At that moment, Manager Niu let out a faint smile.
His full name was Niu Deshui, and coincidentally, he had once tasted Gu Quanfu’s cooking.
He knew very well that Gu Quanfu was receiving such special treatment despite being new, and that this was bound to stir resentment—among the apprentices, among the other head chefs like Jiang and Huo. None of them would accept it easily.
But Niu Deshui also knew Gu Quanfu’s skill.
Back then, Gu Zengxiang had managed to enter the Imperial Kitchen. And who was Gu Zengxiang? A Han Chinese. For a Han to gain entry to the Imperial Kitchen—that was a rare favor from above. In those days, only Manchus were allowed in the Imperial Kitchen, and it was a hereditary post: if your grandfather cooked for the court, your father would follow, and your son after that. It was a profession passed down through generations.
For Gu Zengxiang to break into that circle as a Han, win over Empress Dowager Cixi, and even be remembered by the young emperor—that was no ordinary feat.
And Gu Quanfu was Gu Zengxiang’s disciple, taught by hand. He had mastered both hot and cold dishes, was widely experienced, and back in the day at Zhonghai’s Huiyun Pavilion—what kind of dishes hadn’t he seen? They had far more elaborate creations than now, and never once had Gu Quanfu made a mistake.
And now? You think he’d be tripped up by a shad fish? Ridiculous.
Manager Niu had seven head chefs under him, but these two—Jiang and Huo—had really embarrassed themselves today.
If you lack skill, fine—everyone has their own specialty. But if you can’t even recognize another’s depth of experience, that’s just shameful.
That was why Manager Niu had let this play out—to teach everyone a lesson.
Now, looking at the stunned disbelief on their faces, he finally said slowly, “We really made a name for ourselves today. The guests clapped and praised the dish, said they’d never had anything so delicious. All of them were thoroughly impressed and specifically asked about the preparation of the shad.”
At this, Jiang the chef let out a snort of laughter. He couldn’t help himself. “Manager Niu, guests without discerning taste need to be educated—not indulged. If they don’t understand what’s proper, and you let it slide, won’t they later think we’re frauds when they find out the truth?”
Chef Huo also muttered under his breath, “What kind of dogshit luck is this? He actually got away with it?”
So the imperial chefs back then fooled the court like this?
Hearing this, Manager Niu’s expression darkened. “Chef Jiang, are you saying today’s guests are ignorant?”
Jiang gave an awkward chuckle. “I’ve been in this business over twenty years and never seen anyone scrape the scales off a shad. Well, guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Others around scratched their noses or stared down in silence. Still, it was clear many of them didn’t respect Gu Quanfu—this incident had been downright humiliating.
Manager Niu gave a dry laugh. “You know who our guests were today?”
No one did.
He strolled a few steps, hands clasped behind his back, and said, “They were VIPs. Two senior officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, hosting two foreign guests. Just a while ago, two black sedans were parked outside. The idea was to give these foreigners a true taste of Chinese cuisine. And you’re telling me those officials know less than you? That you have more culinary sense than them, and they’re all a bunch of country bumpkins?”
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs?
In this era, diplomacy was no small matter. That was the prevailing mood. When everyone heard this, they glanced at each other, confused.
Foreign Affairs… surely they wouldn’t be so clueless?
Chef Jiang was stunned. He had to force out a question, “So… they actually liked the shad without scales?”
Caught completely off guard, Jiang couldn’t wrap his head around it. Had the foreigners never eaten shad before? But if they hadn’t, the ministry officials must have, right? Then how could they enjoy it?
Chef Huo added, “Chef Niu, what’s going on? The foreigners actually liked the dish?”
Manager Niu waved his hand. “We’re in the middle of service. Let’s focus. When Master Gu has time, he’ll share the method with you all. We don’t have time for this now.”
With that, he walked off, hands still clasped behind his back, leaving the kitchen full of people staring at one another in confusion. Eventually, they all went back to work.
But the doubt lingered, and their attitude toward Gu Quanfu changed—more cautious, more reserved.
