Chapter 164: Zhang Family Cuisine (Celebrating One Week Since Publication)

However, this kind of allure could only exist during high school. University was an entirely different concept compared to high school. Here, there were fellow students from all corners of the country, as well as teachers and professors from diverse backgrounds and family origins. A Hutong kid like the youngest maternal uncle, when compared in such an environment, amounted to nothing at all. People, regardless of gender, immediately broadened their horizons the moment they arrived here. Especially for the young people of this era, this place and the outside world were fundamentally two different realms.

If the youngest maternal uncle could also pass the entrance exams for a university, and if he himself offered some ideas and gave him a push, Hong Tao felt there might still be some hope for the two of them. As things stood now, one was a university student, and the other was a worker who had gone straight to take over his family's job right after graduating from high school. Unless their future was carefully planned out by that Auntie Qiong, no adult who had experienced university life would hold any hope for their romantic relationship.

Moreover, once in university, the uncle would be completely out of Hong Tao’s sphere of control. No matter how much Hong Tao wanted to help him, his reach simply could not extend that far—the phrase "the whip is long, but it cannot reach the horse's belly" existed precisely for situations like this! The biggest problem was not even this, but the fact that Hong Tao could not mention this matter to the uncle in advance. Women in love were dim-witted, and men in love were absolute idiots. Even if Hong Tao spoke up, his uncle wouldn't believe him, and worst of all, Hong Tao would end up playing the bad guy, leaving him with no choice but to watch helplessly.

The brevity of the time between the youngest maternal uncle's graduation and the start of his job showed just how deeply the grandfather cherished his youngest son. Before the summer vacation had even ended, the uncle put on the flared trousers and floral undershirt newly made by his younger sister, took the baton from the old man's hands, and followed the path his grandfather had once walked, taking over the task of contributing to the revolutionary cause.

Of course, he no longer walked the dozen or so li on foot; instead, he bought a monthly bus pass and rode the bus to work every day. In fact, he did own a bicycle, but he refused to ride it. Wearing flared trousers made cycling a hassle; the trouser legs constantly got caught in the chainring, or if they avoided that, they would act like a rag, wiping up all the oily grime from the center axle. For a trendy young man like the youngest uncle—who valued style over comfort and was determined to keep his hairstyle intact at all costs—he would rather endure a crowded bus than let his trousers suffer.

To celebrate his uncle's transformation from a student into a glorious worker, Hong Tao made a special trip to the Friendship Store to buy a pair of brown leather shoes. The uppers featured a pleated collar around the instep—which people in Beijing called "shumai shoes"—and presented them to him as an adult coming-of-age gift. Following his uncle's departure from the school, Hong Tao had to keep an even lower profile. No longer was there anyone to shield him from the wind and rain. Furthermore, those lower-grade students who had been bullied by the uncle in the past were likely waiting for the chance to make Hong Tao pay off that blood debt.

Fortunately, Hong Tao had already developed a certain capacity for self-defense. Having studied judo for three years, though not particularly diligently, even spending every day acting as a human punching bag allowed one to pick up some skills in taking a beating. In a one-on-one fight with an ordinary person, regardless of age and as long as no weapons were involved, Hong Tao could guarantee that whether he fell first or the opponent fell first, once they hit the ground, the one ultimately pinned and subdued would definitely be the opponent. Hong Tao's standing throws were mediocre, but his ground-grappling techniques were quite good; he particularly enjoyed using various joint locks and chokes to force his sparring partners to pat the mat in surrender. Whenever he saw the grimacing expressions of his practice partners, he felt an immense sense of accomplishment.

As for multi-opponent fights, Hong Tao felt that knowing judo was of little real use. Aside from having slightly quicker reflexes, better body balance, and greater flexibility, a beating was a beating, and not a single blow could be avoided. Hong Tao had once discussed this issue in depth with Coach Pang, wanting to know whether reaching Coach Pang's level would truly allow someone to single-handedly clear out a whole gang.

"Run! Only an idiot fights a large group of people! Even if you're a world champion, a punch to the eye will make you cry, a punch to the nose will make your nose sting, and a kick to the groin will leave you unable to get back up. What we practice is judo, not the Iron Cloth Shirt!" Coach Pang's reply was blunt, leaving Hong Tao deeply disappointed.

Originally, he had thought that by gritting his teeth and studying for a few more years, he could become a martial arts master capable of sweeping across an entire street single-handedly. Who would have guessed that if one wished to avoid causing fatal harm, running away was still the only option? What was the point of practicing this crappy art then? He might as well just take up sprinting.

Complaints aside, he still had to continue learning whatever he needed to learn, striving to finish out these elementary school years. By the time he entered junior high, even if he wanted to keep learning, he wouldn't have the opportunity. At that point, evaluations would begin; if you wanted to keep practicing, you had to produce results, otherwise you had to make space for others, as many younger children were waiting in line to learn.

Before the summer vacation arrived, the private restaurant was finally completely finished. The entire renovation process alone took seven months. Looking at the antique, classical interior, Hong Tao couldn't help but sigh inwardly: No wonder emperors of every dynasty rushed to have their tombs built the moment they ascended the throne—at this pace, it really wasn't starting too early!

