That prince is clearly here to pick a fight!”
“Whether he’s here to pick a fight—we’ll find out after we make it.” Lin Shuying washed the watermelon and brought the knife down. She’d never formally trained in knife skills, but she had a steady hand, and the fine control from her ‘Wood Spirit Root’ made each cut precise. The red-fleshed watermelon was sliced into neat cubes, each exactly half an inch square.
A Li brought the tribute sugar jar.
Lin Shuying scooped some out and gently ground it in a stone mortar.
Lingnan tribute sugar was already fine; the third-milled powder was as light as snowflakes.
She dipped the watermelon cubes in ice water, then lifted them out to drain.
Taking a white porcelain plate, she arranged the watermelon cubes—not in the pattern of seven stars surrounding the moon, but in a simple pile, like a small mountain.
Then she picked up a small bamboo sieve and dusted the sugar over them.
The fine sugar fell gently onto the red flesh, like early snow covering red plum blossoms.
“This… this isn’t seven stars surrounding the moon,” A Li whispered.
“Who says it has to be?” Lin Shuying studied the plate. “When it comes to eating, flavor matters most. A fancy arrangement would just make the sugar melt.”
She carried the plate out.
The old prince was still sitting there, eyes closed, resting.
At the sound of footsteps, he opened his eyes.
The white porcelain plate was set before him.
Red flesh, white sugar—simple, even plain.
“Care to try?” Lin Shuying handed him a small bamboo skewer.
The old prince stared at the plate of watermelon for a long time.
So long that people in line started whispering, and A Li’s palms grew sweaty.
Finally, he picked up the skewer and speared a piece.
He put it in his mouth.
The chilled watermelon melted on his tongue, the clear sweetness releasing, blending with the fine sweetness of tribute sugar.
Not cloyingly sweet—a delicate sweetness with a faint, lingering fragrance, perfectly balanced.
The old prince’s chewing stopped.
He speared another piece.
Then another.
By the fourth piece, his hand was trembling.
By the fifth, tears fell unbidden onto the table.
Everyone was stunned.
Lin Shuying was stunned too.
She’d imagined the old man might nitpick, might throw the plate, might curse—but crying? She hadn’t expected that.
The middle-aged servant quickly stepped forward, pulling out a handkerchief: “Your Highness…”
The old prince waved him off, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and said hoarsely: “It’s like… it’s exactly like…”
Lin Shuying asked cautiously: “Like what?”
The old prince looked up, his old eyes red: “Like the taste she made.”
It turned out the old prince’s late wife, the former Princess Jing, was from Jiangnan.
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