Chapter 18: Chapter 12: Kneeling Beef (2)
"That’s right." Zhou Miao immediately chimed in, nodding. "Zhou Jie and the others are just earning hard-earned money. When they can’t sell everything, they even lose money."
Zhou Yan had already anticipated their reaction. He smiled and said, "When I was at the factory cafeteria, I learned a medicinal recipe. I plan to combine that with the hot pot. That way, the resulting soup won’t just be more delicious, it’ll also have certain medicinal properties.
Also, we won’t call it ’hot pot’ anymore. Our shop will call it Kneeling Beef. Our ancestors in Zhou Village invented this dish over a hundred years ago. Back then, there was even an old traditional doctor who sold Kneeling Beef from a stall and improved the recipe. This gives us both a legacy and a story."
"That’ll work?" Zhao Tieying and Zhou Miao exchanged a look, a bit baffled by what they were hearing.
"Of course. If we want to sell the hot pot at a higher price and get the workers to love it, we have to tell a good story about the dish—from its historical origins and anecdotes to its lineage of inheritance." Zhou Yan nodded confidently.
He had heard countless brand stories when he filmed his food vlogging videos, including the one for Suji beef. So, he already had a rough idea of how to tell this brand story well.
’He wasn’t a master at cooking, but storytelling was his expertise.’
’Adapting isn’t the same as making things up from scratch. He was just organizing and retelling, allowing this dish to flourish sooner.’
Zhao Tieying and Zhou Miao nodded thoughtfully. They didn’t understand these things, but since Zhou Yan said he learned it from the factory cafeteria, it must be legitimate.
"Alright, when the cow is slaughtered tomorrow, I’ll save the offal for you," Zhou Miao said.
"You don’t have to save all of it. Just leave me an extra half-jin of the sirloin flap, and a little bit of the tripe, intestines, and tendon. Give the rest to Jie. We’ll cook a pot tomorrow to try it out first." Zhou Yan’s expression was serious. "If we’re really going to sell it, I plan to build a stove by the entrance specifically for cooking the Kneeling Beef. Once the aroma wafts out, it’ll be better than any advertisement."
"Got it," Zhou Miao nodded.
"Then tomorrow, I’ll clean the offal you need by the river first," Zhao Tieying said.
"Then I’ll have to trouble you, Comrade Zhao Tieying," Zhou Yan said with a smile.
The unconditional trust and support from Comrade Zhao Tieying and Comrade Zhou Miao moved him deeply.
’My family... who could possibly understand this feeling! This is what it feels like to have a family!’
’In this life, he had to work hard to make money, pay off his debts as soon as possible, and ease his parents’ burden so they could live a good life.’
Zhou Yan left the house with money in his pocket. The Kneeling Beef recipe he had was the pinnacle of future-era improvements.
In 1984, an era of scarcity, most people were still struggling just to get enough to eat. However, some working-class people with stable jobs and decent incomes were gradually starting to pursue not just eating their fill, but eating well.
As people’s living standards continuously rose, their demands for food quality naturally increased. It was a natural progression.
The evolution of Kneeling Beef—from adding spices to remove gaminess, to adding medicinal herbs for more flavor, and finally to nourishing the stomach, dispelling dampness and cold, and strengthening the body and bones—was a response to diners’ pursuit of eating well.
There were plenty of stalls selling Kneeling Beef in Suji Town and along the Qingyi Riverfront. Ninety percent of them were run by people from Zhou Village. They all had a daily supply of fresh beef offal, and their main selling point was being cheap and plentiful.
If Zhou Yan wanted to sell Kneeling Beef at a higher price, he needed to differentiate his product. He would have to completely outclass the competition in three aspects—flavor, texture, and medicinal effects—and also tell a good story.
He went to the two old traditional Chinese medicine doctors in town and bought over ten kinds of medicinal herbs like Angelica dahurica, long pepper, black cardamom, Amomum villosum, and sand ginger. He didn’t buy a large quantity of each, but it still cost him eight yuan and twenty cents.
For one, there were many different kinds, and for another, authentic medicinal herbs were expensive.
