9. Pork Trotter Noodles

By early afternoon, the stall finally quieted down.

Wen Zhongxia and Xu Xiu took advantage of the lull before Uncle Li arrived to clean the counter and stove. Both were tired but happy.

Wen Zhongxia roughly calculated that today’s earnings were over seven hundred wen. After deducting about a hundred wen in costs, the net income was five to six hundred wen.

Accounting for days when weather or other uncontrollable factors prevented them from setting up the stall, they could probably make around ten guan a month.

It wouldn’t be enough to open a shop yet, but at least there was no need to worry about going hungry or losing their place to live.

“When I see your eldest brother, I’ll tell him about today. From now on, he can’t say I’m just a woman who knows nothing,” Wen Zhongxia said.

Xu Xiu wiped the sauce from the cracks on the counter, a faint smile gracing her delicate face.

Today she had served dozens of customers, all students from the Imperial Academy. Over twenty years of life, she might never have spoken to so many unfamiliar men.

If it had been before, she couldn’t have imagined it, and might even have said such things were improper.

But having come this far, she found it wasn’t difficult. The students were all polite, many even addressed her with respectful language.

She was beginning to understand the saying her little sister-in-law had mentioned—that labor knows no nobility or baseness.

Wen Zhongxia smiled and shook the rag lightly. “By then, my eldest brother might be penniless and have to rely on his wife to support him.”

“That would make him a kept man! No, no, that can’t be said. Men can’t hear such words,” Xu Xiu quickly waved her hands.

The deeply ingrained beliefs of women in ancient times couldn’t be changed overnight. Wen Zhongxia knew she had to be patient.

“Uh ah… uh ah…”

Wen Mengdong’s ears perked up excitedly as he waved his hand. “Uh ah uh ah… it’s the big black donkey coming!”

Big black donkey: Oh no, this boy’s calls have gotten off track.

They rode Uncle Li’s donkey cart home and stopped by the butcher’s to pick up the agreed-upon tenderloin. The butcher had almost sold out, only four pig’s feet remained unclaimed.

Pig’s feet had little meat and a strong odor, requiring a lot of firewood to cook, so most families didn’t like them.

But Wen Zhongxia, as if finding treasure, bought all four feet for a very cheap price.

Xu Xiu wanted to say the trotters were dirty and not tasty, but then thought her sister-in-law was resourceful and might come up with something delicious, so she let it go.

Seeing the pig’s feet, Wen Zhongxia immediately thought of making pig’s feet noodles.

She scraped the hair off the feet several times, burning the stubborn roots with fire.

She loved pig’s feet but absolutely could not have any hair remaining.

Now that finances were a bit looser, she could afford spices—star anise, cinnamon, fennel—bundled into sachets with gauze, so she could add them generously to the pot without worry.

Authentic pig’s feet noodles usually used bamboo-pressed noodles made by rolling dough with large bamboo poles. Without such tools, hand-pulled noodles would do.

After the dough had rested, Wen Zhongxia rolled it into long strips, then held both ends and slammed it heavily onto the board, twisting it into a braided shape, stretching, slamming again, repeating the process.

The strips, originally as thick as two fingers, gradually transformed amid flying flour dust.

After the final slam, she shook the fine powder in midair, revealing a handful of thin noodles.

“Wow!” Wen Mengdong’s mouth opened wide like an egg. He hadn’t blinked once.

His sister had said she couldn’t perform magic and was lying.

Xu Xiu was nearly stunned, leaning in to examine the noodles—each strand uniform in thickness, smooth, and not sticky.

“Xia’er, even the master chefs at Fan Tower wouldn’t have your skills,” she said.

“They’re a top-tier restaurant; I wouldn’t dare compare,” Wen Zhongxia replied, picking up another strip to continue pounding. “These noodles are just the most basic skill in white flour dough work. You could learn to make them in a couple of tries, sister-in-law.”

When the pig’s feet in the pot were soft enough to be pierced easily with chopsticks, she boiled water and dropped the noodles in.

The pale yellow noodles were spiraled neatly in a clean white porcelain bowl, topped with reddish braised pig’s feet, tender green vegetable hearts blanched for a few seconds and arranged beside the meat, two spoonfuls of glossy, thick pig’s feet broth poured over, and finally sprinkled with some chopped scallions—complete.

The pig’s feet were cooked until unbelievably tender; even the tendons turned translucent, and a gentle bite peeled the skin and meat clean off the bone.

Wen Zhongxia loved the little ring of skin the most—quivering and exceptionally soft, full of collagen.

Wen Mengdong was already eagerly biting into it, his small front teeth nibbling clean like a hamster.

“I want it spicy! Who else wants some?” Wen Zhongxia mixed a spoonful of fragrant chili sauce into the noodles. Xu Xiu barely swallowed and mumbled, “Me too, just a little.”

Handmade noodles hold sauce best, turning color soaked in the rich broth. Wrapped up, slurped in a bite, they slid smoothly into the stomach—silky and chewy, with a fresh and mellow flavor that doubled in aroma when biting into the chili.

Xu Xiu felt many emotions but could only say the simplest words as the food reached her lips: “Delicious.”

She rolled the noodles so thoroughly that not a drop of broth was left in the bowl. By the edge lay a pile of small bones. She blushed a little, wondering if she had eaten too cleanly.

Looking at her sister-in-law’s bowl, which was just as empty, she relaxed.

Finishing every last bit is the greatest respect to fine food.

“Sister,” Wen Mengdong’s eyes were a bit panicked as he licked his lips, “why is my mouth sticky?”

“That’s collagen, good stuff,” Wen Zhongxia said.

Upon hearing this, Wen Mengdong stuck out his tongue and licked it, not wanting to waste any.

