Chapter Sixteen: Innovative Kitchenware

"Dalang, why do you need so much wine?" Wang Qun couldn't fathom why Zhen Qian would want a hundred or even two hundred dou of wine. If he meant to brew his own, he should be buying rice and yeast, not ready-made wine. And it couldn't be that Zhen Qian was simply craving drink, for all he bought were the cheapest, most turbid wines. Though the quantity was considerable, it still didn't cost much.

Wang Qun couldn't possibly guess the truth: Zhen Qian didn't lack the will, but the time. From the start of brewing to the point of sale, even the poorest quality turbid wine would take thirty to forty days—a span in which Zhen Qian could already have made a fortune. Home-brewing was a project for the future. Now, the key was to earn his first pot of gold as quickly as possible, and the best way was to leverage what already existed. Though he'd lose some profit, he'd save much precious time. There was another reason too: he simply couldn't find a place to brew wine, and he certainly couldn’t tell the Zhen family he wanted to start making it himself.

"That's a secret for now. Soon enough, Uncle Wang, when you help me forge some items, you'll understand," Zhen Qian replied with a smile, handing over a drawing he'd prepared. "Uncle Wang, please make these as soon as possible, I have great use for them!"

Just yesterday, Zhen Qian had asked Wang Qun to make a set of tableware, and now he requested even stranger items. Wang Qun eyed the curiously twisted and cylindrical shapes on the page, wondering what on earth Zhen Qian was planning.

"What are these?" Wang Qun couldn't help but voice his curiosity.

"I can't say! Just make them as drawn, Uncle Wang." Zhen Qian trusted Wang Qun, but during the forging process suspicion might arise; if even the craftsman had no notion of their use, the secret would be safe.

Wang Qun, knowing scholars were always full of ideas and that Zhen Qian was his young master, didn't press the matter further, though his curiosity was piqued. What could Zhen Qian possibly want with such things? But everyone harbors a bit of curiosity, and Wang Qun was no exception.

Over the next two days, Zhen Qian stayed in his courtyard, sometimes seen deep in thought by the window, other times hunched over his desk, scribbling with a quill. Since his amnesiac awakening, his strange conduct had become almost ordinary.

"Young master, Steward Xing is peeping at the gate again!" Xiao Zhu pouted, muttering to herself. In recent days, Steward Xing had appeared at their gate several times, each time blocked by the burly Wang Peng.

"Ignore him," Zhen Qian replied, all the while sketching on the paper before him. Xiao Zhu sneaked a peek, only to find she recognized nothing of what he'd drawn.

"Young master, what are you writing?" she asked quietly as she ground ink for him. "Those things on the paper look strange, like the talismans drawn by Daoist priests!"

Zhen Qian tossed aside the quill. He'd forced himself to use a brush these days, but found it utterly unmanageable—his writing was worse than a child’s. On a whim, he fashioned a few quills from goose feathers. Still, worried the two girls wouldn’t accept what he wrote, he decided to write his plans in English. The dense script of letters indeed looked much like the mysterious characters drawn by Daoists.

Feigning nonchalance, Zhen Qian replied, "Oh, nothing much. Strange things keep popping into my mind, so I just jot them down."

The two girls had already harbored suspicions about his odd behavior—such as his sudden mastery of cooking, when previously Zhen Qian hadn’t known which way the kitchen door opened. That he could now whip up exquisite dishes was beyond baffling.

"Young master, are these the things you saw in your dreams?" To explain himself, Zhen Qian claimed his amnesia was due to his soul wandering—a tale spun with all the flair of myth. Fortunately, in this age, people were superstitious and readily believed it. They deemed his memory loss the result of his spirit journeying to another world, conveniently ignoring the inconsistencies in what he remembered or forgot.

The two girls remained half convinced, hindered only by their limited imaginations—they simply couldn't comprehend the strangeness befalling Zhen Qian.

"Isn't it a bit mystical?" Zhen Qian thought to himself, amused.

Xiao Zhu pressed on, "Young master, can you tell me what these symbols are for?"

"They're a form of written record," he replied, choosing not to deceive her further. There was no need—he felt that, in time, both Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei would need to learn this method of recording. He couldn’t handle everything alone; he needed trusted companions.

