What happened next was the greatest cooking event in the history of Hongbao Alley – and by far the most chaotic.
Lao Wang cooked like an orchestra conducted by someone who hates getting applause. Bao-Bao moved between four stoves with a precision that would have made six пожарные-men dictionaries cry. Jun served. Meilin dictated orders with three hands – tablet on the left, phone on the right, notebook with her chin. And Uncle Tao took reservations with an elegance as if he had trained his whole life to assign the best seat to twelve unknown guests. 🕴️
The first course: soup. Clear, golden, with seven visible ingredients. When it was served, something strange happened: every guest tasted something different. For Uncle Yu, it tasted like 1992, when he repaired his first bicycle. For the twins, it was the summer when they no longer needed Fortnite. For Mrs. Shen, it was after a certain person she hadn’t spoken for eleven years – who suddenly took the second seat on the left, made of pure light. 💛
“That’s impractical,” Mrs. Shen noted, “and the most beautiful thing I have ever eaten.”
The second course: rolled dumplings, filled with the memories of Master Gus 712 broths. When Chiwang bit into one, he froze. “There is… 1985 inside. The year before I got hungry.” He ate slowly on. And the holes in his figure became rounder, warmer, more human by the minute. 👾🥟
The third course: hand noodles according to the Geneva Convention (Uncle Tao’s suggestion). “Why Geneva Convention?” Jun asked. “Because negotiations taste best when both sides are hungry,” said Uncle Tao. There was laughter – for the first time that evening about his humor instead of his suit wrinkles.
The fourth course: Nutella noodles (Bao-Bao’s second helping). The fifth: Lao Wang’s legendary sour chili sparks, which Jun claimed could heal a city – or at least lift a boy band ban. 🌶️
And in the middle of the fourth course, as everyone laughed, what the night was leading to happened. Memory, who sat at the main table, suddenly raised the spoon. She ate. For the first time in the history of Hongbao Alley, memory itself ate along.
“I have never eaten,” she noted. “I was always just there when others ate. On the edge. As background.”
“Welcome to the table,” said Xiaofeng and pushed another bowl toward her.
And then, quietly, between two courses, the sentence happened that Lao Wang would tell twenty years later, with jasmine tea in hand and the voice of finishing work:
“Master Gu,” he said, “you said earlier the point on the map is different. Not bright, not dark. What kind of system is that?”
Master Gu kept peeling potatoes – where they kept coming from, no one really wanted to ask anymore – and then said without looking up:
“That’s not a system, boy. That’s a person. More precisely: a group of people who want to take over your restaurant because they believed you had forgotten it.”
“WHO IS BUYING MY PLACE?” Lao Wang shouted so loudly that three canned jars fell over in the alley.
“No one is buying,” said Master Gu. “They offered. Four weeks ago. By letter. The name is on the second page of the letter you never read because it was under your 3000 reorder slips.”
“WHAT IS THE NAME.”
Master Gu put the potato peeler aside, said a name – and it became so quiet in the place that even Chiwang stood up. 🪑
“Gu Jianguo. My son.”