Gu Shunhua left Xisi Hutong with the two children and Su Yinghong. After making sure they hadn’t run into those delinquents again, she finally felt at ease. She wasn’t too worried for herself—but she had the children to think of, and she didn’t want any trouble finding its way to them.
They took the bus back. As they got off at Dashilan, Su Yinghong suddenly hesitated. “I don’t want to go home.”
Gu Shunhua replied bluntly, “With that face of yours, going back won’t be peaceful.”
Su Yinghong said nothing. Gu Shunhua took her straight to Tongrentang.
Tongrentang in Dashilan was a time-honored apothecary. Gu Shunhua had passed by it often as a child, and whenever her craving kicked in, she would spend a few coins to buy hawthorn pills from the herbal counter.
Though technically medicine, the pills had a tangy sweetness that made them a treat. Most kids who ran around Dashilan knew the old shop assistants at Tongrentang. When Gu Shunhua walked in this time, she immediately spotted Uncle Wang still manning the counter. Aside from more wrinkles and white hair, he looked exactly the same.
When he saw her, he adjusted his glasses to get a better look, then recognized her. “Isn’t this Shunhua? Haven’t seen you in years. You’ve come back from the countryside?”
Gu Shunhua was a little emotional. “Yes, Uncle Wang. I’m finally home.”
Uncle Wang saw her two children and sighed. “Time flies. You used to be just that big, with little braids—and now, in the blink of an eye, you’ve got children of your own.”
After some catching up, Gu Shunhua bought a few plasters and applied them to Su Yinghong’s face.
Once outside, she said, “Just say you got hit by a basketball and fell. That’s how your face got like this. The plasters cover it well—no one will know otherwise. Got it?”
Su Yinghong hesitated a moment, then muttered, “Fine, whatever.”
They headed back to the hutong. As they walked, Su Yinghong held Duoduo’s hand and suddenly asked, “Sister Shunhua, aren’t you going to ask what happened?”
Gu Shunhua replied, “Even your parents and brother can’t control you—what am I supposed to be, then? It’s your life, your choices. As long as you’ve thought things through, that’s enough.”
It wasn’t a challenge, just resignation.
She couldn’t turn her back on a girl she’d watched grow up, not when she saw her being beaten like that. No matter how bad her mother and brother might be, they had never wronged her.
But that didn’t mean she could do more—she didn’t have the strength to fix anyone’s life or stand for justice. Just keeping her children and brother safe was hard enough.
Su Yinghong gave her a stiff glance, then turned her head away and said nothing.
Gu Shunhua took the children and, using the ration tickets Lei Yongquan had given her, bought a washbasin, thermos, hot water bottle, large enamel mug, and a new chamber pot. Lastly, she got thick cotton socks for the children.
She had planned to buy padded cotton jackets, but they weren’t readily available—there was a waiting list—so she had to return empty-handed.
Back at home, she stored the new items in the little room, which now felt even more crowded. Still, her heart was full. Once the new house was built, all these things would go in there. She was slowly accumulating what she needed, piece by piece.
Like a swallow gathering mud to build its nest—tedious, yes, but full of hope.
Chen Cuiyue noticed the new household items but didn’t ask much. Instead, she quietly poured hot water into the new thermos. “It’s good to soak a new one with used water first—it’ll last longer that way.”
This was an old custom. Chen Cuiyue believed in it wholeheartedly, and to her, it was an act of love for her daughter.
Gu Shunhua didn’t believe in such things, but she didn’t object either. It wasn’t a big deal.
There were still a few pieces of the fried “deer tail” left. She reheated them in the pan and added them to the dinner table.
Over dinner, Chen Cuiyue mentioned Gu Zhenhua—they had received a telegram. He would be able to return to the capital after the Lantern Festival.
Though it was a pity they couldn’t spend the New Year together, the thought of reuniting the family—and Gu Quanfu back in the kitchen—was enough.
Gu Yuehua was excited to hear his eldest brother was returning. “I just wonder what kind of temper my sister-in-law has. But since Big Brother’s a calm guy, I guess she’s nice too.”
Hearing this, Gu Shunhua thought of Ren Jingnian. He, too, was due to arrive after the New Year. Once he came, things would be easier.
But then—where would he stay? It was the twelfth lunar month, the coldest time of year. The ground was frozen solid, no way to dig for a foundation and build. They’d have to squeeze into the three-ping room for now.
She pictured Ren Jingnian’s tall frame barely able to stretch out on the bed. But what could they do? They’d have to bear it.
