Chapter Twenty-One: The Man with a Tattoo on His Neck

At half past ten in the evening, Neighbor’s Kitchen closed for the night.

It wasn’t for lack of customers, but simply because they’d run out of ingredients.

Everyone felt helpless about this.

Li Can walked into the front hall, where Su Rui was cleaning up.

He took the towel from around his neck, held it in his hand, and sipped the tea that had long since gone cold. “Was there an argument outside just now?”

“It wasn’t really an argument. A few customers complained about the shredded pork in garlic sauce, saying it wasn’t good and didn’t live up to its name.”

Li Can paused, frowning. “If that happens again, call me right away. I need to know what the actual problem is.”

Su Rui looked up, forcing a faint smile. “I understand, but you don’t need to worry. In the food business, picky customers are inevitable. You can’t please everyone. It’s normal—don’t take it to heart.”

“If only that were really the case.” With worry clouding his features, Li Can turned toward the kitchen. He lifted the curtain but let it fall back, uncertain. “Were those dissatisfied customers together?”

“No, actually, they—” Su Rui began without thinking, then hesitated, realizing something was off.

“They came one after another, as if on cue. Each time, just minutes after the last left, a new one would show up. They never asked anything, just ordered, took a few bites, and then started complaining, saying the food was only worth a few yuan. Because of them, a lot of curious customers lost interest in trying our dishes.”

“Have you seen them before?”

“No, they were all strangers. Each looked rather fierce. Oh, and one of them was odd—he wore a baseball cap with the brim pulled low, as if he was afraid of being recognized. But he had a tattoo on his neck, very noticeable, right here.” Su Rui pointed to just below her cheekbone.

A tattoo on the neck?

“What kind of tattoo?” Li Can’s expression changed.

“I didn’t get a good look…” Su Rui thought, with so many people around, who had the time to stare at a stranger’s tattoo? How rude would that be?

But before she could finish, Li Can slammed the towel onto the table with a loud smack and strode out, murderous intent in his eyes.

“Li Can, what are you doing?” Su Rui cried in alarm and hurried after him.

“Su Rui, I’m fine. There’s a pot of boiling water in the kitchen—keep an eye on it for me,” Li Can called over his shoulder without stopping.

Anxious, Su Rui rushed back to the kitchen, only to find the stove was off.

By the time she dashed back outside,

Li Can had vanished.

…

The old street stretched more than three hundred meters. Along the way, aside from restaurants, there were sundry shops, hardware stores, mahjong parlors—businesses woven into daily life.

So, apart from the dining crowd, the street was actually quite lively.

Of all these, the most popular spot was undoubtedly “Fiery Kitchen” at the entrance.

The Fiery Kitchen had once been a humble bun shop, run by an old man surnamed Shen, whom nearly every resident of the street knew.

Back in his younger days, Old Shen was a hard worker, rising at three every morning to steam buns.

In his time, there weren’t many restaurants around, so Old Shen’s place quickly gained a reputation, earning him the nickname “Shen Three Buns.”

When he realized how well his business was doing, Old Shen leased the two neighboring storefronts. In just a few years, his business flourished.

He branched out into other foods—noodles, pan-fried dumplings, hot and sour noodles—but none found much success.

As customers dwindled and the shop’s reputation faltered, Old Shen decided to gamble. He spent heavily to hire Zhao Gang, a head chef from a three-star hotel.

And it worked. With Zhao Gang’s skill, the former bun shop transformed into today’s thriving “Fiery Kitchen.”

Lunches focused on stir-fries, while evenings centered on rustic, hearty dishes, with business running until one or two in the morning almost every day.

Old Shen was satisfied and, growing older, gradually stepped back, leaving everything in Zhao Gang’s capable hands, trusting him completely.

Now, in the restaurant’s only private room, Zhao Gang was dining and drinking with several other restaurant owners and a man in a baseball cap.

Laughter mingled with thick clouds of smoke—the number of smokers was overwhelming.

Their table was enormous, laden with dishes as big as washbasins.

Braised pork intestines,

Spicy crayfish,

Fried chicken cubes with chilies,

Stir-fried clams,

Double-pepper fish maw,

Chilled crucian carp—over ten rustic specialties!

The dishes overlapped, slick with oil, not a single vegetable in sight—a true display of extravagance.

“Gentlemen, let’s raise a glass to Eagle,” Zhao Gang said, wearing a disposable glove on his left hand as he held a sauce-covered crayfish, his right hand lifting a brimming wine glass.

At his feet sat a dozen empty bottles—a testament to his drinking prowess.

“Yes, let’s toast to Eagle—thanks for your effort.”

These were shrewd men, quick to respond. They drained their glasses in one go, leaving nothing behind, full of sincerity.

Eagle merely raised his hand, sipping only half his wine.

Drinking etiquette at the table was a matter of subtle rules.

When juniors toasted elders, the elder could drink as they pleased, but the junior must finish their cup.

When an elder toasted a junior, the junior must stand, hold the glass with both hands, and keep the rim lower than the elder’s—otherwise, it was a sign of disrespect.

Now, with a group of men in their forties all toasting, but Eagle drinking so nonchalantly, it was clear he saw himself as above them all—or simply looked down on them.

The bosses’ faces flickered with discomfort but were quickly masked.

Eagle ignored them, tugging at his collar to cover the tattoo on his neck so no one could see it, then resumed eating clams.

He spat the shells carelessly onto the floor, and the oily residue splattered onto Zhao Gang’s trousers.

Zhao Gang withdrew his leg without a word, pretending not to notice.

“Gentlemen, with Eagle involved now, that woman surnamed Su will never survive in the old street. Hmph, she wants to change the rules without our consent? Not a chance!”

“Exactly.” One portly boss, flushed with drink, raised his voice. “If she succeeds in raising prices, what will customers think of us? That our food isn’t as good, or our ingredients aren’t as fresh? She’s clearly disregarding us.”

“A girl in her twenties—what does she know? She’ll learn soon enough,” another boss agreed.

“But…” The middle-aged man near the window hesitated. “Old Zhao, I support whatever you do, but this Eagle…”

Zhao Gang caught his concern and smiled. “My friend here may still be wanted…”

“Ahem,” Eagle coughed, hinting at caution.

Zhao Gang chuckled awkwardly and continued, “Don’t worry, Eagle knows his limits. He won’t go too far—there’s no need to be ruthless with a small restaurant. Just make her give up.”

“That’s a relief,” several bosses said, picking up their glasses again.

Just then, a commotion erupted outside,

and the closed door was violently kicked open.

If time could slow in that moment,

one would see the metal latch fly off, the wooden door, under tremendous force, shooting forward like an arrow, smashing straight into Zhao Gang as he tilted his head back for a drink.

Cough!

Caught off guard, Zhao Gang choked on his wine, utterly stunned.

(To be continued…)