Chapter Five: A Modest Culinary Attempt

Zhang Xuan walked out of the courtyard after Old Master Tong as if he’d lost his soul, his mind still lingering on fantasies of his own golden finger—how had it disappeared? Why was fate so unfair? The bitterness gnawed at him. Others had their cheats; he had nothing. Ambition welled up inside him with nowhere to go, a head full of knowledge but no means to put it into practice…

He was still brooding when Old Master Tong suddenly stopped, causing Zhang Xuan to walk right into him. Rubbing his forehead, Zhang Xuan looked around. This wasn’t a river—it was clearly just a little creek! It wasn’t far from the village either, maybe fifty or sixty meters at most. So it was true—ancient villages were built by the mountain and near water. What a pity, Zhang Xuan thought, such a prime location wasted. If this were developed for real estate, it would be a “creek-view house”! Yet, to develop it would be a waste of resources—nobody would buy it anyway. If only he could build it himself—a way to fortune nipped in the bud.

“Old Master Tong, hand me the knife, will you? I’ll clean out the fish and the wild pheasant. You can start gathering some firewood. And see if you can find any yellow clay nearby—if you do, bring some back.”

Zhang Xuan shamelessly gave his instructions. Old Master Tong handed him the knife, saying, “Be careful, you little rascal. The knife is sharp, and you’ve only just recovered from illness—don’t cut yourself. Yellow clay, you say? What do you need that for? Not building a stove, are you? Still, I think I’ve seen some around here.”

Zhang Xuan rolled his eyes, suspecting Old Master Tong was going through a midlife crisis. “Just go, will you? If you find any, bring more. With it, or without it, the taste will be completely different. As for safety, I’ll manage. It’s not like I’ve never used a knife. Back in my part-time days—I gutted fish, slaughtered chickens, even worked at a smelly market from four in the morning until seven, went home for a shower, then off to work at the office. Thank goodness those days are over. But now, it seems I’ve fallen into another pit. Why is my life always so hard?”

Old Master Tong was bewildered. What was all this nonsense about markets, four in the morning, offices, and pits? He shook his head. “I’ll ask you about it another time. Your Zhang family village is odd enough as it is, and now there’s you, who talks about things nobody understands. I’ll go gather firewood—be careful.”

With that, Old Master Tong headed into the forest, not wanting to spend another moment with Zhang Xuan.

“We’re not even from the same era,” Zhang Xuan muttered. “The generational gap between us could stretch till dawn and still not be bridged.”

Zhang Xuan moved to the creek and, with practiced hands, split open the fish and pheasant, cleaning out their entrails. It felt like reliving his part-time days—a tiresome memory. He’d finally begun to enjoy a more comfortable life, only to end up transmigrated! And transmigration was fine, but why not grant him a cheat to soothe his wounded soul?

Soon, the cleaning was done. The offal was tossed aside or swept away by the creek, destined for some unknown place. After all, in this era, there was no concept of waste sorting or food scraps—nature’s self-purification would handle this little bit easily enough.

Everything was ready, save for Old Master Tong’s return. After Zhang Xuan finished, Old Master Tong brought over a bundle of firewood in silence, then left and returned with a load of clay.

“See if this is the kind you wanted. I worked hard to find it. If it’s not right, then there’s probably none around here.”

Zhang Xuan examined the clay—good enough, he supposed, though he wasn’t sure exactly what kind was needed for “Beggar’s Chicken.” He’d never tried making it before. In the twenty-first century, if you wanted chicken, you just ordered takeout—why go to all this trouble?

“I’ll be right back,” he said, suddenly remembering something and darting into the woods.

“There probably aren’t any lotus leaves this time of year,” he thought. “Even if there were, none would be around here. Let’s see if there are any large leaves I can use instead.” He grabbed a few sizable leaves at random, deciding that as long as they weren’t poisonous, they’d suffice. If they were, well, that was just bad luck.

He soaked the clay in water until it turned to slurry, then coated the chicken with it. Old Master Tong watched and asked, “Are you sure this will be edible?”

“If you can’t eat it, then so be it. But let me say this—if you miss out, there won’t be another chance. I’ll just roast you a fish instead.”

Once the chicken was covered, he wrapped it in the large leaves, dug a pit about ten centimeters deep in the spot where they’d laid the firewood, placed the chicken inside, and covered it with clay.

“All done. Old Master Tong, light the fire and let’s roast the fish.”

Old Master Tong looked at Zhang Xuan’s preparations in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“Of course. Start the fire right above the chicken. By the time the fish is done and we’ve eaten, the chicken should be ready too.”

Old Master Tong took two firestones from his pocket and expertly kindled the fire. “Who’s roasting the fish, you or me? Or shall we each do one? Once we’re done eating, we should be on our way.”

“Let’s each roast one. There are two fish; we can swap and taste each other’s. I’d like to see your culinary skills for myself.”

Zhang Xuan didn’t much care. It was just a pity there was no salt or seasoning—otherwise… but wishful thinking only brought tears.

The two sat by the fire, Zhang Xuan occasionally adding more wood. He had plenty of questions for Old Master Tong, but didn’t know where to begin—after all, the old man didn’t even know the name of the current emperor. Yet, thinking it over, it made sense. In an age with so little information, an ordinary person wouldn’t care about such things. Having enough to eat was already a blessing. If they lived in the north, they’d have to worry daily about raids from the nomads, survival itself a struggle, not to mention the heavy taxes…

“Kid, how old are you? Ever trained before? If not, I can teach you a few moves for self-defense. Or perhaps you could enlist in the army one day—especially now, in these troubled times up north. I have a bit of a reputation around here, you know. Teaching you is your good fortune, ha!”

Old Master Tong boasted, “But you’ll have to endure hardship. If you can’t, best give up now…”

Zhang Xuan lowered his head, turning the fish over and over, pondering his words. Learn martial arts? Join the army? Or study and become a strategist? What a dilemma.

No, Zhang Xuan wanted to be the lord himself, not someone else’s lackey. That wouldn’t do. Again, he found himself resenting the heavens for their unfairness—look at the main characters in the stories; they all had their halos, their golden fingers, their thunderbolts from the sky. Why had he been left with nothing?

“All right, teach me a few moves. After all, more skills never weigh a man down.”

“Well said, boy! ‘More skills never weigh a man down’—that’s a fine phrase. Have you read books? But looking at Zhang Family Village, it doesn’t seem like anyone here has. Life is hard enough—who has money for books?”

“It’s called talent. I’m a genius—born with a wealth of knowledge. The villagers say I’m a sage reborn…”

Old Master Tong, taking a drink of water, spat it out in surprise, nearly dousing the fire.