The hunchbacked broker curled up in the elmwood armchair, his fingers rubbing the rim of the celadon teacup as he sighed: "Madam Shen, ah, don’t say I’ve no conscience. I’m speaking from the heart. Tao’s Mother is getting on in years—that Madam Brothel always says her voice cracks like a broken gong when she hits the high notes, and fewer guests ask for her now. A woman in her thirties, the redemption price might be negotiable, but when you tally the abacus beads, I fear you’ll regret it later."
The broker squinted at Shen Miao’s expression and grinned. "I’ll say it straight—you weigh it carefully yourself. Clear words won’t sour our friendship, and we’ll both avoid trouble down the road."
"You’re right, and I know it." Shen Miao leaned against the carved partition in the broker’s shop, turning to watch the crooked-neck jujube tree in the courtyard sprouting buds. "I’ve thought it over. Though Tao’s Mother no longer has a golden voice, she can still sing well enough. Besides, she knows music and can tune instruments—she’d be better at training young performers than some stranger with no roots. Anyway, I’ve made up my mind: when she can’t sing anymore, I’ll have her manage things for me, handle odd jobs. It’ll work out."
Running a business purely for profit wouldn’t do, but neither could it be charity. Singing in a teahouse was the icing on the cake, not the main moneymaker. At the end of the day, good food and flavors were the real foundation. Shen Miao had plans—when Tao’s Mother’s voice gave out, she’d still be useful.
The meaning was clear now. The broker chewed on it and brightened—Madam Shen wasn’t just hiring one singer; she likely wanted a few cheap, greenhorn girls too, to learn from Tao’s Mother. That way, the business would stay profitable!
His eyes sparkled as he chuckled. "Smart, very smart! Alright then! Tomorrow, when I head to Daming Prefecture, I’ll bring a couple of fine silks, say they’re for the master’s new concubines. That Madam Brothel will bite at the bait and shove Tao’s Mother right at me! Then I’ll work my magic and haggle the price down."
Then he ventured, "Following your lead, should I scout out a couple of young lute players too?"
Shen Miao smiled. "Exactly. Just pick ones who are trustworthy and honest."
"Leave it to me," the broker thumped his chest.
Shen Miao did want two or three performers, enough to rotate shifts between the teahouse’s two floors.
Seeing her resolve, the broker didn’t waste more breath. He settled the date for his Daming trip and, for the other girls, asked Shen Miao’s preferences in detail, promising to bring candidates in a couple of days.
Shen Miao added, "Besides the singers, I’ll need a few southern chefs—at least two, preferably skilled in pastries and steamed dishes. Keep an eye out for that too. And of course, quick-witted waiters, plus a bookkeeper good with the abacus to handle the teahouse accounts."
A big order! The broker’s eyes lit up as he agreed eagerly.
Though the staffing was settled, Shen Miao’s mind was heavy as she walked home over dew-slick cobblestones. Hiring was the easy part—opening a teahouse meant a long, tangled list of preparations still ahead.
For one, she needed to scout Kangji Street’s foot traffic and pin down her target customers. Tastes in food, ambiance, and pricing varied wildly between crowds.
And then there was the tea itself.
In Bianjing City, everyone was a tea connoisseur. Tea-drinking flourished in the Song Dynasty, beloved by nobles and commoners alike. Teahouses lined every street, especially when spring teas arrived—outside Vermilion Gate, grindstones hummed nonstop.
But most people drank compressed tea cakes. The elite favored the art of "tea whisking," where tea was pounded to powder, sieved silk-fine, then whisked into a froth as thick as snow, clinging to the cup like latte art.
Cantonese morning tea, though, was another world—"one cup, two treats": dry snacks like barbecue buns or shrimp dumplings paired with wet ones like rice rolls or congee.
Strolling out in slippers, lounging in teahouses—that was southern comfort.
Their teas were diverse too: pu’er, oolong, black, chrysanthemum. But none of this matched Song customs.
Her head ached from overthinking. Running a grand teahouse was far harder than a simple eatery.
At home, Shen Miao rolled up her sleeves and kneaded dough, letting the work steady her thoughts. Steam rose from the stove, the smells soothing her tangled nerves. No rush—like fermenting dough, good things took time.
Over half a month passed. The broker had left, and early summer breezes carried river damp into the shop.
Shen Miao watched Tao weave through tables with fishball soup, too busy to pause.
The girl didn’t know yet. Shen Miao wouldn’t tell her prematurely—the deal was too fresh, the broker just departed. If anything went wrong, why raise false hope?
When her mother returned safe, then she’d know.
Shen Miao studied Tao’s nimble figure. Last New Year, after the feast, the girl had hidden in her room counting coins—until tears pattered onto the copper. Silent crying, swiftly wiped away before she rejoined the others, smiling, for the vigil.
