Ning Fengzhi had said last night that Xue Qinghe would come on the morning three days later. The next morning, Chen An went into the kitchen and first asked Uncle Zhou whether there was enough oil prepared today to fry the tenderloin for lunch.
"Freshly topped up. There's enough." Uncle Zhou put the lid on the oil jar. "What, a prince is coming to eat, and you're planning to serve him fried pork?"
"He's still two days away," Chen An said. "If we fry it every day, even Fang Ming will get tired of it."
Fang Ming happened to come in carrying a bundle of firewood. Hearing the latter half, he immediately protested, "When did I ever say I was tired of it?"
"Then when you gave Shao Heng the last slice the other day, were you afraid he'd go hungry?"
"He'd just gotten his Third Soul Ring. What's wrong with giving him a slice?"
His words were generous, but after putting down the firewood, Fang Ming still glanced at the counter. A basin of sliced tenderloin sat there, with wet starch beside it that had been settling overnight. His mouth said he wasn't tired of it, but his nose caught the sweet-and-sour scent before anyone else's. Uncle Zhou had already spotted him peering in and casually handed him two plates waiting to be washed. Fang Ming took them, still making sure to say he had only come to deliver firewood.
After Shao Heng obtained his Third Soul Ring, the small kitchen kept running as usual. Guobaorou was made every few meals. The regulars knew to eat it hot; some who had once liked to fill a bowl with soup first now claimed seats near where the dishes came out. Uncle Zhou initially thought those seats caught a cool breeze.