Chef Jiang and Chef Huo were especially baffled. How had he managed to scrape the fish and still win praise?
Anyone in the trade would find this baffling. But they were too embarrassed to ask and held it in, frustrated. One of them nearly burned a dish because of it, then quickly snapped back to attention and tried to stop overthinking.
They were stewing inside. Really stewing.
The chefs finished their shift at 2 p.m. After that, the apprentices would take over the stoves. Orders placed at that time wouldn’t have the same taste, since the master chefs weren’t cooking. Few customers came during the break.
They returned at 5 p.m. to prep, with service resuming at 5:30.
In those three hours, there was enough time to nap a bit and drink some tea from a heavy porcelain mug.
After taking off their white chefs’ coats and hats, Gu Shunhua and Gu Quanfu changed back into their regular clothes. Gu Shunhua wore a military-style winter coat. In this era, being connected to the military was considered honorable, so her coat earned her a few respectful glances.
Gu Quanfu, however, still wore his old padded jacket—with a visible patch sewn on the back.
But now, no one dared look down on him. A few even gathered around, praising the fine stitching on the patch and offering polite compliments. Even Chef Jiang came over to greet him.
Gu Quanfu’s expression remained calm.
After exiting Yuhuatai, there were a few men with rickshaws or pedicabs waiting nearby for fares. But father and daughter naturally didn’t take one. They walked on foot to the nearest bus stop.
Thinking back on what had happened earlier, Gu Shunhua couldn’t help but laugh. “Dad, you were incredible! I bet they’re still scratching their heads about it!”
Gu Quanfu didn’t seem particularly bothered. “Those two head chefs both have some standing. They’re not easy characters. Sooner or later, once they get a look at the fish scales, they’ll figure it out.”
Gu Shunhua burst out laughing. “Afterward, I threw in some rotten vegetable leaves. The bucket was full, so I just dumped the dirty scraps right on top.”
Gu Quanfu immediately understood and chuckled. “You little rascal.”
She grinned proudly.
Those two chefs probably wouldn’t be able to figure it out for a while. And for people in their line of work, not being able to make sense of something—well, that’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.
On the way home, Gu Quanfu began telling his daughter more about the customs of their trade. In truth, he’d talked about these things when she was little—just offhandedly, not expecting her to remember. But Shunhua had a knack for it. Once she heard something, it stuck, and she could explain it clearly. That made him proud, and more willing to pass on what he knew.
But back then, it had been idle chatter. Now, it was formal teaching. He was determined to pass down everything he carried in his head.
Inwardly, he felt a pang of regret—like he’d delayed her path.
Becoming an apprentice wasn’t easy. In the past, anyone serious about this craft would start in a secondary meat stall (èr hūn pùzi)—the kind of modest street-side eatery with just one or two tables. These places sold cheap dishes and also offered to cook ingredients brought in by customers—lái cài, as they called it. In old Beijing, these stalls were “the joy of the poor,” where even the penniless could afford a bite.
Most apprentices began there, honing their skills. Once they proved themselves, they could graduate to the more prestigious Eight Grand Halls.
Even though his father had been an imperial chef, Gu Quanfu still started from the bottom like everyone else. He’d gone into a secondary stall and, thanks to his talent, earned promotion within a year.
But Shunhua was already twenty-three, with two children. There was no time to grind through the basics. She couldn’t afford to slowly work her way up in the cold dish kitchen. She had to jump straight to hot dishes with him. It was a shortcut, yes—but a brutal one. In the stalls, you could make mistakes. At Yuhuatai, there was no room for error. It was like having a whip cracking at your back, forcing you forward.
He had lived through the old society, seen too many changes. You might eat your fill today, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? He didn’t dare count on staying at Yuhuatai forever. All he could do was train his daughter well while there was still time.
Gu Shunhua heard the unspoken worry in his voice and turned to comfort him.
She knew things were only going to improve from here. More and more people would open small businesses. If possible, she even wanted to one day elevate her father’s culinary reputation and make sure people like Chen Yaotang would never benefit from it again.