Shen Miao had noticed.
Tao missed her mother. She just never said it.
Leaning on the elmwood counter, Shen Miao drifted into thought—until Tao caught her. The girl bustled out with a black pottery bowl heaped with glazed braised meat, cilantro flecking her sleeves.
"Madam, my living bodhisattva!" Tao huffed. "That steamer’s been hissing forever, and here you are daydreaming! The dough on the board’s about to sprout!"
She glanced at the bustling crowd of customers pouring in through the door and stamped her foot in frustration. "Hurry back to the kitchen! That Zhang the peddler always orders the same muddled noodle soup—I don’t even need to ask."
"Got it, got it, I’m going." Shen Miao chuckled awkwardly as she slipped toward the back kitchen, her blue linen skirt brushing against the threshold, looking just as flustered as the Qilin sneaking into the kitchen only to be chased out by a broom.
Shen’s Noodle Shop had long nurtured a loyal following. These regulars knew the drill—no need for extra greetings. Tao recognized every face: this one wanted an extra spoonful of chili oil, that one preferred no scallions.
Right after the New Year in early spring, fresh vegetables were scarce. Many dishes in the shop were labeled "sold out," leaving only fish ball noodles to keep customers hooked. Yet some still craved the sizzling, oil-dripping aroma of summer grilled fish. Now that summer had arrived, they’d been asking about it nonstop.
Gazing at the newly built sparrow’s nest under the eaves, Shen Miao pondered: it was time to bring back grilled fish and crayfish. These spicy, savory dishes paired perfectly with well-chilled plum wine—an essential summer delight.
Yes, speaking of crayfish—her spicy Sichuan-style lobster could finally make a steady comeback!
Yu Xun was truly remarkable. Last autumn, he’d spent days catching crayfish by the stream outside the city for Shen Miao. When he delivered them, she’d mused aloud, "I wonder if they’d survive if we channeled mountain spring water to keep them in live tanks?"
To her surprise, he took those words to heart. Later, he actually carved out two or three crayfish ponds in the corner of his fish farm.
He chiseled a spring into the stone slabs, diverting water from Yuntou Mountain. He hauled river sand with his family, sterilized it with boiling water, then lined the pond bottoms with fine sand and planted water celery for the crayfish to burrow in. He even built bamboo shelters on gentle slopes for them to molt. To protect the water quality, he raised the pond banks higher than usual and stretched an oilcloth awning overhead to shield against storms.
When the female crayfish finally carried eggs, he practically camped by the ponds, watching over them more attentively than he had his own son’s birth. After spotting successful egg-bearing, he moved them to a nursery pond, losing sleep and weight until his cheekbones jutted out.
This spring, the ponds yielded crayfish so large and robust their pincers could draw blood with a careless snap. Against all odds, he’d succeeded in raising these notoriously finicky creatures.
And he’d kept it all a secret from Shen Miao until now, when he triumphantly delivered the first batch.
When Tang Er brought news of Yu Xun’s crayfish success, Shen Miao was kneading dough. The shock left her speechless.
Beaming, Yu Xun arrived with a basket of crayfish. Shen Miao’s heart swelled with mixed emotions. If he’d failed, he wouldn’t have asked her to compensate his efforts. Yet now that he’d succeeded, he didn’t demand exorbitant prices, offering her a reasonable wholesale rate instead.
Touched, Shen Miao promised him a long-term supply contract—she’d never switch fish vendors again.
It was her pledge of exclusivity.
Yu Xun rubbed his hands, overwhelmed. "With your word, Madam, every hardship was worth it."
After he left, Shen Miao brainstormed seven or eight crayfish recipes but settled on the spicy version. She had a soft spot for Sichuan-style lobster. Years ago in Chongqing, an old street vendor cooked them in an enamel mug—fiery enough to make one hop and gasp, yet irresistibly delicious. Later, these spicy crayfish became a night market staple, where friends gathered around steaming plates, clinking frosty beers, laughing and peeling shells.
The memory of that lively, aromatic chaos stayed with her.
By noon, Shen Miao hung a red-silk-wrapped sign outside.
For the posters, she’d sent Tang Er to the academy with a live crayfish for Xie Qi to sketch. The first design featured a red backdrop: a black pottery plate piled high with crimson, glistening curled crayfish, drenched in fiery pepper sauce. Bold white characters declared "SPICY CRAYFISH," flanked by slogans: "Set Your Tongue Ablaze" and "Gather, Feast, and Toast."
The second was an ink-wash close-up of a raw crayfish, claws raised defiantly, accompanied by a poetic line: "Let new fire test new crustaceans"—apologies to Su Dongpo for borrowing his verse.