After dinner, she dumped the dirty water, cleaned up the children, and washed herself. The cold had worsened—whether in Inner Mongolia or the capital, the twelfth month bit to the bone. When she rinsed her mouth, the icy water made her teeth ache.
Thank goodness for the honeycomb coal and the stove.
She used tongs to place two coal briquettes inside—enough to burn through the night. The briquettes glowed red in the dark, giving off comforting warmth. She warmed her hands by the stove.
Duoduo had already wriggled out of her cotton jacket and burrowed into the bed. “Mama, Mama, come!”
Gu Shunhua set down the tongs, dried her hands, and climbed into bed.
A heavy cotton curtain hung over the door. The stove radiated heat, and the bedding was already warm. Outside, the wind howled in the twelfth-month night—but that felt like a different world.
Holding her two children close, Gu Shunhua thought about the kindergarten, her new job, and felt deeply, quietly content.
The next morning, Gu Shunhua got the two children out of bed bright and early. Still drowsy, they were bundled up by her to wash their hands and faces and get dressed. Halfway through, Manman woke up fully and said, “I can dress myself.”
Duoduo saw this and chimed in, “Mama, I want to dress myself too!”
Gu Shunhua smiled and praised them, “You’re getting more and more capable.”
Duoduo beamed with joy, and Manman looked a little proud as well.
The children had seemed brighter lately, laughing more often. Duoduo’s speech had also become smoother—likely thanks to playing with the other children in the shared courtyard compound.
Having kids around was far better than being isolated up at the mine. Gu Shunhua increasingly felt she’d made the right decision. Children needed to be part of a group. Even grown-ups felt miserable up there in that lonely place—how could children possibly bear it?
Once they were ready, there was no need for breakfast—they headed straight out. The air was freezing, their breath visible in white puffs. Patches of water on the ground had already iced over. Gu Shunhua held a small hand in each of hers and briskly walked them out of the courtyard, turned through the alley, and delivered them to the kindergarten.
After waving goodbye, she stood outside watching for a while. Through the wooden slats of the gate, she could faintly see the children being introduced to the class by a teacher. The other kids started clapping, and soon it was time for breakfast.
She couldn’t see clearly what the breakfast was, but caught a glimpse of a box filled with milk bottles.
Gu Shunhua knew the kindergarten provided nutritious meals, and the children wouldn’t go hungry. Still, she couldn’t help but linger, watching for quite a while before finally heading home.
After a quick breakfast, she followed Gu Quanfu to work.
In the culinary trade, there were longstanding traditions. On the first day of joining a new kitchen, all apprentices—seven in this case, plus Gu Shunhua making eight—were required to perform the formal Master-Apprentice Ceremony. Once you had bowed to a master, a day as your master meant a lifetime as your father. If the master scolded you, berated you, or disciplined you, you had to accept it. If the master needed support, you stood by him. Of course, in return, the master was expected to teach and protect his apprentices, shaping them with care and skill until they possessed a trade they could live by.
The new apprentices that day were all about Gu Shunhua’s age, or slightly older, each with a few years of experience under their belts. Some had heard of Gu Quanfu’s name and held him in high regard, behaving with quiet deference. But others clearly had their opinions.
After all, this wasn’t just any kitchen—it was the capital’s top state-run restaurant. Anyone who made it here was already a seasoned talent. And now, suddenly, someone who hadn’t been in the industry for ten years was taking up one of the eight head chef stations?
Naturally, some were disgruntled. Among the other head chefs, among the line cooks, and even among the apprentices, there was no shortage of skepticism. Some even cast subtle glances down at Gu Quanfu’s shoes.
All the chefs had been issued standard work attire: plain diagonal-weave terylene jackets and a white cap. With everyone in identical white cloth, there wasn’t much visible difference—except the shoes.
A quick look at the feet revealed distinctions: some apprentices wore genuine leather “three-seam” shoes, others imitation leather. But Gu Quanfu, the newly appointed master, was wearing hand-stitched cotton shoes—the old-fashioned high-top kind.
And some noticed what hung on the coat rack. Most chefs had their clothes neatly covered in oiled dust cloths. But it was easy to tell the difference. The distinguished masters dressed impeccably—on their heads, shearling winter hats; on their bodies, wool coats; and for the especially stylish, a camelhair-lined leather jacket known in Beijing slang as a pílour.