But for now, that was just an idea. She didn’t bring it up with her father.
The bus arrived, and they got off at Qianmen. To reach home, they had to pass through Dashilan and enter the hutong. As they walked, Shunhua suddenly said, “I’m going to call the kids’ father.”
Gu Quanfu asked, “He’s coming after New Year, right?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Well then, when he gets here, he can squeeze in with us for now. We’ll look into building the house later.”
“There’s no rush, Dad. Once spring comes, and he’s here, he can take care of it himself.”
She then told him that Ren Jingnian had already arranged with Daxing’anling to have timber shipped over. Gu Quanfu nodded repeatedly, clearly pleased. “That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. I might be able to manage mud, thatch, cement scraps—that kind of stuff I know how to get. But timber’s another story. If we can bring beams down from Daxing’anling, then there’s nothing to worry about. Once the ground thaws, we’ll get building right away.”
Even a small place, if it was their own, would give his daughter a real home. That thought gave him peace.
They parted ways, and Gu Shunhua headed to the post office. She only had about three hours before her next shift, so she moved quickly, eager to beat the line. After making the call, she also hoped to sew some winter clothes for the kids and buy a couple of padded jumpsuits.
It was already the twelfth lunar month, and she still hadn’t prepared their New Year’s outfits.
Luckily, after just over thirty minutes of waiting, the call went through. As fate would have it, Ren Jingnian was at the mine.
“How are things over there?” she asked.
“I got the review materials,” he replied. “They’re excellent—exactly what I needed. I’ve been studying every evening.”
“That’s great. They’re from Lei Yongquan. He has connections, so the quality’s top-notch. I asked him to make you a copy.”
“I’ll have to thank him after New Year.”
“That reminds me—I ran into Wang Xinrui the other day. He said Lei Yongquan is organizing a get-together. If you can make it, that’d be perfect. Lei’s family lives in a siheyuan, one of those big old courtyard homes. You’ll see when you get there—it’s the real old Beijing.”
Ren chuckled. “You sound envious. Is a courtyard really that great?”
“You just don’t get it,” she said with mock scorn. “That’s the way it is in old Beijing. People who live in those courtyards are not the same as us folks from the alleyways.”
When they were kids, they never played together. Just one wrong look, and fists would fly.
Ren was still laughing, but his voice softened. “The weather’s gotten colder now that it’s the twelfth lunar month. The mine distributed winter supplies—hats, gloves, boots, wool yarn, even beef jerky. I picked out things you and the kids could use and mailed them a couple of days ago. Should be arriving soon. Keep an eye out for the notice.”
Shunhua felt truly touched. Ren was a good man. Every time he received anything, he would think of her and the children.
“I took the kids to kindergarten today,” she told him. “I noticed the other kids were dressed really well—lots of them wearing those cotton monkey suits. Ours are still wearing padded jackets made from hand-me-downs. Lei gave me a bunch of ration tickets, including cloth coupons. I want to get them new monkey suits and knit them each a sweater—something nice for New Year.”
“He even gave you ration tickets?”
She explained what had happened. Ren was quiet for a moment. “Back when we were in the Corps, things weren’t always smooth. But looking back, none of it really mattered.”
She thought of those years, too—especially the time Ren and Lei had gotten into a fistfight. Both ended up with bruises. But once the misunderstanding was cleared up, they drank together and made peace. Now, even the fight felt like a cherished memory—hot-blooded youth that would never return.
“He’s a good man,” she said, “but it’s a shame things with Chang Hui didn’t work out.”
She thought again of what Lei Yongquan might face in the future. There was no clear answer, but she would keep an eye on her old friend.
They chatted more about kindergarten and her apprenticeship at Yuhuatai.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got work now,” Ren said.
“Not a regular employee yet,” she replied. “Still an apprentice. It’s only twenty-something yuan a month. Once I’m confirmed, it’ll go up to forty. Plus, there are always extra ration coupons, and we can take home unused Western ingredients from the restaurant. Lots of perks.”