Since the snowfall a few days ago, the temperature had risen day by day, and the late spring chill had finally passed.

Wen Zhongxia shed her cotton-padded jacket and changed into lighter clothes: a narrow-sleeved short jacket on top, a long skirt below, her hair tied into the popular Tongxin bun among Tokyo’s young ladies.

All her hair was pinned up, convenient for work and no worry about hair falling into the dough.

After three days of selling, more and more students wanted hand-grabbed pancakes. Even today, as they sat in the donkey cart, they saw students lingering near their stall from afar.

Wen Zhongxia seemed to see coins hovering over their heads—just a step closer and they’d be hers.

The students were in no hurry, reciting their books in “zhi hu zhe ye” style while waiting.

These must be the ancient “study kings,” akin to the brilliant students who once stood in corridors before dawn reciting foreign languages.

Wen Mengdong no longer looked like a dumpling without his cotton jacket, but after being well-fed by Wen Zhongxia these days, his face was plump, fair, and tender.

He looked up with a round, dumpling-like face, staring blankly at the elder brother reciting, unsure if he understood a word.

Wen Zhongxia noticed. Since the family’s misfortune, her little brother’s education had been interrupted. The Imperial Academy included a primary school for children eight and older.

If Wen Mengdong was to attend the Imperial Academy, preparations should start now.

“Lady Wen, I want five hand-grabbed pancakes,” Qin Qian hurried over, panting.

He had bought from her several days running; Wen Zhongxia was already familiar with him and smiled, “Sir, you’re a bit late today.” The bell was about to ring.

Qin Qian caught his breath, his face wrinkled like a bitter melon. “I reviewed lessons last night and slept in this morning. My classmates got up even later, so I have to buy for them.”

Wen Zhongxia knew this all too well—no campus life was complete without bringing meals for roommates.

Qin Qian even held a note and read aloud: “Two spicy, one spicy with tenderloin and tofu skin, one with all vegetables, that’s mine. Three with sweet bean sauce, two with tenderloin and potatoes, one with just potatoes.”

“Lady Wen, I’m sorry if my order’s too complicated. Should I say it again?” he asked, scratching his neck sheepishly.

“No need, I remember it,” Wen Zhongxia immediately repeated his order.

Remembering customers’ preferences is basic business.

Qin Qian was amazed at her memory, wishing he had such a talent for memorization to ease his studies.

Time was tight. Qin Qian took the pancakes, thanked her, and dashed back, just meeting his classmates outside the lecture hall.

“Thanks, Brother Qin. Next time I’ll get yours,” one said.

“I’m starving! Where’s mine?” came a shout from their Shandong classmate.

Zeng Nian was more extravagant: “Brother Qin, you’re a bodhisattva saving us from misery. If I’m ever elected head of the study hall, I’ll vote for you.”

Unaware of them, Qin Qian mumbled, “Don’t just say nice things, back them up with action.”

Zeng Nian ate heartily but kept glancing outside, fearing the professor’s arrival.

Qin Qian said, “No need to worry. Today’s first class is Dr. Sun’s on the classics, and he’s always late. Take your time eating.”

He enjoyed the pancakes with satisfaction. Most northern classmates couldn’t handle spicy food; the chili added at food shops was a disgrace to chili peppers. Only Lady Wen’s spicy sauce was truly satisfying, making everything taste better.

Hearing this, Zeng Nian relaxed. “Even if Dr. Sun sees it, he won’t say anything. But if it were Dr. Hang…”

He clicked his tongue twice; all was understood without words.

Just then, the head of the study hall in the center of the front row suddenly stood and bowed loudly, greeting, “Good day, Doctor.”

Zeng Nian sprang up, eyes nearly popping out—it was none other than Dr. Hang.

Fortunately, he had just swallowed his last bite of pancake and discreetly balled up the grease paper, tossing it under the desk.

Qin Qian behind him wasn’t so lucky. His deluxe pancake was piled high and naturally ate slower.

He gulped it down hastily, but the more rushed he was, the harder it was to swallow.

Lowering his head, Qin Qian silently prayed, “Please don’t see me, please don’t see me.”

“Please be seated,” Hang Yao’s clear, steady voice scanned the room. “Dr. Sun is unwell; I will substitute for him today.”

The students sat, and Qin Qian breathed a sigh of relief. Now he just had to swallow quickly and all would be well.

“Qin Qian.”

The call from the lectern startled him. He quickly stood, mumbling, “Present, sir.”

“Dr. Sun said you’ve finished studying the ‘Records of Learning’ chapter in the Book of Rites,” Hang Yao descended from the stage. “Let me test you: what is the next line after ‘The good learner learns with ease and doubles his efforts, then learns from the ordinary’?”

Qin Qian glanced nervously as the professor approached, hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting. “The poor learner learns with diligence…”

He still had food in his mouth, heart in turmoil, though he had memorized it last night.

“The poor learner… cough cough…”

At that moment, a chili pepper lodged in his throat, igniting a fierce burning sensation.

“Cough cough… sorry, Doctor…”

Qin Qian coughed violently, covering his mouth with a hand pulled from behind, revealing the half-eaten pancake.

Nearby students stifled laughter; Zeng Nian bent over his desk, shoulders trembling with suppressed giggles.

Hang Yao lowered his gaze to the pancake in Qin Qian’s hand. His expression was unreadable but exuded immense pressure.

“Out. Finish eating, then come back in.”

“Yes, student knows his mistake. Cough cough…” Qin Qian’s head nearly touched his knees, regretting asking Lady Wen for extra spicy sauce.

He stepped out in full view, leaning against the corridor wall as the discomfort in his throat subsided.

He sighed silently, biting into the pancake as if venting frustration.

Hey, it really is delicious.