Chapter Thirteen: The Restaurant Business

“This is for your own good! Next time, be prepared; better safe than sorry. You can keep a few teapots in the room, so you can drink whenever you wish!”

“All right, why are you so talkative today, my lord?” In the past, Zhen Qian rarely spoke much, but after his recovery, he seemed especially loquacious. Xiaomei wondered about this, though she didn’t dwell on it.

Zhen Qian sensed he was speaking too much and stopped, returning to his cooking. Soon, four hot dishes and two cold plates were ready. He brought them upstairs and called Wang Bo and the others.

Wang Bo and his companions didn’t know why Zhen Qian had summoned them, but as they entered the room, they caught the aroma of the food. Sniffing the air, Wang Bo exclaimed, “Smells wonderful! Are we being treated to a meal, eldest son?”

He’d spent much time with the two young maids but not as much with Wang Bo and his group. The maids, being constantly at his side, knew little of the outside world, so to understand more, he needed to consult Wang Bo and the others. But he couldn’t simply call them over without reason, so he decided to cook a few dishes and chat over the meal.

Isn’t it often said that feelings and communication flourish best at the dining table?

“Eldest son’s cooking is truly impressive! I never imagined we’d have such a feast today!”

Wang Bo and the others were considered elders to him, older even than Zhen Qian’s mother. Though there were distinctions between master and servant, Zhen Qian’s mother was always benevolent, and they had watched Zhen Qian grow up. The affection in this place was self-evident, and even in public, there were few taboos.

“If you like it, eat more. Try the braised pork!” Zhen Qian, helping to serve the elders, smiled as he introduced the dishes, “I’m not sure if the spicy chicken suits your taste, but this braised pork is fatty yet not greasy, made from pork bought fresh today. I wonder if you enjoy it?”

Wang Qun, with a piece of chicken in his mouth and a chunk of braised pork in his chopsticks, looked as though it might be too oily, but upon tasting, found it tender and melting, not greasy at all. Unable to speak, he simply gave Zhen Qian a thumbs up.

In the Tang Dynasty, lamb was the preferred meat, especially among the wealthy. Ordinary folk only occasionally enjoyed pork. Wang Bo and his companions had tried pork before, but none tasted as delicious as today’s braised pork. Chopsticks danced, mouths stuffed with pork, and muffled voices declared, “Delicious!”

“Eldest son, how did you make this dish? Why is it so tasty?” Wang Sheng asked with a smile, “I’ve cooked for over ten years, but after tasting this, those years seem wasted!”

Wang Qun laughed, “You old rascal! We’ve eaten your pig slop for ten years, and your skills haven’t improved at all. It’s not even as good as the fried rice Xiaomei and Xiaozhu made yesterday!”

Though Xiaozhu and Xiaomei were Zhen Qian’s personal maids, women could not sit at the table in such occasions; instead, they poured water and served tea. Hearing Wang Bo and the others praise them, they quickly explained, “Yesterday’s fried rice was learned from our lord; our skills are not half as good as his. Please don’t mock us, sisters!”

“So yesterday’s fried rice was your handiwork, eldest son? No wonder it was so delicious—I had no appetite for dinner afterward!”

Zhen Qian poured wine for the elders, saying, “If you like it, I’ll cook for you every day.”

He felt nothing amiss in saying this, but Wang Qun and the others immediately shook their heads, “No, eldest son, you are a scholar. How can you cook for us servants every day? It’s an immense honor on rare occasions. If the master heard, none of us would fare well in this household.”

Zhen Qian was merely being polite. If he had to stay in the kitchen daily, he’d have no time for other matters. It was just to amuse them. Even if he could cook every day, they wouldn’t dare come every day.

Wang Peng laughed, “To be honest, eldest son’s cooking is far superior. Compared to Wang Sheng, it’s like heaven and earth. Why not teach Wang Sheng your skills, so we can enjoy these dishes daily?”

This was indeed Zhen Qian’s plan, though he hadn’t spoken yet when Xiaozhu objected, “Our lord’s skills can’t be given away so easily. If anyone should learn first, it should be us sisters, and then we can pass them on to Wang Bo.”

“You little girl…” Wang Qun chuckled, not offended. “Do you really want to spend every day in the smoky kitchen? I suspect this enthusiasm won’t last. There are over thirty mouths in this courtyard, and you still have to attend to the eldest son. Can you manage?”