Hearing her do the math reminded Ren of their early days—when they’d scrape together every last cent. He chuckled softly, then said warmly, “Don’t worry too much. I sent my paycheck. You’re raising the kids alone—eat what you need, buy what you need. If you can get the monkey suits with Lei’s tickets, buy them.”
He knew that in cold regions, many children wore monkey suits—padded head-to-toe like little monkeys. That’s how the name came about. They hadn’t bought any before because there was nowhere to get them near the mine. But now, in the capital, where people cared about appearances and the children were in kindergarten, he didn’t want their kids to feel left out.
He couldn’t help much from afar, but this—he could do.
They talked for a little while longer. When Shunhua looked at the clock, she realized time was running short. Not wanting to waste money, she said she’d hang up.
But Ren said, “Talk a bit more.”
“There’s nothing left to say. It costs money.”
“I’m sending you money, aren’t I?”
There was something rich and gentle in his voice—something that made her heart skip a beat. She bit her lip, then asked softly, “Then what do you want to say?”
His voice came low and steady: “Most of the furniture’s gone now. I gave away the chickens. I’ll be spending the New Year alone at the mine. Once it’s over, I’ll come to you and the kids.”
The image of the cold wind at the mine flashed through her mind—an empty home, its warmth gone. She felt a pang of sadness. In the past, they had little, but at least there was noise, laughter, children. Now, the house was hollow, and he was alone.
“Go spend the New Year at Old Chen’s place next door,” she urged. “Bring a dish, chip in—better than being alone.”
“I’ll be fine. The mine’s putting on a Spring Festival gala. I’m organizing it. I’ll be busy—won’t feel lonely.”
“Good…”
“I just miss you. And the kids.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “We went to Shaguoju yesterday for pork hotpot. The kids loved it. They kept talking about how you had to try it too. They even wanted to call you, but the post office was already closed. Today they’re at kindergarten, so still no call. Maybe this weekend—we can try again then.”
“It’s fine. No need to call. Just hearing it from you is enough. They’re still young, don’t really understand. If they get upset after hearing my voice, it’s you who’ll have to deal with it.”
“There’s nothing much to say,” said Gu Shunhua. “They’re good kids.”
Eventually, they ended the call. Even so, Gu Shunhua felt reluctant to hang up.
After everything they’d been through, she realized with even greater clarity that Ren Jingnian was still the same man she’d once known—the one who had warmed her hands with his own body heat in the harshest winters. He hadn’t changed at all.
The fear she once held over that book’s storyline now felt much smaller. As long as he hasn’t changed, she thought, what do I care about some stupid plot? Could a book really curse someone alive and real like this?
With this thought, she turned from Dashilan and walked toward the entrance of the alley. Just as she was about to turn the corner, she saw someone leaning against the old scholar tree.
It was Su Yinghong.
The làyuè wind blew harsh and dry, and the ancient tree at the hutong mouth had long since lost its leaves. Bare branches, gnarled and strong, stretched toward the sky between the grey tiled roofs and upturned eaves, casting a bold and austere silhouette against the clear blue chill of the winter sky.
Su Yinghong was wearing a faded red cotton jacket. Her short hair was clipped back with a simple barrette. Her lips were dry and chapped, and her body leaned lightly against the sturdy trunk.
Gu Shunhua took one look at her, then walked over and studied her face more closely.
Tongrentang’s medicated plaster really worked. After just one night, the swelling had gone down, leaving only faint traces of bruising. If you didn’t look closely, you wouldn’t even know she’d been hit.
Su Yinghong looked embarrassed and muttered awkwardly, “Okay, stop staring. It’s fine now.”
Gu Shunhua chuckled. “That’s good, then. Yesterday you looked like a New Year’s offering pig’s head—kinda festive, really.”
The words weren’t kind, but Su Yinghong didn’t take offense. She murmured, “You didn’t tell my family about this, right?”
