His original reason for studying brewing was to cut his costs.
Business was good when he worked as a liquor reseller, but his costs were far from low.
He bought stock from distilleries elsewhere and hauled it all the way to the border. The freight charges and bribes along that long route stripped away most of his profits like a steel blade scraping bone.
"Fuck that. There's no shortage of grain depots along the border. Why the hell should I let someone else take a cut?"
So he made up his mind, rounded up a few equally reckless buddies, got hold of several large vats, and started figuring out how to make liquor himself in a derelict factory building not far from the border.
Those booze-crazed Russians across the border only cared that it had enough alcohol and wouldn't kill them. Who gave a damn whether it came from a major distillery?
If he could produce this "liquid gold" locally, his profits would skyrocket.
But once he actually got started, he discovered just how much there was to the trade.
The first few batches of new liquor smelled so harsh they stung his nose.
To test it, Zhang Yang and his partners gritted their teeth and each downed a bowl. That night, three ambulances pulled up outside the derelict factory. Those burly men spent half the night having their stomachs pumped at the county hospital and nearly lost their lives.
But Zhang Yang was the kind of man who refused to let go once he set his mind on something. Drawing on the experience of countless stomach pumpings, he gradually managed to smooth out that harsh flavor.
At last, the distillery got on track.
Yet as he sank deeper into the business, Zhang Yang's outlook quietly began to change.
He