The restaurant was named Zhang Family Mansion Cuisine, and its signboard was quite distinctive. It consisted of four square wooden boards fixed along the diagonals from the top of the building down the corners of the wall. Each board was carved with a large character filled in with red paint against a black background, with tassels hanging from the bottom. In addition, Hong Tao personally wrote a brief English introduction to the history of mansion cuisine near the stairwell, framed it, and mounted it on the wall. This way, when tour guides brought foreign guests over, they could immediately see what the place was about without even stepping inside.

"Hong Tao, what kind of cuisine is this mansion cuisine anyway? Have you ever eaten it?" The first person interested in the restaurant wasn't a foreign guest, but rather one of Hong Tao's regular customers, Ms. Jiang.

"Hey, if you don't try this food, you're doing yourself a disservice! I've definitely eaten it; otherwise, how about you have some free time the other day, call up your colleagues, and I'll treat you to a meal?" Upon hearing this, Hong Tao thought to himself: *Bingo, business has delivered itself to my door!* The tour guides usually hosted ordinary foreign tourists, but since Ms. Jiang and her colleagues worked as translators for the Ministry of Commerce, the foreigners they interacted with were surely high-end clientele.

"Just for your attentiveness, this restaurant must belong to your family, right? Are you planning to use us to advertise for you? Fine, I'll indulge you once. I'll ask a few of them to come along and show our support another day, but you don't need to treat us," Ms. Jiang immediately saw through Hong Tao's intentions. However, she was already very familiar with him; over the past two years, she had lost count of how many Foreign Exchange Certificates she had exchanged for this kid, making them practically friends.

"You mustn't just show up on your own—if you do, you won't get to eat anything. The old gentleman doing the cooking has very strict rules! He only prepares two tables of food a day, with eight people per table, and not a single extra portion is made. So if you want to eat here, you have to make a reservation in advance." Hong Tao chuckled. As long as you're interested, I have a way to make you try it. This modern hunger-marketing strategy could fool people even in later generations, let alone people of this era.

"Is it really that mysterious? I don't believe it. Can he make flowers out of food? Help me book a table then... how about the day after tomorrow evening? Eight people, I'm booking a whole table!" Sure enough, Ms. Jiang took the bait. People in her circle were not short on money and frequently traveled abroad; what they lacked was a place worth spending it.

"Deal! I guarantee that after this meal, you'll want to come back for another!" Hong Tao didn't even mention the price to Ms. Jiang, as he was well aware of her spending power.

"Wait! That's not right! You should at least let me look at the menu and order some dishes, right?" Ms. Jiang wasn't generous enough to be taken for a complete sucker.

"There is no menu! You just eat whatever the chef prepares! If you're not satisfied, we won't charge you a single penny! How does that sound?" Hong Tao patted his chest as if he possessed immense authority.

"Well, that's a novelty. If I'm not satisfied with the meal when the time comes, I really won't pay a single cent! Don't go crying that I'm stingy!" Ms. Jiang was provoked by Hong Tao into a genuine competitive spirit; she had never heard of a restaurant that let customers decide whether or not to pay.

"No problem at all! If you aren't satisfied with the meal, not only will you not have to pay, but I'll also give you eight free hair-perming coupons as compensation for your emotional distress!" Hong Tao had even more confidence in Grandpa Dajian's culinary skills than in his own hairdressing skills.

During the first month of the summer vacation, Hong Tao repeated these words to people numerous times almost every day. Not only did Ms. Jiang disbelieve it, but the tour guides didn't either. Consequently, after Ms. Jiang and her colleagues finished their first meal and obediently paid the 200 yuan, the reputation of the Zhang Family Mansion Cuisine began to spread within a small circle. Whenever Ms. Jiang and her colleagues had the task of hosting foreign guests who happened to take an interest in Chinese cuisine, they would strongly recommend this small restaurant with its unique flavor. Not only did they want those foreigners to experience Chinese culinary culture, but as translators, they could also satisfy their own cravings at the same time.

As the saying goes, all things are difficult at first! Once the first step was taken, subsequent matters often became much easier. With Ms. Jiang and the others bringing foreign guests to show their support, Hong Tao found plenty of room to showcase his talents. Whenever he could catch them, he would take out his camera to take souvenir photos of Grandpa Dajian, his father, and even Dajian himself alongside the foreign guests. He would then get the photos developed and enlarged at a photo studio before framing and hanging them by the staircase.

In this way, when other foreign tourists saw their own compatriots dining here, they instantly felt a strong sense of affinity and trust. Those who had originally intended to try the place out but held lingering doubts would cast their worries aside and muster the courage to give it a shot. Even those who were indecisive might take that extra step forward simply because of those photographs.

In addition, Hong Tao specifically took photos of several of Grandpa Dajian's signature dishes, accompanied by bilingual descriptions in Chinese and English detailing the basic ingredients. He compiled these into a photo album so foreign tourists could browse while they ate, ensuring they at least understood what they were chewing on. (To be continued...)

*(Translator's note: Celebrating the one hundred years, two months, and twelve hours since the birth of Pavlov... Book friends are very enthusiastic—we must celebrate 500 votes, and we must celebrate one week since publication! Every time they celebrate, my backlog gets smaller! But I'm also very happy; when I wrote books in the past, it was never this lively. People who bring joy to others find joy themselves. What are stockplied chapters for anyway? Aren't they meant to bring everyone happiness? So let's release more chapters—not reluctantly at all, absolutely no loss at all! Of course, don't let me confuse you all: I still have plenty of drafts in reserve, and every 30 monthly votes will trigger an extra chapter release. Having a backlog of chapters gives me the luxury to be bold!)*