“I don’t talk to your family,” Gu Shunhua replied. “Why would I say anything?”
Only then did Su Yinghong relax a little. “It’s not like I did anything to provoke them. They thought I got mixed up with some punk, but I don’t even like him. He kept pestering me. I tried to avoid him.”
Gu Shunhua raised a brow. “If you hang around the river often, can you expect to never get wet? If people already call you part of a quānzi, then you’d better be ready for what comes with that.”
Su Yinghong glared at her. “So just because I’m called a quānzi, I’m doomed to be one forever?”
“That’s not up to me—or you,” Gu Shunhua replied. “It’s what others say. What good does it do to argue with me?”
Living in a hutong meant being surrounded by eyes and mouths. You could insist all you wanted, but gossip didn’t care about fairness. Reputation mattered—whether it was for marriage, work, or anything else. And a sharp tongue could ruin a life.
Su Yinghong stared blankly for a moment. Then her eyes reddened. “You’re right. I’m quānzi. I’m scum. Everyone looks down on me. I deserve it. I’m just cheap.”
She turned abruptly and began walking away.
“Hey, hey—where are you going?” Gu Shunhua called, grabbing her arm.
“None of your business!” Su Yinghong snapped.
“Look at you,” Gu Shunhua said dryly. “If you go throw yourself off Tianqiao and your mom finds out we talked, she’ll come after me with a knife.”
That made Su Yinghong even more furious. Her eyes practically sparked with rage.
Gu Shunhua laughed. “I’ve got a few ration coupons left. I’m hungry. Let’s get some hand-pulled noodles. Come with me.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well I am.”
She really was. Her first day at Yuhuatai had been so busy she hadn’t even eaten properly—just crammed a flaky sesame bun in her mouth. She was still running on empty.
Su Yinghong shot her a sideways glance but didn’t respond.
Gu Shunhua led her into Menkuang Hutong—a humble, dusty lane not far from Dashilan. It didn’t look like much now, but in old Beiping it had been one of the most bustling snack streets in the city, filled with legendary shops like Pea Yellow Wan, Crispy Fire Shao Liu, and Stuffed Fire Shao. There was even a saying:
“East Fourth, Xidan, Gulou Front, Wangfujing, Qianmen, Dashilan, and that little sliver of sky—Menkuang Hutong.”
That “sliver of sky” was Menkuang.
After Liberation, though, the government took over private businesses and materials were rationed. The big names gradually shuttered, leaving only tiny old storefronts behind.
Shunhua knew the place well. She brought Su Yinghong to a modest entrance covered with a grimy cotton curtain.
Inside, the air was steamy and fragrant. The place only had two tables and catered mostly to regulars. The owner recognized her and nodded her toward a seat. “What’ll it be?”
“Two bowls of chēnmiàn,” she said. “And some wide-broth braised lamb.”
“This weather calls for something to make your nose sweat.”
“I’ll throw in some zhajiang too,” the owner said. “With Xidinghe’s sauce.”
“Even better,” said Shunhua, licking her lips. “Add some little golden shrimp and fragrant scallion-garlic oil.”
The “little golden hooks” were eagle-claw shrimp—small, golden, curled like hooks, perfect for zhajiang. More delicate and flavorful than meat sauce.
“Of course!” the boss grinned.
He turned to make the noodles. From their seat, they could watch him pull the dough—stretching, folding, tossing it in the air. He dipped it in alkali water and kept working it until it was long, thin, and perfect.
Su Yinghong tilted her head, watching the noodle strands dance in the air.
“We used to eat here when we were little,” said Shunhua. “Remember?”
Su Yinghong’s gaze dimmed. “No. I’ve forgotten most of those days.”
“How did you get mixed up with those people?” Shunhua asked gently. “Tell me.”
Su Yinghong bit her lip, eyes welling with tears—but stayed silent.
Shunhua didn’t press. She could guess most of it.