In contrast, Gu Quanfu wore a padded cotton jacket sewn at home. Placed beside those sleek leather jackets, it looked shabby and out of place.
Gu Shunhua noticed all the subtle undercurrents and couldn’t help worrying for her father. This was Yuhuatai, not some backwater tavern—if you didn’t show your skills, no one would respect you. And her father hadn’t been at the stove in years.
As fate would have it, that day the restaurant was hosting several distinguished guests, reportedly entertaining foreign dignitaries. The occasion demanded elevated standards, and in preparation, Yuhuatai had brought in special ingredients—including several fresh shad fish.
Shad, one of the Three Fresh Delicacies of the Yangtze River, usually came to market in early spring. Seeing it in the twelfth lunar month was rare—especially in Beijing. Even at Yuhuatai, which prided itself on its refined ingredients, these fish were considered treasures.
When the guests heard that fresh shad was available, they were delighted and left instructions: The dish must be prepared by a master chef.
That was no small request. It was a weighty sign of trust.
At that moment, an apprentice named Ning Shuner came to report. “Master, please take a look at the fish. The apprentices are all waiting for your direction. We don’t dare proceed without it.”
Gu Quanfu stepped over, hands behind his back, and calmly instructed, “Start by removing the scales.”
The apprentices froze.
A few looked over in surprise; Ning Shuner furrowed his brow.
Originally, Yuhuatai had seven master chefs. With Gu Quanfu’s arrival, he became the eighth. Each master was assigned a cooking station, separated by bamboo curtains—not just for workflow efficiency, but also as a tacit boundary. Every master had his own signature skills. Lowering the curtain was a sign: don’t steal techniques, don’t intrude.
Since Gu Quanfu had brought along several apprentices, the restaurant had cleared out a larger marble-topped station just for him—a grand space, signaling respect.
Two stations over were Masters Jiang and Huo, who, upon hearing the commotion, poked their heads out and smiled in mock praise. “Master Gu truly is a veteran—his methods are clearly of another level.”
From their sly smiles and faux flattery, Gu Shunhua could already guess—they were waiting for her father to make a fool of himself.
Why? She knew the unspoken rules.
Shad was rich and fatty, its texture smooth and delicate. Properly cooked, it would melt in the mouth and fill the air with a savory fragrance. But unlike most fish, it should never be descaled.
The fat beneath the scales was key to preserving its flavor. Steaming it with scales kept the original essence intact. Diners would first savor the fatty aroma trapped under the scales before consuming the meat.
Remove the scales, and a third of the flavor was gone.
And now her father had said to descale it—that was a rookie mistake. People would think he’d never seen shad before, let alone cooked it.
But Gu Shunhua wasn’t worried. She knew her father’s skill. He would never give such an instruction unless he had a plan.
Gu Quanfu swept his eyes across the room. Every chef, every apprentice, even the cold station and pastry prep staff—all looked his way. They all knew this was his first day on the job. The first day as head chef. And with a high-profile banquet no less, everyone was craning their necks, eager to see something go wrong.
Gu Quanfu calmly ordered again: “Remove the scales.”
The apprentices stiffened. One of them opened his mouth to protest, but Chef Huo shot him a fierce glare. His lips twitched a few times, but in the end, he said nothing. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward and began to scrape.
Scales flew.
Chef Huo and Chef Jiang exchanged a knowing glance—and slipped away, pretending they had seen nothing. If trouble came of this, they wanted no part of it.
Once the fish was descaled, Gu Quanfu began preparing it. Several quick-witted apprentices took the hint and quietly dispersed—one went to pick vegetables, another to check on dough, even those with no pressing tasks grabbed some not-quite-dirty bowls and started washing them.
Everyone pretended not to see. No one wanted to get involved.
Soon the kitchen was roaring with flames, oil popping in pans, the thick aroma of stir-fry hanging in the air.
The apprentice who descaled the fish, named Feng Baoguo, was a humble sort. Now he was sweating bullets. He felt like he’d made a terrible mistake—and he was still just a temp, trying to secure a permanent spot. If anything went wrong, he’d be done for.
Flustered and frustrated, he found an excuse to slip away too.
In the end, only Gu Quanfu and Gu Shunhua remained at the station.
Gu Shunhua looked at the now-scaleless shad. With the scales gone, the flavor was already compromised. She wondered what her father could possibly do to redeem it.
But Gu Quanfu simply said, “Shunhua, get me a needle and thread.”
“A needle and thread?” she repeated, surprised. But without hesitation, she quickly fetched what he needed.
