Another year’s winter solstice arrived, and snow filled the sky.
This year, the snow came late. The Bian River had not yet completely frozen over by the solstice, making it an unseasonably warm winter. The last fleet of grain barges for the year, their iron-reinforced bows cutting through the ice, docked at the pier, which was already littered with broken ice. The canal workers and the tattooed patrol officers of the Riverbank Bureau blew horns and began unloading the final shipment of winter provisions before the New Year.
Snowflakes swirled wildly in the wind. Uncle Cong, the steward of the Lin household, stepped onto the deck and selected three of the strongest laborers from the crowd of porters scrambling onto the skiffs to carry the Lin family’s numerous trunks ashore.
After hiring two mule carts at the dock and instructing the servants to secure the luggage, he returned to the ship to report to his master. “Second Lin, the carts are ready. It’s time to disembark.”
From the dimly lit cabin, a figure emerged, bending slightly as he stepped out.
“Let’s go.” The man brushed off his slightly worn cotton robe and lifted his head. The bright reflection of the snow revealed his features—thick, dark hair neatly tied under a bamboo crown, framing a refined, oval face. His eyes were slender and slightly upturned, and perched on his high, straight nose was a pair of crystal-clear spectacles with delicate silver frames, the thin chain loosely draped behind his ears.
Tall and lean, he carried an air of quiet elegance, even in his plain, unadorned clothing.
“It’s snowing outside, Second Lin. You’d best take an umbrella, or you’ll be soaked through before we even reach Golden Beam Bridge.” Uncle Cong took the small bookcase from his hands, replacing it with an oil-paper umbrella, then led the way up the creaking gangplank, chattering all the while.
“...Everyone said this winter would be mild, but who knew it’d still be so cold when the snow finally came? Before we set out, the master insisted you bring an extra cloak, but you refused, saying it was too heavy. Now you’ll suffer for it. The streets are packed on the solstice—who knows how long we’ll be stuck in the wind before we even reach the inner city? And if you catch a chill, what then? The twelfth month is just around the corner; where would we even find a physician if you fell ill? Not to mention, once you’re back, His Majesty will surely summon you. You can’t very well enter the palace sneezing, can you?”
A faint look of resignation crossed Second Lin’s aloof face, but he said nothing, letting the old servant prattle on from ship to shore. His attention wandered as he took in the sight of Bianjing, the capital he hadn’t seen in years.
The snowy dock was lined with thatched sheds, each housing long double-tiered tables with holes in the center for charcoal braziers. Iron pots filled with steaming dishes sat atop them, and a line of laborers stretched before the sheds, bowls in hand.
This was a sight unfamiliar to him. In past years, the docks had been littered with the bodies of collapsed laborers, their corpses collected by the city guards on flat carts during the bitter winters. But this year, there were none—instead, the laborers wore padded jackets...
Second Lin observed silently.
Though he had been in Hongzhou observing mourning rites, he had heard of the emperor’s sweeping purge of the aristocratic clans four years prior. Wang Yong had written to him in impassioned tones, declaring that the emperor’s actions would lift a mountain off the people’s backs and that within three years, the livelihood of the Song populace would see marked improvement.
It seemed he had been right.
The mule cart rumbled toward Bianjing. The journey from the dock to the outer city was long, and the snow-covered wheat fields stretched endlessly, evoking an odd sense of solitude, as if they stood alone on a vast, frozen plain.
Only one plot of land stood out—encircled by a brick wall, it housed a cluster of buildings beside a pond, the sounds of livestock and even barking dogs drifting over the barrier.
Wasn’t this once the Feng family’s land?
Second Lin’s gaze lingered on the two wide gates. Beneath the eaves hung with red lanterns, a vertical plaque was affixed to the right wall, its calligraphy fluid and elegant: “Shen’s Bountiful Farm.” Along the wall, a long banner in the same hand proclaimed: “Ducks, chickens, cattle, and sheep—mountains, water, and golden wheat fields. Welcome to Shen’s Bountiful Farm, your gateway to paradise! Feed the animals for three coppers a visit, pick fresh vegetables for twenty coppers a pound...”
Second Lin: “...”
Such refined, graceful brushwork used for such playful words struck him as oddly incongruous.
Further on, they passed through the city gates after presenting their travel documents.
The streets of Bianjing were festooned with lanterns and banners for the winter solstice, and the inner city was even more congested. Shops crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, their hired barkers shouting promotions, while colorful flags fluttered hazily in the snowfall.