Xiaozhu thought it over but was unwilling to admit defeat. She pouted, “I never said I’d cook for the entire courtyard. I only wish to prepare dishes that our lord loves. Is that not allowed?”

The elders wouldn’t quarrel with her, and were about to respond when Wang You, who had been eating quietly, finally looked up. “Since you all say the eldest son’s cooking is excellent, why don’t we open a tavern ourselves? Then we wouldn’t have to worry about meals.”

Wang You’s idea was sharp, and Zhen Qian had similar thoughts. He pondered, “Opening a tavern may not be so easy.”

“What’s so difficult?” Wang You mumbled, “Doesn’t the Zhen family already own a tavern?”

Wang Qun nodded, continuing, “Wang You is right. The Zhen family does own a tavern, not the best in Zhen Ding, but among the top ten. Every year, it brings in three to four thousand coins for the family. If you opened a tavern with your skills, eldest son, it would shake all of Hengzhou!”

Zhen Qian hadn’t known what businesses the Zhen family held outside, but listening to Wang Qun, he learned a bit. He was amazed at how profitable taverns were. “A single tavern can earn three or four thousand coins a year? That’s considerable. Could you explain some of the business methods and principles behind it?”

“If you wish to know, eldest son, there’s no problem. It’s not a secret, and you are the eldest legitimate son—you should know these things!”

Though Wang Qun hadn’t managed the tavern himself, as the chief steward of the Zhen household, he was familiar with its operations. He explained as he drank.

“Tavern business depends on location and popularity, but most importantly, on the chef’s skill. Our Zhen family’s tavern is called ‘Inviting Moon Pavilion,’ with a history of fifty or sixty years. Every day, one or two hundred people dine there. Competition among taverns in Zhen Ding is fierce. The best taverns earn five or six thousand coins annually; poorly run ones struggle to feed their staff. That’s the difference.”

Listening, Zhen Qian asked, “From what you say, Wang Bo, tavern profits shouldn’t be so high. Is there another reason?”

A tavern serving one or two hundred people daily, unless offering top luxury, could only net four or five coins a day. At most, it would earn a thousand or two a year. How then could it make three or four thousand?

Wang Qun laughed, “Eldest son, you’re quite right. Our family’s tavern makes little profit from food, but if you count the wine sales, that’s where the money is…”

Suddenly it dawned on Zhen Qian—he’d overlooked this. The profit from wine was immense both in the Tang era and later times. It was hardly a secret.

He asked more about tavern management and soon grasped the Tang Dynasty’s business model, much like modern hotels—no great change over a thousand years. The key was the tavern’s reputation and its services, especially the famous Tang wines.

Speaking of wine, Zhen Qian raised his cup. The yellowish, cloudy wine inside wasn’t a famous Tang brew, but was the most widely sold, called Hengshui Brew. Its strength was about the same as modern beer, with a hint of sweetness. He could easily drink two or three jin.

“Wine!”

A subtle, questioning smile appeared at Zhen Qian’s lips. He’d drunk plenty of famous wines in later times but never learned to brew them. Still, just because he couldn’t make renowned wines didn’t mean he couldn’t produce the rustic spirits made in small workshops. He’d grown up in the countryside, and had seen the process for homemade liquor. If he tried brewing such wine in the Tang era, who knew what might happen?

With this thought, Zhen Qian began to consider his options. Though life in the Zhen household was comfortable, any attempt to start something was hindered by the family’s constraints. To ask for Zhen family support was wishful thinking—until he became the head of the household, it was impossible.

Earning money was the chief priority!

He had a host of plans in his mind, but each required funds. Truly, even a hero can be stymied by lack of money; without it, nothing can be accomplished. It was because of this lack that he’d had to resort to tricks even to buy a few slaves—somewhat unscrupulous, but necessary.

The Zhen family was wealthy—extremely so—but Zhen Qian couldn’t touch a single coin. Not to mention that Xing Shi would cause trouble; even without her, anyone wanting money had to consult the head of the family, especially for a large sum. If they learned of his plans, two outcomes were certain: either they’d stop his “madness,” or they’d fund him but insist on involvement—meaning his share of the profits would be meager, and that did not suit his interests.

He had many ways to make money, but most required time and technology. Few businesses could bring quick wealth, and some might arouse envy—“a man’s wealth is his crime.” Zhen Qian had to be cautious.