"So these are letters, like those foreigners use?" Xiao Zhu asked. She’d seen foreign scripts before.

"Something like that." Zhen Qian was writing in English—a language virtually unknown in Tang China, and distinct from early Latin. No one here could decipher it, making it an excellent means of secrecy.

Just then, Xiao Mei hurried in. "Young master, the kitchen tools you ordered from Uncle Wang have arrived. They're in the kitchen now—would you like to see them?"

Delighted, Zhen Qian dropped the quill and rose from his bed, straightening his clothes. "Come, let's have a look!" His words brimmed with excitement; his dream of becoming a wealthy man in the Tang dynasty had finally taken its first step.

In the kitchen, Wang Qun was overseeing the delivery of these strange implements. As onlookers questioned their purpose, Wang Qun felt his old face flush with embarrassment.

"Dalang has arrived!" he announced, fiddling with a dull-edged knife. Zhen Qian had designed at least seven or eight types of oddly shaped blades, from large to small, sharp to blunt, and some bowls with holes punched in the bottom. Heaven only knew what they were for.

"Uncle Wang, you finished these so quickly! Remarkable!" Zhen Qian noted. The assortment was extensive, even after he’d pared down the list to essentials and discarded those with little use. Supplemented by what could be salvaged from the existing kitchen, it was as close as possible to a modern setup.

Wang Qun explained, "All ironwork for the Zhen household is done at this smithy. When they heard Dalang wanted these, they worked through the night. Please check if they’re suitable."

Zhen Qian picked up an iron spatula. Its wooden handle felt balanced in his grip, neither too heavy nor too light. The details had been carefully polished—clearly, much thought had gone into its making. "Excellent. I’m very satisfied!"

The two girls curiously examined the new utensils, wondering how they would be used. "Dalang, can you tell us what these are for?"

"Well..." Zhen Qian hesitated, for he wasn’t a professional chef himself. "Why don’t we make a sumptuous meal tonight and you’ll see for yourselves? Uncle Wang, please invite Wang Sheng too—he’s eager to learn cooking, isn’t he?"

Wang Qun was equally curious about Zhen Qian’s sudden culinary skill. The dishes he prepared were unlike anything Wang Qun had encountered. If he’d learned them before, where could he have learned such techniques? It defied explanation.

Wang Qun kept his doubts to himself and fetched Wang Sheng and his wife. Though Zhen Qian had been cooking novel dishes in recent days, he couldn’t prepare meals for the entire household. Usually, Wang Sheng and his wife handled the cooking. If Wang Sheng could learn Zhen Qian’s skills, everyone would benefit.

"Help me prepare these ingredients," Zhen Qian instructed. He quickly ran through a few recipes in his mind. He was convinced that those who led with their minds governed others; those who toiled with their hands served. To go far, he’d have to engage everyone around him. Each time he introduced a new dish, he had the girls carefully record the entire process, encouraging them to experiment on their own.

"Young master, are you making steamed duck?" Xiao Mei asked, handling a plump bird.

"No, roast duck—roasted over a wood fire. The duck must remain intact, not gutted or split. When selecting ducks, choose those neither too fat nor too lean. During roasting, pour a boiling broth into the cavity. The choice of wood is crucial—jujube or pear wood, to impart a fruity fragrance to the meat!"

Xiao Mei exclaimed in wonder, "There’s so much art to this!"

"Of course. In every craft, mastery leads to success. Never look down on the profession of a chef!"

Xiao Zhu giggled, "Isn’t this what you always say, young master? To win a man's heart, you must first win his stomach—am I right?"

Zhen Qian lightly tapped her head. "That’s a saying to be understood, not spoken. Say it aloud and its magic is lost!"

Zhen Qian was preparing Peking duck. Though it couldn’t rival the famed Quanjude of later centuries, in the Tang dynasty, it was utterly unique. The roasted duck emerged plump, its skin a glossy mahogany, crisp outside, tender within, and imbued with a subtle fruitwood aroma. The flavor was exquisite, enough to make one's mouth water at the mere thought.