The ink painting adorned the shop walls; the red poster stood on a wooden frame by the entrance.
By early evening, Madam Wang—whose double chin owed much to Shen Miao’s cooking—arrived, as always, first to try new dishes. Shen Miao half-suspected she had spies in the shop.
Today, before the glue on the poster dried, Madam Wang waddled in, patting her chin. "Crayfish tonight?"
Shen Miao smiled. "Yes."
Before she finished speaking, five strings of cash slapped onto the counter.
"However much per pot, I’m prepaying five strings!" Madam Wang declared.
"You haven’t even tasted them yet!" Shen Miao laughed. "What if you don’t like them?"
"Look at my waistline, my chin—do I look picky?" Madam Wang scoffed. "Of course they’ll be good. Last summer’s batch was too scarce—I missed out. No way I’m risking another roast duck situation where I queue for days!"
Shen Miao had no choice but to accept her deposit.
Due to farming challenges, crayfish cost more than grilled fish—about 158 coppers for a three-pound pot, similar to roast duck.
The price might deter newcomers, but regulars knew better. Last summer’s limited supply had left some craving more, pestering Shen Miao for months. She’d had no solution—Yu Xun’s occasional catches barely filled two pots.
Now, with steady supply, word spread fast. By nightfall, every seat was taken. Tao rushed into the kitchen: the entire crowd had come for crayfish.
The kitchen brimmed with the aroma of Shen Miao’s chili oil. Aunt Nian’s knife thudded rhythmically through bamboo shoots. Tang Er dumped another basket of crayfish into the sink—a cascade of dark-green shells, pincers waving, antennae still glistening with spring water.
Holding one up to the light, Shen Miao watched its tail curl—vigorous indeed.
Wiping sweat, Tang Er handed her a prepped batch. "These are cleaned, scrubbed, and gutted. Fu Xing and I will keep washing the rest."
"Thank you," Shen Miao said. "Ding Wushi from the fast-food shop is helping in the kitchen. Aunt Nian and Tao have the front covered—just focus on the crayfish."
"Got it!" Tang Er rolled up his sleeves and went back outside, joining Fu Xing as they crouched by the drainage ditch, scrubbing the crayfish vigorously.
The fast-food shop closed after delivering group meals, and Aunt Nian and Ding Wushi, who had been working there, were promptly recruited by Shen Miao for overtime—though she did pay them extra.
As dusk settled, Madam Wang arrived early, carrying the large lotus-patterned ceramic pot from last year's grilled fish blind box event to claim her usual seat. From her spot, she had a perfect view of the ink-wash crayfish painting illuminated by lamplight on the opposite wall. Before long, Wang Yong, fresh off his shift at the government office, joined her.
Shen Miao fired up the stove, heating the oil until it shimmered. She smashed a few cloves of garlic, sliced some ginger, and tossed them into the wok with a sizzle, releasing an aromatic punch. A handful of Sichuan peppercorns, chili peppers, ginger paste, star anise, and homemade fermented bean paste followed, slow-fried until the red oil rose to the surface, filling the room with a spicy fragrance that invaded everyone’s nostrils.
The cleaned crayfish went in next. With a few quick tosses of the wok, their shells turned glossy crimson. A splash of yellow wine along the edge sent a burst of steam upward, the rich aroma so enticing that even Qilin the dog trotted in, sniffing eagerly.
While the crayfish simmered in broth, Shen Miao chopped bean sprouts, bamboo shoots, and cucumber strips as a base. Once the sauce thickened, she scattered green onion segments and drizzled a touch of vinegar. Lifting the lid unleashed a wave of spicy-sweet fragrance—the crayfish glistened in vibrant red, their shells coated in a thick, fiery sauce.
Madam Wang, being the first to arrive, received the inaugural batch. Tao carried the ceramic pot through the shop, the crayfish piled into a towering pyramid. Every diner in the place craned their necks to watch, the tantalizing aroma making it impossible to look away.
"Here it is—oh, it smells amazing!" Madam Wang couldn’t wait. Ignoring the heat, she grabbed one, bit off the head, and sucked out the rich, briny fat—spicy yet deeply savory. Though the heat made her gasp, she kept going, peeling and nibbling with relish.
The tender, springy meat, dipped in the rich sauce, delivered an addictive punch—first the numbing tingle of Sichuan peppercorns, then the slow-building burn that somehow highlighted the crayfish’s natural sweetness. Soon, beads of sweat dotted her nose, but her chopsticks never paused.
At first, the spice seemed manageable, but as she ate, the heat crept up, searing through her sinuses. She hastily ordered two chilled plum wines, downing several gulps to soothe her scorched palate, the icy relief spreading through her chest like a swallow of snow.