From the side, she watched in disbelief as her father carefully rinsed the fish scales and then, with the needle and thread, began stringing them together like beads.
“Dad, what are you doing?” she asked, puzzled.
Gu Quanfu actually smiled—a rare sight. “When we steam the fish later, we’ll hang this string of scales in the pot. That way, the aroma returns.”
As the idea clicked, Gu Shunhua gasped in admiration. “That’s brilliant!”
Indeed, the richness of shad came from the fatty oils under its scales. Removing the scales stripped the fish of much of its flavor. Yet steaming the fish with scales on wasn’t refined enough for certain tastes. With this technique, they could retain the signature taste of shad while presenting a clean, elegant dish—a perfect compromise.
They wasted no time. Together, they threaded the scales. Then they crushed Sichuan peppercorns and mixed them into warmed Shaoxing wine. The fish was drizzled with this fragrant blend, then topped with julienned scallion and ginger, and a few slices of premium ham before being placed in the steamer.
At first, the pot remained silent. But once the water began to boil and white steam poured forth, the oil from the fish scales began to melt, dripping down to coat the fish below.
Even through the glass lid of the steamer, the rich aroma was unmistakable. Watching the glossy droplets fall, Gu Shunhua found herself salivating.
When the time was right, they turned off the heat and lifted the porcelain lid. The fish scales had entirely melted into the flesh—none remained. The aroma hit them in a warm wave. As the steam thinned, the fish itself came into view: plump, glistening, silky-soft like clotted cream.
It was worthy of its reputation—one of the “Three Delicacies of the Yangtze River.”
She glanced around at the other stove stations, all noisy and busy, clanging with ladles and steaming over giant woks. No one seemed to be paying attention. She smirked to herself and quietly covered the dish again.
Then she called over the server and had the dish sent out.
As the runner carried the dish away, several of the head chefs glanced over, all of them smirking, barely holding back their laughter.
“Who steams shad with the scales removed?” they snorted inwardly. “Lose the scales, and you lose half the flavor! What are you going to do—season it afterward? People eat shad precisely for the richness of the scales!”
In their minds, Gu Quanfu was finished—already a dead man walking in the kitchen.
Just then, Gu Quanfu clapped his hands and called the apprentices over. He began assigning the next round of dishes. The apprentices stood attentively, obeying instructions, though their minds were elsewhere—some pitied him, some waited for the fallout, and others couldn’t help but smirk.
But Gu Quanfu didn’t care. He returned to his station and continued cooking, with the apprentices assisting and Gu Shunhua learning diligently at his side.
They were in the middle of things when the head chef came rushing in. “Who made the shad just now?” he called out.
At once, all eyes turned to Gu Quanfu.
He nodded calmly. “I did.”
The head chef immediately said, “Ah, so it was you, Master Gu. Manager Niu wants to see you. Please set down your work and come with me.”
Gu Quanfu didn’t rush. He calmly gave a few instructions to Gu Shunhua and the apprentices, telling them to continue with their work, then followed the head chef to the front hall.
The moment he left, the kitchen came alive with whispers and barely concealed glee. Chef Huo and Chef Jiang strolled over, putting on airs of casual concern.
At their level, they didn’t need to stand at the stove constantly. Their top disciples could manage the daily dishes. But today, clearly, both men wanted to enjoy the spectacle, drawn in like moths to flame.
Their expressions were full of barely hidden schadenfreude, though their words remained polite. “Manager Niu asked for Master Gu? Something wrong, perhaps?”
Gu Shunhua looked at the two men and offered a measured smile. “I’m not sure. The head chef didn’t say—just that he was needed in front.”
She was careful to follow protocol: even though Gu Quanfu was her father, she referred to him as “Master” in the kitchen, just like everyone else.
Chef Huo gave a couple of hearty laughs. “Master Gu, heir of an imperial chef—what mastery of the red station! First day back, first dish is shad, and Manager Niu personally summons him. Quite something, quite something!”
The surrounding apprentices were already struggling to hold in their laughter. First day back and already botching a shad dish? Poor guy. He’d be the laughingstock of the capital’s culinary world before long.
Gu Shunhua scanned the group with a cool gaze. She saw through every mocking thought and snide glance. Deliberately, she said, “It’s Master Gu’s first day back at the stove after ten years. If anything went wrong, I hope the rest of you can show some patience.”