Zhao Tieying looked at Zhou Yan returning with several kraft paper bags of medicinal herbs and asked with some confusion, "Are you feeling unwell somewhere? Why did you buy so many herbs?"
"I’m fine. These herbs are to be added to the Kneeling Beef," Zhou Yan explained to her simply.
Adding medicinal herbs to the Kneeling Beef would, first, enhance the flavor, and second, increase the dish’s medicinal properties, thereby differentiating it from the Kneeling Beef sold at other shops.
"You do need to add some herbs, but not that many, right? Besides, medicinal herbs are expensive. Of all the people in our village who sell hot pot, very few actually add them." Zhao Tieying frowned. "If you add this much, I’m afraid you’ll lose money."
"I won’t lose money. I know what I’m doing," Zhou Yan said, full of confidence.
They finished work early tonight. The ninety bowls of noodles sold out quickly, and Zhou Yan had to apologize and turn away a few more customers, telling them to come earlier tomorrow.
His parents finished dinner and left with Zhou Momo.
Zhou Yan put the dried bamboo shoots to soak, made a jar of pickled radishes, and took a quick cold shower in the courtyard before heading back to his room early.
The room was tiny. A five-watt lightbulb barely illuminated it. The coarse walls were plastered with yellowed old newspapers. One pane of the glass window was broken, patched up with newspaper and tape that was already peeling at the edges, letting the wind seep in through the cracks.
The bed was just a few uneven wooden planks laid across two long benches. The mattress pad was a thin, old cotton quilt, dark and grimy, passed down from who-knows-when. Lying on it was hard and uncomfortable.
His pillow was a Xinhua Dictionary. The blanket he slept under was also thin and offered no warmth; at night, he had to lay his jacket over it just to fall asleep.
A bamboo pole hung up with a rope served as his closet. The two shirts and two pairs of pants hanging on it were his entire wardrobe.
Calling it a hovel with four bare walls would be no exaggeration at all.
’Zhou was a good comrade. He spent every borrowed penny where it counted and didn’t enjoy a single bit of it himself.’
Zhou Yan had started out as an orphan in his past life, so he was someone who could endure hardship.
’But he never expected that after enduring his own suffering, he’d have to endure the suffering someone else left behind.’
’What terrible karma!’
’Make money!’
He was now brimming with motivation.
Only by making money could he break free from this hovel.
’Once I make some money, I’ll get myself a Simmons mattress! Get a thick quilt made of new cotton! Get a soft pillow! And fix that window!’
’No, no, that’s setting the bar too low.’
’It should be a refrigerator, a television, a washing machine!’
’The pursuit of a good life should be a bit more ambitious.’
The box with the money was by his bedside. He opened the lid and began to count.
Today’s income was 54 yuan. Expenses for meat and bok choy were 15.3 yuan. With the 35.5 yuan left over from yesterday, he had 74.2 yuan in cash on hand.
He now had enough for tomorrow’s rent. After paying it, there would still be some money left over, which could be used to build the outdoor stove needed for the Kneeling Beef.
There was also the fountain pen Xia Yao had given him. It still had ink, so Zhou Yan casually unscrewed the cap and recorded the day’s accounts.
The expensive import was not only exquisite in appearance, but it also wrote much more smoothly than his ninety-cent plastic-barreled Wing Sung 233.
’But what was she thinking, giving a fountain pen to a Chef?’
’What a strange girl.’
He pulled the cord by his bed, the tungsten filament lamp went dark, and Zhou Yan was asleep in an instant.
The fatigue from a long day’s work left him no time to think about miscellaneous matters; it felt like he had passed out from exhaustion.
...
Early the next morning, before the sky had brightened, Master Zhou rode his old twenty-eight-inch bicycle out to buy ingredients.
At the Yankantou slaughterhouse, a few lamps had been strung up, barely illuminating the yard where several groups of cow slaughterers were fervently butchering cows and portioning the meat.
"Zhou Yan!"
Just as Zhou Yan brought his bicycle to a stop, a resonant voice called out from behind him.
He turned at the sound and saw two burly, imposing men walking toward him, carrying blood-stained knives.