As the mule cart neared Golden Beam Bridge, the traffic slowed to a crawl. Even Uncle Cong was puzzled. “In the past, only the streets around Fan Tower in Jingming Ward were this packed. Why is Golden Beam Bridge so crowded this year? And today isn’t even one of the Grand Xiangguo Temple’s market days.”
The cart driver, overhearing, chuckled. “You gentlemen haven’t been back in a while, have you? These days, Golden Beam Bridge rivals Jingming Ward as the busiest place in Bianjing. Jingming Ward has Fan Tower, but Golden Beam Bridge has Shen’s.”
Shen’s? Second Lin and Uncle Cong exchanged glances, recalling Wang Yong’s letter: “Once you reach Caizhou, send word of your arrival date and barge number. I’ll arrange a feast at Shen’s in Golden Beam Bridge to welcome you.”
That was why Second Lin had headed straight for Golden Beam Bridge upon disembarking—Wang Yong, having received his letter, was already waiting there with a banquet prepared at Shen’s.
But when Second Lin had left the capital, he’d never heard of any “Shen’s.” Now, it seemed, its fame rivaled even Fan Tower’s—and Fan Tower was legendary, its height surpassing even the imperial palace itself!
After much delay, the cart finally squeezed past Golden Beam Bridge. As they descended the bridge, the eye-catching red banner of Shen’s came into view, fluttering beside a grand plaque.
Second Lin’s eyes widened—the plaque was a masterpiece of gilded lacquer, its four bold characters reading: “Shen’s Tavern.” Above the space between “Shen’s” and “Tavern” was an imperial seal. The calligraphy, while not exceptional, was dignified and polished. Even without the vermilion stamp reading “Treasure of the Baoyuan Reign,” he would have recognized it at once: the emperor’s own hand.
The Jiangnan West Circuit had long been known for its prodigies. Decades ago, a fourteen-year-old from Linchuan, Fuzhou, had passed the imperial examinations. Second Lin was the second-youngest in Song history—a scholar at twelve, a provincial graduate at fifteen, and a palace graduate the following year. During his palace examination, his poised responses had so impressed the late emperor that he was immediately appointed a secretary in the Imperial Library and assigned as a study companion to the crown prince, Zhao Boyun.
Two years younger than the emperor, had it not been for the coup that saw Prince Jin hunt him down, nearly killing him and leaving his health in ruins—and later, his mother’s death—he might well have been sitting in the Kaifeng prefect’s seat now, not Wang Yong.
The mule cart came to a standstill after crossing the bridge, unable to move another inch. The driver struggled for a while before wiping his sweat and turning back with a bitter smile. "Shen's Tavern is always bustling, but today, on the Winter Solstice, it's even worse. There's truly no way forward. Would you gentlemen consider taking a detour? Otherwise, we’ll be stuck here for at least half an hour..."
Looking ahead, the open space in front of Shen's Tavern was indeed packed to the brim, filled with carriages and horses, yet more continued to pour in. Several stable boys waved their arms frantically at the roadside, their voices hoarse from shouting: "There’s really no space left at the front gate! It’s completely jammed! Please, honored guests, take the rear gate instead! There’s still room there—hey, you with the Zhu-family carriage, no cutting in! Ah, stop fighting, let’s keep the peace—"
Second Lin simply stepped out of the cart and said to Uncle Cong, "Uncle Cong, go ahead and take the luggage home. I’ll walk the rest of the way."
Uncle Cong, taken aback by the chaos, had no choice but to agree. Still, he stubbornly pressed an umbrella into Second Lin’s hands. "Second Young Master, spare this old servant some worry. The snow is heavy—keep the umbrella up."
Second Lin had no choice but to open the umbrella and hold it overhead. Only then did Uncle Cong look satisfied as he directed the driver to turn around and take the narrow alley behind the Imperial Academy.
The Lin family residence was modest, just two courtyards deep, purchased back when Second Lin’s grandfather served as a lecturer at the Imperial Academy. Three generations of the family, no matter how high their official ranks had risen, still lived frugally in that small house.
"Uncle Cong, don’t forget to visit Mr. Yao first," Second Lin said, frowning as he recalled the unfortunate rumors about the Yao family mentioned in Wang Yong’s letter. "I brought quite a few medicinal herbs from Hongzhou—they’re in the cedarwood box at the bottom. Take them to the Yao family first and check on Mr. Yao’s condition. If it’s serious, don’t hesitate to send for me, even if I’m at the banquet. I’ll go straight to the palace and beg His Majesty to dispatch an imperial physician."