"Haah—" She exhaled in satisfaction.
Tao and Aunt Nian weaved through the crowded shop, their black ceramic bowls heaped with crimson crayfish.
Wang Yong, arriving straight from work, stepped inside to find his wife already there, her lips tinged red from the spice, a mountain of shells piled beside her. The pot held only a few stragglers, the broth now mostly just vegetables.
He sat down, intending to order another batch, but a quick glance around confirmed the shop was packed, noisy, and undoubtedly overwhelmed. There’d be no time for a second round.
Madam Wang grinned sheepishly at her husband’s crestfallen expression. "It was just too good—I couldn’t stop myself."
What could he do? With a resigned sigh, Wang Yong peeled the remaining crayfish, mixed them with a spoonful of the rich sauce over rice, and devoured two bowls. The tender meat, paired with crisp cucumber and bamboo shoots, was heavenly.
Leaning closer, he whispered, "Did you save any? I’ll take two pots tomorrow—His Majesty should try this."
Last time, the emperor had been astounded by Shen Miao’s fish balls. After his toothache healed, he’d swapped duck-bone soup for deep-fried duck frames and even ordered the eunuch Liang to bring back fresh fish balls for the palace kitchen.
Now, fish balls paired with roasted duck had plumped His Majesty’s once-slightly-slimmer face back to roundness. But Eunuch Liang insisted it wasn’t fat—just water retention from nighttime drinking. If it didn’t fade by evening, well, he must’ve drunk even more.
Wang Yong was speechless. In Eunuch Liang’s eyes, the emperor could do no wrong—though rumor had it the old eunuch’s failing eyesight made everyone look dashing.
Madam Wang lowered her voice. "Don’t worry, I’ve reserved thirty pots—five strings of cash worth. Enough for days."
Wang Yong nodded, relieved. When it came to food, his wife never disappointed.
Since crayfish debuted on Shen Miao’s night market menu, her noodle shop had become a frenzy again. Two neat rows of stools lined the entrance, packed with waiting diners. Tao handed out sunflower seeds, assuring them, "Almost there! Just a little longer!"
Passersby could hear the two loudmouths Shen Miao hired bellowing down the street:
"Table 20! Table 20! Shen’s invites you for crayfish!"
Ning Yi, stuck in the academy, had no idea about Shen Miao’s new dish—until Xie Qi suddenly kept a chubby-clawed crayfish in his strange white cylindrical cup with a handle. He spent the whole day sketching it, which tipped Ning Yi off.
Munching on a roasted pig’s trotter Xie Qi had brought from Shen’s, his lips glossy with grease, Ning Yi sidled over to peek at the drawings.
After watching for a while, he finally saw Xie Qi dip into expensive white ink and swiftly write "Spicy Crayfish" in bold strokes. Ning Yi leaped up. "Wait—did Shen Miao make a new dish?!"
"Isn’t it obvious?" Xie Qi replied without looking up, already starting another sketch for Qiu Hao to dry.
Ning Yi groaned, eyeing the half-eaten trotter in his hand. It was delicious—a meaty hind trotter, charred golden and steeped in Shen’s signature marinade. The crispy skin gave way to tender, gelatinous meat, the peppery spice lingering addictively.
But Shen’s had something new. How could he miss out?
Ning Yi sighed. His food journal, meant to catalog all the delicacies he’d tried, was now overflowing with Shen Miao’s creations—each one lethally delicious.
Sometimes, he swore he disliked certain foods—like the savory zongzi during Dragon Boat Festival! How could sticky rice dumplings be salty? But after Xie Qi brought some to the academy, Ning Yi nearly defected from his beloved sweet jujube version.
Ning Yi made up his mind: he would save his appetite and sneak over the wall tonight to feast on Shen Miao’s spicy crayfish—he couldn’t wait a moment longer!
By the time Xie Qi finished his painting and turned around, Ning Yi had already vanished without a trace.
Carefully rolling up the dried painting, Xie Qi placed it into a scroll case and handed it to Qiu Hao to deliver to Shen Miao’s shop. He then sat back down at his desk, lost in thought for a while, before pulling out a half-finished scroll from the painting basket beside him. He resumed his work on the portrait.
The painting depicted a gentle woman sitting beneath a tree, her face tilted upward as she gazed at the sky.
Stroke by stroke, he meticulously dotted the night sky with stars. When he finished, he sat silently, staring at the painting in quiet contemplation.
Just then, a messenger hurried in and announced, “Young Master Xie, someone is waiting for you at the east gate’s duty room—they say they’ve come from your family in Chenzhou.”
At this, Xie Qi’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of joy flashing in his eyes. He carefully stored the scroll away and strode toward the east gate, his steps growing quicker and more urgent with each passing moment.