Back when she went to the countryside, things here had already started falling apart. Adults were too busy at work, wrapped up in slogans and campaigns. No one had time to look after kids. The ones who didn’t go down to the countryside just drifted around, unsupervised. Naturally, some fell in with bad crowds. The term quānzi—the underworld girls—came from that time.
Soon, the noodles arrived—steaming hand-pulled strands with a bowl of wide-broth lamb soup and a small dish of zhajiang. On the side, the garnishes were immaculate—julienned cucumber so fine it trembled.
Shunhua stirred in the sauce and took a bite. The noodles had just the right chew, the shrimp-laced sauce was rich and fragrant, and the scallion and garlic oil hit the nose with a punch of real old Beijing flavor.
Su Yinghong ate too. In this biting cold, with frozen hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of lamb broth, it felt like all the chill in her bones had melted away.
They didn’t talk. The shopkeeper dozed in the back, leaving only the two of them in silence, eating noodles.
When they finished, Shunhua paid, and the two left together.
Just as they were about to leave the alley, Su Yinghong suddenly said, “Jie… when I was thirteen, I was assaulted.”
Shunhua stopped in her tracks, stunned, and turned sharply toward her.
Su Yinghong stared up at the bare scholar tree, its branches reaching silently into the sky. She blinked, refusing to let her tears fall. “It was the year you all went to the countryside. I was taking dance classes at the Youth Palace. On my way home, I ran into one of my brother’s friends. He tricked me… and hurt me.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I didn’t understand anything. When I realized what had happened and went to confront him, he said no one would believe me. His family had connections. He said since I’d already ‘given myself to him,’ I was ruined. If I caused trouble, my family would only blame me. At worst, he’d pay some money.”
“I wanted to tell my mom, but she was always busy. My dad? I couldn’t even imagine. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. So I just…”
Chills ran down Shunhua’s spine.
She could already piece it together. Thirteen years old, no one to turn to, no support—how could a child know what to do? She had given up on herself, gone with the flow, and ended up clinging to a local thug, becoming what people called a quānzi.
After a long silence, she asked, voice hard, “Where is he now?”
Su Yinghong hesitated. “We haven’t had contact in years. I don’t want to. I only know he was assigned to the Water Resources Bureau. Later, because of overseas connections in his family, he was sent down. After that, I don’t know.”
“Does anyone else know about this? Any proof?”
As soon as she asked, she regretted it.
Thirteen. Innocent. Lied to, used. What proof could there be?
Su Yinghong shook her head. “I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s all in the past. And after him, there were two other men… so people say I’ve always been cheap. Maybe I am.”
“You were with two other men?” asked Shunhua. “Where are they now?”
“Gone. Just flings. They found new girls, new quānzi.”
So that was it. Her last thug had left her. That’s why those girls beat her.
“Listen,” Shunhua said, “find a job. Something simple. As long as you can support yourself, live with dignity. That man—his day will come. We’ll see to it.”
“I’ve thought about working, but what can I do?” Yinghong said. “My parents look down on me. I don’t have any skills…”
“Is that what you really think?” asked Shunhua.
Yinghong looked at her.
“We have to stand on our own first,” said Shunhua. “Respect isn’t given—it’s earned. If you want to change, first cut ties with those people. I’ll help you find something. Even if it’s just temp work, at least it’ll be honest. Wake early, sleep early. Earn your own meals. When you’ve got work, then you can start thinking about the life you really want. Sound good?”
Yinghong hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Shunhua remembered she had to work that evening and turned to go—but after a few steps, she stopped cold.
Water Resources Bureau. Overseas ties. Sent down…
She rushed back to Yinghong. “What’s his name?”
“Shunhua-jie, why?”
“Just tell me. The guy from the Water Bureau. What’s his name?”
“…Luo Minghao.”
Boom. Her mind exploded.
Luo Minghao.
That’s the man working with Chen Yaotang to open that fake “Eight Treasures Imperial Feast” restaurant.
It was all connected now.
Author’s Note:
Everyone’s asking about the male lead—he should appear within two or three chapters. Depends on the pacing. But it’ll be soon!