Uncle Cong nodded solemnly, then bowed before boarding the cart and turning back.
Standing there until Uncle Cong was out of sight, Second Lin finally raised his umbrella and walked to the eaves of Shen's Tavern. Just as he reached the entrance, he ran into Wang Yong’s attendant. Despite the years apart, the servant recognized him at once and hurried forward, clasping his hands in a deep bow. "This humble servant greets Lord Lin. My master is already upstairs. Please follow me."
Second Lin shook his head. "I’m now a commoner. That title no longer applies."
The attendant quickly corrected himself with another bow. "Of course, Young Master Lin."
Following the Wang family servant inside, Second Lin curiously glanced up as he crossed the threshold—it was rare to see a shop with such a wide entrance. The doors of Shen's Tavern were three times the width of an ordinary establishment, giving an impression of spacious elegance.
The ground floor was packed with round tables of various sizes, not a single seat left vacant. Each table was numbered, and servers darted back and forth with narrow carts, the trays laden with neatly stacked small bamboo steamers, each labeled with tags.
Amid the lively clamor, the warm aroma of food enveloped him. The tavern was cozy, and Second Lin closed his umbrella, then studied the paintings of various dishes adorning the walls with fresh interest.
The largest painting covered half a wall, depicting a grand table laden with ten dishes, each accompanied by a small description. Second Lin caught glimpses of "Four Delicacies Platter," "Wenchang Chicken," "Crispy Roast Suckling Pig," "Braised Lamb," "Fragrant Beef Ribs," "Lingnan Osmanthus Fish," and "Tender Pigeon."
The artwork was exquisite, almost lifelike.
Beneath the painting was an inscription in bold calligraphy: "Harmony of North and South, Refinement in Cuisine." Clearly, these ten dishes were Shen's Tavern’s signature offerings.
Second Lin found it amusing, then suddenly realized the handwriting looked familiar—it was identical to the script posted outside the farmstead in the suburbs. Such masterful strokes, with their unique structure, were unforgettable once seen.
It dawned on him: this Shen's Tavern and the Shen's farm outside the city must belong to the same owner.
The Wang family servant led him through the crowded main hall and upstairs.
The second floor was reserved for private rooms.
The floor was paved with thin, smooth tiles, their craftsmanship a mystery. Each private room was separated by elegant bamboo partitions, adorned with vases of flowers and wooden screens, lending the space a refined tranquility.
It was much quieter here. Each room had a blue-clad attendant stationed outside, and the doors bore wooden plaques with poetic names: "Eternal Spring," "Red Knotweed," "Jade Mountains." The names carried a distinctly southern charm.
The servant guided him to the farthest and most secluded room. Second Lin glanced up at the plaque: "Three Hundred Lychees." He smiled in understanding. The attendant knocked lightly, and a voice from inside called out, "That must be Wen’an. Come in!"
The servant promptly opened the door and bowed, ushering him inside.
Stepping in, Second Lin was surprised to find not just Wang Yong waiting for him. His eyes first landed on Liang Qian, the tall eunuch standing slightly hunched in the corner. A surge of emotion welled up in his chest—but before his eyes could grow moist, a towering figure blocked his view, and thick, dark arms wrapped around him in a crushing embrace. "Second Lin! You’ve finally returned!"
The bear-like hands pounded his back with such force that his frail bones nearly rattled apart. The tears of reunion were promptly knocked out of him.
Once he managed to free himself, he immediately moved to kneel. "Lin Wen’an pays his respects to Your Majesty—"
Before his knees could bend, Zhao Boyun hooked an arm under his shoulder and hauled him up, plopping him into a seat. "Ah, enough of that! Today, there’s no emperor or subject here—just old friends from the Eastern Palace days. By the way, didn’t your letter say you’d arrive early? Wang Yong and I have already finished a round of morning tea. What took you so long?"
"The roads were packed with traffic..." Second Lin replied, still adjusting to the unfamiliar seating arrangement. The private room at Shen's Tavern featured only one large round table, a departure from the traditional individual dining setups.
The table was draped with an elegant cloud-patterned cloth embroidered with "Shen's Tavern." He shifted uneasily—was it proper to share a table with the emperor?
