Chapter 4

The guards shuddered and hastily straightened up, though their eyes kept straying toward the other side of the wall.

One brave man said miserably, “Captain, just smell it… That aroma… We really can’t help ourselves.”

“Smell what? However good it smells—”

Zhang Meng stopped halfway through.

He’d caught it too.

Rich soy, a touch of sweetness, pure meaty fragrance. It reached into his chest like a small hand and tugged at his soul. Years of martial training had given him a formidable will.

His stomach had other ideas.

Grrr.

Not loud, but painfully clear in the quiet lane.

Every guard lowered his head, struggling not to laugh. Zhang Meng flushed the color of a pig’s liver and stared at the high wall with mixed feelings.

Was there really a disgraced consort inside? Or some peerless enchantress?

Just then, the sauce in my pot had reduced perfectly. I lifted the lid, and a stronger, more irresistible cloud of fragrance surged upward.

Zhang Meng and his men swallowed in unison.

A eunuch emerged respectfully from the courtyard, carrying a food box. Li Mao. He guarded it as though it held a priceless treasure. The lid wasn’t quite closed; wisps of fragrant steam escaped through the gap.

He passed the guards without a glance. He had a meal to deliver to Noble Consort Ning.

They watched him go, eyes red with longing. The finest food in the world, right under their noses.

And not a bite for them.

I shut the gate and listened to the activity outside, then looked at the half-pot of chicken still on the stove: glossy red meat, thick sauce.

My next customers were already waiting.

06

Outside, there was nothing but heavy breathing and repeated swallowing.

Li Mao had disappeared at the end of the lane, but his fragrance seemed to linger beneath every man’s nose. The guards stared at the wall, torn between desire and restraint.

Zhang Meng’s expression kept changing. Sense told him to lead his squad away from this troublesome place immediately. His feet might as well have been cast in lead.

The aroma kept assaulting his nerves and tantalizing his tongue. In ten years of soldiering, he’d never lost his composure like this.

“Captain…” a young guard whispered. “What if… we asked?”

“Asked what?” he snapped.

“Whether the person inside… sells that food?”

Every pair of eyes lit up.

Of course! Hadn’t Master Li just carried food out? It could leave the courtyard.

Zhang Meng was tempted too, but pride held him back.

“Nonsense! We’re Imperial Guards. How can we trade with a convicted woman in the Cold Palace?”

A cool woman’s voice drifted over the wall.

“Gentlemen, did you follow the smell?”

Quiet, but clear enough for every man to hear.

The guards jolted. Zhang Meng’s heart gave a jump. He cleared his throat and demanded, “Who’s in there? Answer, or we’ll break down the gate!”

An excuse. Something to let him back down with dignity.

I let a smile into my voice.

“No need to be angry. I’m only a cook confined here. This may be the Cold Palace, but my kitchen is a business. Master Li was my first customer.”

The name Li Mao extinguished half Zhang Meng’s anger. Everyone in the harem knew he was Noble Consort Ning’s trusted servant.

Even he was a customer?

“You… you’re lying!” Zhang Meng said, though he mostly believed me already. “Her Highness is far too exalted to eat food from your Cold Palace!”

“You’re welcome to ask her.” My voice stayed calm. “Meanwhile, I’ve still got half a pot of red-braised chicken. Tender enough to fall off the bone, with a rich sauce that’s wonderful over rice. Leave it much longer and it’ll go cold.”

That was the last straw.

Someone’s stomach growled again.

Zhang Meng’s defenses collapsed. He clenched his teeth as if making a tremendous sacrifice.

“How much?”

“Not expensive. Two taels of silver for the whole half-pot. I’ll throw in a bucket of rice.”

A dozen or so men could easily scrape together two taels.

“Done!” he said at once. “We have the money. How do we get it to you?”

“I’ll have someone lower a basket over the wall on a pole. Put the silver in, and I’ll send the food out. Fair exchange.”

Xiaoyun, who’d been hiding in a corner, quickly extended a basket over the wall on a long bamboo pole. The guards scrambled to collect two taels of loose silver and put it inside.

She drew it back. I checked the money and nodded in satisfaction.

Then I loaded the basket with an earthenware basin heaped with fragrant, glossy red chicken and a large wooden bucket of steaming rice.

“Here you are.”

The basket went out again.

At the sight of the chicken, the guards went mad. Ignoring the heat, they grabbed it with their bare hands.

“Don’t take it all! Leave some for the captain!”

“Heavens, it’s good!”