That only made the others more amused. Chef Jiang couldn’t help letting a sneer spread across his face. Still, he kept his voice light. “The dogs in our kitchen must have grown horns—today’s really something new.”
Everyone knew what that meant: dogs growing horns symbolized a spectacle, something absurd and laughable. He wasn’t hiding it anymore. He didn’t respect Gu Quanfu, and now that he’d blundered, he wasn’t even pretending.
Gu Shunhua’s face darkened. “Chef Jiang, what do you mean by that? I’m not well-educated, so you’ll have to explain.”
Chef Jiang grinned. “Oh, nothing at all. Just admiring Master Gu’s deep experience—worthy of us all to learn from. After all, he’s the descendant of an imperial chef. Descaling shad… quite the technique, quite the innovation!”
Gu Shunhua gave a cold laugh. “Indeed—descaling shad is a secret handed down from my grandfather’s generation. When he cooked for Empress Dowager Cixi and the young emperor, this was exactly the method he used. I suppose only a truly discerning eye could recognize such a technique. Those with less refined palates would never understand.”
There was a collective intake of breath, then barely stifled laughter rippled through the room.
“Descaling shad—what kind of absurdity is that? And she acts like it’s some legendary skill?”
It was easy to imagine the headlines: ‘Descendant of Imperial Chef Removes Scales from Shad on First Day Back!’ The whole capital’s kitchens would be buzzing with it by tomorrow.
Chef Jiang couldn’t hold back anymore and burst out laughing. He was definitely going to ask Manager Niu later—where did they even dig up this joke of a chef?
In the midst of all this, Gu Quanfu returned, with Manager Niu by his side.
The manager was speaking to him in low tones, and Gu Quanfu nodded calmly. Everyone in the kitchen tensed, but kept busy, pretending to work while watching with side glances. The show was about to begin.
Manager Niu soon clapped his hands and called out, “Everyone, pause what you’re doing. Just one person stay at each stove.”
A hush fell. Cooks from three stations all stepped away and gathered in a semi-circle around Manager Niu and Gu Quanfu.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Manager Niu began. “I know we’re in the middle of service. That shad dish just now—Master Gu made it. Do you want to guess how it was received?”
Chef Huo tried to look solemn. “I believe the shad was descaled?”
Manager Niu turned to him. “So you saw that, did you?”
Chef Huo waved his hands. “No, no—I didn’t see anything. I was busy at my station. I only heard someone mention it. Really, I wouldn’t blame Master Gu. He’s probably never handled shad before. If only he’d asked us—we would’ve given him a tip or two.”
He spoke with seemingly generous humility, but his message was clear: Gu Quanfu should have sought guidance from his betters. That subtle jab aimed to lower Gu Quanfu’s standing—if you once asked for help, you’d forever owe a debt of gratitude.
Manager Niu turned to Chef Jiang. “And you?”
Chef Jiang forced a chuckle. “Of course I didn’t see anything. If I had, I wouldn’t have let him descale the shad! This time of year, shad isn’t cheap. Such fresh specimens are rare—it’d be a shame to waste one. I’d never allow that.”
Manager Niu nodded. “Well, once the steamed shad was served, the guest took one bite and slapped the table.”
Chef Huo and Chef Jiang both cleared their throats—covering their urge to laugh. Here it comes—the scandal!
Some apprentices winced. Others looked disappointed. So much for learning from the great imperial chef’s heir.
Some were already worrying—if Gu Quanfu was dismissed, where would they be reassigned?
Manager Niu clasped his hands behind his back and slowly scanned the room. Then he smiled. “The guest said: ‘I’ve eaten many a shad in my life—but never one this exquisite.’”
For a moment, no one reacted.
The apprentices stood stunned, still caught in their earlier assumptions.
Chef Jiang frowned in confusion. Chef Huo scratched his ear—maybe he’d misheard?
What kind of bumpkin guest had never tasted shad before?
To say that descaled shad was exquisite?
Author’s Note:
Shaguoju still exists, and their white pork with pickled cabbage is still on the menu. Worth a try.
While we’re on the topic—if you ever come to Beijing and want roast duck, I highly recommend a lesser-known brand: Jingweizhai.
The skin is crispy, the meat tender and flavorful—so good it doesn’t even need sauce. Rumor has it they use a suckling pig roasting technique. Honestly, it’s the best duck I’ve ever had. Also, bonus points:
- They serve it with mustard, which pairs surprisingly well.
- You get duck heads and wings—the wings are incredible. Just one word: crispy.