Zhao Boyun read his thoughts instantly and waved a dismissive hand. Instead, he eagerly motioned for Liang Qian to summon the servers. "You really are a little stickler, just like that old pedant Mr. Yao taught you! Forget the formalities. Madam Shen’s round table is the most comfortable way to dine. Look—this chair was custom-made for me by Madam Shen! What was it called again...?"
Liang Qian quickly supplied, "The Ergo Chair."
Lin Wen’an leaned over to inspect it. The chair was indeed unusual, with a springy leather cushion sewn onto the seat and a curved backrest perfectly contoured to accommodate the emperor’s broad frame. The armrests were adjustable, their height tailored to Zhao Boyun’s proportions, and the sturdy legs ensured stability—every detail crafted to fit the emperor’s imposing stature.
Zhao Boyun leaned back comfortably in his chair and enthusiastically recommended, "This private dining room was also specially reserved for me by Madam Shen. Every time I slip away—ahem, every time I leave the palace, I dine here. No one else comes, so you can eat without worry. It’s been five or six years since you last returned, hasn’t it? First, you were recovering from your injuries, then you went home to observe mourning. You’ve missed so many of Shenji’s excellent dishes! Later, when the food arrives, you must try as much as you can. Let me tell you, Madam Shen’s cooking—you could eat it for a year and never tire of it, though you might gain some weight."
Lin Wen'an blinked. After years apart, Liang Qian had transformed from a lean, hunched old man into a plump, round one. He glanced at Zhao Boyun, whose chin now boasted three layers, then turned to Wang Yong, whose belly protruded so far it nearly touched the table. Suddenly, he believed the emperor’s words weren’t the slightest exaggeration.
It seemed the food was truly delicious—and the weight gain inevitable.
"Unfortunately, your timing isn’t ideal. Madam Shen and her young husband have gone traveling for a holiday. Right now, her apprentices are the ones cooking at Shenji Restaurant. But don’t worry—her disciples are quite skilled, and their dishes are still worth trying."
Zhao Boyun clicked his tongue regretfully. The signature Wenchang chicken at Shenji—though others might not notice—always tasted better to him when Madam Shen prepared it herself.
Thinking of the chicken, he quickly added, "Ah, I’ve already sent someone to fetch roasted duck from the old Shenji shop across the bridge. You absolutely must try their duck. Nowadays, they raise their own ducks for roasting, and the chef’s skills have improved even further. It’s even more delicious than before."
Zhao Boyun’s eyes sparkled at the mention of roasted duck, but his expression soon turned indignant. "After Madam Shen opened this restaurant, the old shop became dedicated solely to roasted duck, and business is still booming. A while ago, I kindly wrote an imperial plaque for her—‘The World’s Best Duck Shop’—but do you know what she said? She asked if I could rewrite it and remove the word ‘shop’! Can you believe it? She actually dared to nitpick my calligraphy! And that ‘shop’ character was the one I thought I’d written best. Utterly lacking in taste!"
Yet beneath Zhao Boyun’s grumbling, Lin Wen'an detected a hint of fondness. Curious, he asked, "Your Majesty holds Madam Shen in high regard?"
"You don’t know this, but Madam Shen isn’t just an exceptional cook—she’s also broad-minded and upright, a rare and admirable woman." Zhao Boyun didn’t hesitate to praise her. He recalled three years ago, when he’d sent Liang Qian to deliver part of the Lejiang Marquis’s confiscated wealth as compensation for her parents’ wrongful deaths in the horse-riding incident. But Madam Shen had returned the riches, asking instead for an imperial plaque inscribed by his own hand.
She didn’t want money—how noble! He adored such integrity. Delighted, Zhao Boyun not only wrote "Shenji Restaurant" in grand calligraphy but went the extra mile, commissioning the finest lacquered plaque. He even had Liang Qian, dressed in full court attire, lead a procession with fanfare from the Donghua Gate all the way to her new shop across the Jinliang Bridge, where workers hung it with great ceremony.
This grand gesture gave her business a tremendous boost. Seizing the opportunity, Madam Shen spread the word that Shenji was "the breakfast spot even the emperor loves," creating enough hype to ensure a spectacular opening.
On the first day, the crowd nearly trampled the threshold flat.
But Zhao Boyun had only helped her this once. From then on, retaining so many customers was entirely due to Madam Shen’s clever management and the unique flavors she and her apprentices crafted.
Indeed, over three years, she’d taken in several young boys and girls, personally training them until they mastered their specialties. Now, they’d earned their own reputations at Shenji.