“How can meat be this tender? It melts in your mouth!”

“This sauce! I could eat three big bowls of rice with it!”

Zhang Meng secured a piece too. The moment it reached his mouth, his eyes widened.

He’d never tasted anything like it. Salt, sweetness, savory richness, fragrance—everything blended perfectly. The meat scarcely needed chewing; a light press of his lips and it melted. Rich juices flooded his mouth.

In ten years in the army, he’d eaten from the great camp cauldrons and attended imperial victory banquets.

Nothing compared with this chicken.

The men crowded around the basin and swept it clean, using rice to wipe up even the sauce at the bottom. When they finished, every face wore a look of blissful satisfaction.

Zhang Meng burped and wiped his greasy mouth. His gaze on the wall had changed completely.

No convicted woman lived in there.

That was a kitchen deity.

He stepped up to the wall and called in a ringing voice, “Thank you for the meal! May I ask what you’ll be cooking tomorrow?”

“Dongpo pork. Melts at a touch, rich without being greasy. Same time, same place.”

He swallowed.

“We’ll be here on time tomorrow!”

Then he led his contented men away to resume their “patrol.”

Their route did seem to circle my courtyard twice more than usual.

I leaned against the gate, listening to their retreating footsteps, my smile widening.

Noble Consort Ning was my premium customer. These Imperial Guards would be my regulars. Business in my Cold Palace eatery was booming.

Who else might that fragrance lure in?

I looked up at the sky.

Surely the man on the dragon throne liked meat too.

07

Dongpo pork took time. It couldn’t be rushed.

Li Mao had brought prime belly from a black pig, five alternating layers of lean and fat. I put the square slab into cold water, boiled it until just cooked, and lifted it out.

With a sharp needle, I pricked countless tiny holes in the skin to release excess fat and help the flavors penetrate. Then I rubbed it with dark soy sauce and left it to dry.

I coated the wok with a little oil, laid the pork skin-side down, and covered it.

It crackled like New Year firecrackers.

I waited patiently until the skin had fried golden, fragrant with a slight char and patterned in beautiful tiger stripes. Then I lifted it out and cut it into squares about two fingers wide, tying each crosswise with twisted straw to hold it together through the long braise.

I lined a clay pot with lengths of scallion and thick ginger slices, then arranged the tied pork neatly on top, skin-side down.

Next, seasoning.

Fine yellow rice wine, enough to reach halfway up the meat. A gentle braise would draw out its pure fragrance. Large chunks of rock sugar for gloss and to balance the richness. Finally, soy sauce—light soy for flavor, no dark soy for color this time. The browned skin and rock sugar would provide enough.

I put on the lid and sealed the seam with a sheet of damp xuan paper, trapping all that fragrance inside its little world.

A low fire. A slow braise.

Two hours passed. Then four.

I pulled up a little stool at the kitchen door and watched the sun stretch the trees’ shadows across the courtyard. Time itself seemed to slow.

No explosive fragrance came from the kitchen. Only soft, restrained threads of meat aroma stubbornly escaped through the clay pot’s seam.

Nothing like the bold sweet-and-sour pork or the direct richness of the chicken. This was like well-aged wine: unremarkable at first sniff, endlessly deep if you lingered.

It didn’t simply tempt the appetite. It stole the soul.

Anyone who smelled it felt a strange warmth and peace, as though returning to childhood, to an evening when their mother was busy at the stove.

As the sun sank westward, familiar footsteps approached.

Zhang Meng and his men. No armor today. They’d changed into ordinary clothes and brought wine, as though attending a feast they’d long awaited.

They made no noise, only stood quietly outside my gate, their eyes reverent as pilgrims’.

I opened it.

“You’re here?”

“We are,” Zhang Meng rumbled.

His gaze went past me, straight to the clay pot still bubbling over the low fire.

“One serving of Dongpo pork,” I said softly. “Twenty taels of silver.”

Ten times yesterday’s price.

He didn’t blink. He pulled a heavy purse from inside his robe.

“We pooled our money. Thirty taels. Keep the change. The rest is… a tip for the cook.”

I liked customers who knew how to do business.

I peeled away the damp paper and lifted the lid.

An indescribably mellow fragrance rose like mist, filling the courtyard at once. Zhang Meng and his men stared.

The pork had turned a translucent amber, glossy red and quivering gently. The sauce was thick as polished agate.

I lifted a piece with my chopsticks. Soft and boneless, it trembled at their tips. I set it in a white porcelain bowl and spooned over the rich sauce.

“Please, eat.”