Chapter Seventy-One: The Eatery

Ever since he was awakened by Zhang Shi and Guo Lin, Zhang Yue had taken time to reflect. After his second brother passed the imperial examination, he himself had indeed become somewhat complacent. He had once talked about striving for self-reliance, about depending on oneself rather than others, yet when he discovered a sturdy back to lean on, he found it so easy to give in to his true desires—simply drifting along.

So, after some introspection, Zhang Yue resolved to pick up his books once more. Having been admitted to the county school, he would apply himself diligently, progressing step by step through the various examinations—the township exams, the provincial exams, and the palace examination—until he had made a mark for himself.

He had studied the list of successful candidates: in the second year of Jiayou, there had been three hundred and eighty-nine new scholars admitted, and the parallel subjects had yielded the same number.

Yet the standing of the parallel subjects was not high; most were left waiting for official appointments. Even then, many found it hard to be granted a post—one needed either connections or considerable wealth to pave the way.

Only the Nine Classics Examination was an exception among them. Passing this was considered on par with achieving a high rank in the main imperial examination.

The last time Zhang Yue had taken the county school exam, he had skirted the edges a bit. Of the Nine Classics, the most challenging were the Three Commentaries on the Spring and Autumn Annals, and he had yet to read even the Book of Rites.

In the Ming dynasty, the examination on the Five Classics required only one classic to be chosen, but in the Song dynasty, the Nine Classics Examination demanded mastery of all three Spring and Autumn Annals and their commentaries—an undertaking that could drive one to despair.

By his estimation, even with his exceptional memory, it would take at least a year to roughly memorize them all. And even then, he would need to reinforce his knowledge, lest he forgot the earlier parts while memorizing the latter. Attempting the qualifying examination in the third year of Jiayou would be a stretch, but if he succeeded, he could proceed to the provincial Nine Classics Examination the following year.

Therefore, Zhang Yue resolved that from the moment he entered the county school, he would devote himself to his studies.

Before starting his studies, however, he planned to revive the family shop.

In the Song dynasty, the food and beverage industry was mainly divided between taverns and eateries.

Wine production was a government monopoly. Private establishments permitted to brew and sell wine, as well as distribute it, were called official shops. For example, there were seventy-two such shops in Bianjing, which purchased fermentation starters from the government and brewed their own wine.

Those who did not brew their own but purchased from official shops were known as foot shops. Any other private brewing was strictly forbidden, especially bringing such wine into the city.

But selling wine was much like eating beef—prohibited in the city, tolerated in the countryside. The wine peasants brewed for themselves was called village brew, and so there were many roadside taverns in the villages. The famous “Three Bowls and You’re Done” in Water Margin was undoubtedly village brew.

Why did three bowls suffice? Likely because village brew was potent and quickly went to one’s head.

The authorities actually turned a blind eye to such village brewing, leaving some leeway. The Song dynasty’s laws were strict in writing, but in practice, there was ample room for maneuver. The officials had mastered a balance over the years—extracting revenue without driving the common people to desperation.

However, opening a tavern in the city involved a labyrinth of procedures. In recent years, the government allowed private citizens to lease official wine workshops, but they had to bid for the privilege, and with limited quotas, competition was fierce.

Though taverns were highly profitable, Zhang Yue found the game too costly and instead set his sights on opening an eatery.

The capital was ready. Peng Jingyi, a true friend, brought him two hundred strings of cash the very next day. Peng Jingyi even offered another fifty, but Zhang Yue declined, finding the number inauspicious.

The location was set as well—the family’s old store on Chema Street, once burned to the ground but still their property.

People had come to inquire about buying the plot, but the offers were all too low. Now, after some deliberation with his elder brother, they had decided to rebuild the eatery on the original site.

It might not be a grand two-story tavern, but it would certainly be respectable.

Zhang Shi said to Zhang Yue, “I’ve been here for over ten years; I know this street like the back of my hand. Chema Street is bustling with traffic—open an eatery here and we’ll have a thriving business. I’ve long wanted to turn our shop into a restaurant.”

Zhang Yue asked, “Then, brother, have you decided what to serve?”

“Let’s stick with lamb soup,” Zhang Shi replied.

“But won’t we be taking business from Manager Xu?” Zhang Yue asked.

“Manager Xu isn’t that petty. Let me tell you, I’ve been learning from him these past days. I’ve nearly mastered his recipe for lamb soup, and if I cook a pot myself, it’ll be just as good.”

“But brother, no matter how well you cook, it’s still imitation. People are used to Manager Xu’s lamb soup; ours will always seem to lack something. Besides, there are only so many lamb soup customers in town—how many can you win over?”

“Then if we don’t do lamb, what do you suggest?”

Zhang Yue pondered. Mutton was out of the question; in Pucheng, it sold for over two hundred coins a pound, sometimes even three or five hundred. In the Southern Song, it was as expensive as nine hundred coins a pound in Lin’an. Unless one was running a high-end establishment, mutton was a luxury best avoided.

Dog meat? There was a saying that dog meat was unfit for the table, so that was out.

Beef was the cheapest meat in the Song dynasty, only forty or fifty coins a pound, even less than chicken, duck, or fish. But the low price was due to most of it being from old or sick cattle, and raising cattle was easier than sheep.

Yet despite the low price, selling beef was risky; it was officially forbidden to sell it openly in the city. Besides, beef was mostly lean, and in these times, people did not care for lean meat—they craved fatty cuts dripping with grease.

Zhang Yue smiled, “Brother, think of all the laborers and merchants on Chema Street. After the arduous journey over Xianxia Ridge, their stomachs must be rumbling. What would they crave most?”

“When you’re hungry, anything tastes good!” Zhang Shi replied.

“But with so many eateries around, what do they really want? If we set before them a bowl of pork belly—skin on, fatty, full of luscious juices—wouldn’t that be perfect?”

Zhang Shi nodded. “You have a point! I once ate steamed mutton just like that—it was so delicious I nearly swallowed my tongue. I’ll never forget that taste.”

He smacked his lips, savoring the memory.

“But brother, lamb is too expensive—how many times in a lifetime can ordinary folks afford it?”

“You’re right. So what meat should we use?”

“Pork belly is best—tender, juicy, with skin that bursts with flavor.”

“Pork belly isn’t expensive, eighty or ninety coins a pound, but it has a strong smell. The rich won’t eat it, and the poor don’t like it either. Would these hungry travelers really eat it?”

Zhang Yue smiled, “Tomorrow I’ll buy a pound of pork and cook it for you to try.”

He planned to make Dongpo pork as their signature dish, paired with stir-fries in an iron wok—surely unique in the county.

“But I’ve never seen you cook, third brother. When did you learn?”

Zhang Yue chuckled, “I don’t know much, just this one specialty.”

The two brothers laughed together, glancing at the workers busily building their shop.

From a patch of scorched earth, a new eatery was rising. To recover what was lost had always been Zhang Shi’s dream, and Zhang Yue’s as well.

After all, this was the family’s ancestral shop, handed down through generations—something worth protecting.

When Zhang Shi saw their shop once more taking shape on Chema Street, his eyes filled with tears.

Wiping them away, he said, “Third brother, our family’s fortunes will only get better from here!”