Chapter Four: Bringing Delicious Food

The next day...

Chen Zhou worked at an architectural design institute.

Lately, the company hadn’t been securing any new projects, but attendance was being enforced with increasing strictness.

However, because there wasn’t much actual work to do, mornings usually started with colleagues sharing videos on Douyin.

“Did you see the news? The conflict in the Middle East is escalating—they say some big move is coming!”

“Probably just some minor skirmishes.”

“No way, uranium enrichment has already reached…”

A group of middle-aged men gathered, passionately discussing science, technology, and international affairs—an oddly entertaining scene.

The snippets of news they caught mid-scroll quickly turned into their own insightful opinions.

Where there was disagreement, the loudest voice and the strongest presence won out.

Of course, if these guys really understood the topics, they wouldn’t still be wasting time at the company.

But after all, it was just casual chatter.

Chen Zhou said nothing, silently kneading some modeling clay.

After a while, Old Song, who often complained about the company not even providing toilet paper, shared a piece of news.

Apparently, food blogger Teacher Li had a falling out with his MCN company. Both sides claimed that a commercial deal worth ten thousand yuan only paid out five hundred, and the controversy quickly trended online.

As soon as Old Song finished, another colleague jumped in:

“I saw that too. Damn it, MCNs are just like our design institute. Even on projects worth hundreds of thousands, the cut is barely anything.”

“That’s different. We can at least owe money.”

Chen Zhou paused as he folded the twelfth crease.

He hadn’t expected to find his own intel confirmed here.

Though this news didn’t directly relate to him, it was still a solid piece of information from the food industry.

Having concrete validation made Chen Zhou quietly pleased.

With a newfound confidence, he began to take his current job less seriously.

Seizing the lunch break, he planned to sneak home and continue experimenting with his buns.

His lunch companions noticed Chen Zhou’s unusual behavior—quiet all morning and now skipping lunch at the office.

Old Song, ever inquisitive, naturally didn’t let it slide:

“Xiao Chen, not eating at the company today?”

Chen Zhou whispered, “Got some things to take care of. Stepping out for a bit.”

Song Liwei put on a reassuring expression, “If anything happens, just call me.”

Deep down, he was a little annoyed that Chen Zhou only said “some things.”

So, adopting a big-brother tone, he offered some advice and sought to assert his presence:

“You young folks, don’t keep messing around. These are just tough times. When I was your age…”

“Thanks, Brother Song,” Chen Zhou quickly cut him off.

Old Song had joined the company a few years earlier and was considered a senior.

Back when the company was thriving, everyone worked hard and Chen Zhou would even join in the banter.

Now, everyone was just waiting to be laid off.

Chen Zhou really didn’t have the patience to listen to Old Song’s tone anymore.

...

Sneaking out of the company, Chen Zhou hopped on his electric scooter and headed straight to the local vegetable market near his neighborhood.

For meat buns, the most important ingredient was the meat.

It deserved careful selection.

The nearby Happy Market served four or five residential areas, with over ten thousand residents.

In Haibin City, it was considered quite large.

Its proximity made it Chen Zhou’s first choice.

But he hadn’t visited often.

Only recently, with the company’s downturn and a regular schedule, did he have more free time.

Wading through the bustling crowd, Chen Zhou made his way to the meat section.

Unexpectedly, as he passed the first stall, someone stopped him.

“Hey brother, wanna buy some meat?!”

The tone was forceful, like a taxi driver outside a train station trying to flag down passengers.

Combined with a tough-guy look, the man was rather off-putting.

Chen Zhou’s impression was even worse, recalling how his daughter always grabbed his hand tightly whenever they passed that man at the market.

Ignoring the question, Chen Zhou walked over to a few other stalls.

Minced meat needed to be three parts fat to seven parts lean, preferring front leg cuts.

Continuing his experiment, Chen Zhou carefully selected two and a half pounds, then bought some scallions.

Back home, he began fermenting the dough as per yesterday’s routine and started preparing the filling.

The recipe called for two taels of water per pound of minced meat.

Of course, this water wasn’t plain boiling water.

It had to mask the meat’s odor and enhance its aroma.

So he soaked smashed ginger and garlic in it.

He measured carefully and added it in portions.

Chen Zhou leaned in to smell.

The spicy fragrance of ginger and garlic effectively suppressed the pork’s gaminess.

Even before steaming, the effect was clear.

He admired this.

Cooking experience was often just a collection of little tricks.

Yesterday’s tips—adding sugar to the dough ferment and milk when kneading—plus today’s ginger-garlic water had all taught Chen Zhou a lot.

Seasoning was nothing special.

Just light soy sauce, MSG, sugar, and salt.

The only specific note was the recipe’s explicit “no cooking wine.”

The buns were sealed tight; any wine scent wouldn’t dissipate.

The minced ginger was mixed directly into the meat, while the scallions would join them during wrapping.

He stirred the mixture firmly in one direction to absorb the seasoning thoroughly.

Finally, a few drops of sesame oil to finish.

Chen Zhou put the filling into the fridge.

The moistened meat would be easier to handle after chilling.

He needed to time it well—clocking out and waiting for his wife and child to come home so they could eat together.

...

That evening,

freshly steamed pork buns were served at Chen Zhou’s dining table.

Overall, they were white, soft, and tender, though the shapes varied somewhat.

Their little daughter, with her limited vocabulary, had to point and gesture to describe them:

“Yesterday’s buns were colorful; today’s buns look like this, this, and that.”

But the taste was genuinely good.

Breaking one open gently, a wave of rich meat aroma rose with the steam.

The inner side of the dough soaked up the broth, darkening to a deep brown, while the meat filling clustered together, glistening oily and juicy.

Just looking at them made mouths water.

A few puffs later, they ate.

The fluffy dough, juicy filling, and the richness of the meat combined with the spicy aroma of scallions, ginger, and garlic.

Eating them brought a deep sense of satisfaction and comfort.

“These buns are pretty delicious,”

Lin Yifan said.

But as she spoke, she realized she had been so focused on eating that Chen Zhou had already returned to the kitchen to busy himself again.

After finishing a bun and watching her husband’s serious expression, Lin Yifan’s opinion about Chen Zhou’s side-business of selling buns began to change:

“Maybe selling buns on the street could actually work.”

Though warmly encouraging, she still felt a bit shy.

So late at night, she brewed a cup of wolfberry tea and brought it to her still-busy husband.

“Don’t forget to drink this.”

Chen Zhou accepted the cup, feeling the warmth of his wife’s care.

Yet the half-full cup of wolfberries somewhat bruised his middle-aged pride.

Did I really need to put so many in?