At first, the restaurant wasn’t nearly this large. But last year, Madam Shen decisively purchased four adjacent shops, merging and renovating them into the splendid establishment it was today.
She expanded further, adding tea service and wedding banquets. Most strikingly, she held her own wedding to Xie Jiu right in the restaurant, inviting guests to witness the celebration. The banquet hall was transformed into a dreamlike wonderland, adorned with flowers and lined with enormous portraits of the couple from the entrance to the main hall.
Zhao Boyun, ever one for excitement, snuck out in disguise to watch.
The crowd that day was so massive it clogged the streets. Even riding in Wang Yong’s Kaifeng magistrate carriage, he couldn’t get through. In the end, he, Wang Yong, and Liang Qian had to rely on sheer physical bulk to push their way in, panting and sweating.
Madam Shen’s wedding banquet became the talk of the town—not least because she was stunningly beautiful, and Xie Jiu was exceptionally handsome.
By personally showcasing Shenji’s grandeur, she propelled its fame to new heights. Yet her journey hadn’t been smooth. It took her three full years to build Shenji into the bustling success it was today.
At the time, Xie Jiu had already passed the imperial exams, but Zhao Boyun, wary of his background, hadn’t granted him an official post. Xie Jiu didn’t seem to mind, spending his days at Madam Shen’s side, painting and inscribing calligraphy for Shenji—she insisted the restaurant’s decor change with the seasons, and every festival required a complete thematic overhaul.
Every holiday, Shenji adopted a new "theme," all conceived and illustrated by Xie Jiu. Only after Shen Miao approved the designs would craftsmen bring them to life.
Later, impressed by Xie Jiu’s insightful writings and exceptional artistry, Zhao Boyun finally appointed him to the Hanlin Academy as an imperial edict drafter, responsible for composing decrees, pardons, and diplomatic documents.
Meanwhile, Madam Shen’s ambitions grew. Not content with revolutionizing weddings in taverns, she pioneered a new model in Bianjing—combining morning tea, lunch, and banquet dining under one roof.
After marriage, far from retreating into domesticity, she grew bolder.
One day, she sent Liang Qian to the palace with a "Public-Private Partnership Proposal," boldly suggesting Zhao Boyun invest in Shenji. She envisioned transforming it into a hybrid enterprise, making it the official venue for hosting foreign envoys—she wanted to elevate Shenji to a state banquet level!
After reading it, Zhao Boyun couldn’t help but admire her vision.
And, truthfully, he couldn’t refuse.
Madam Shen’s proposal included projected annual dividends for his stake… so much money! With those funds, he could finally commission another golden medal for General Yue!
He had no choice—his imperial treasury was empty. Again.
These past few years, he hadn’t been idle. He’d bought the recipe for soup cakes from a certain Mr. Tang, built workshops across the Sixteen Prefectures, constructed highways along the borders, and sent envoys to the Western Regions.
Yet in just three years, the treasury was drained once more. Thinking of this, Zhao Boyun nearly wept: Silver, oh silver, why must you vanish so quickly?
And so, Shenji Restaurant became what it was today. Zhao Boyun’s attitude toward it had shifted entirely—this was his investment too! It wasn’t just Madam Shen’s Shenji anymore. It was his Shenji as well!
Out of the selfish thought that "if Madam Shen earns more, he too would profit more," Zhao Boyun had originally planned to secretly grant Shen's establishment the prestigious "official shop" license. To his surprise, Madam Shen chuckled and revealed that she had already partnered with the Gu family, borrowing their ancestral official shop license. She had even consulted Chen Chuan to comb through government regulations, discovering a loophole that allowed her to brew and sell wine long ago...
Zhao Boyun: "..."
Her sharp wits left no room for his concern!
Lin Wen'an rested his chin on his hand, listening as Zhao Boyun animatedly and endlessly recounted the culinary wonders of Shen's establishment—it was as if he were seeing the plump young crown prince from years past all over again.
On his first day at the Eastern Palace back then, Zhao Boyun had held a greasy lotus-leaf bundle in his hands and, noticing his nervousness upon entering the imperial quarters, greeted him with: "The new imperial chef’s roasted lotus-leaf duck is quite good. Care for some?"
A smile softened the corners of his eyes as he turned his gaze toward the window.
Outside, a sprig of red wintersweet stretched from a vase on the sill, while beyond the lattice, snow fell steadily and unhurriedly.
Though deep winter had returned, the season’s chill brought no harm.
It was... just fine.
