Old Yu is probably about sixty this year.
Medium build, a little chubby—he’s pure old-school Yanjing, every sentence dropping an ’er,’ speaks Beijing slang smoother than even Master, Senior, or Shen Guofu and those guys.
He’s a regular at the shop, too.
But this old fella doesn’t eat anything else, only Noodles with Braised Eggplant and Pork Sauce, and he won’t touch the kind that’s been rinsed in hot water. Just likes ’em straight outta the pot, piping hot.
The Beijingers call it guotiao’er—straight from the pot.
And he insists on eating with whole garlic cloves. Says only this way is really authentic.
Looking at Old Yu coming over to give him the heads-up, Lin Xu asked curiously:
"How does someone buying those shops mess things up for me?"
"Kid, you’re still too green. What if they open up some fancy restaurant, also called Lin Ji’s Food? Wouldn’t all your customers flock over there? Worst case, they buy out all these shops, in the future you want to expand, there’s no place left for you..."
Lin Xu knew all that.
But if someone wants to buy, we can’t exactly stop ’em, right?
He looked at Old Yu and asked:
"Between our two shops there’s only a bakery in the middle. Did that mystery tycoon buy up your supermarket too?"
Old Yu let out a long sigh:
"I wanna sell, for sure—even called ’em up myself to ask. But they’re only interested in shops around Lin Ji, don’t even glance at anywhere else... You haven’t pissed anyone off lately, have you?"
Who could he possibly offend, cooking in the shop day in day out?
Besides, these folks around him—Master, Senior, the father-in-law, even Uncle Tan—they’re all successful people. Even if he did tick someone off, it wouldn’t be such a big deal to smooth things over.
"Thanks, Old Yu. I’ll ask the landlord about it later... How come you’re up so early today?"
He remembered the contract had a landlord’s phone number.
He’d call later, see what’s up.
But with the system’s over-the-top planning, his own shop should be safe.
After all, it even managed to affect March campus recruiting.
Lin Xu even suspected that last fall’s job fairs were also the system’s doing.
Just so he’d become a chef.
Killed off what could’ve been a finance prodigy!
Old Yu pointed outside and said:
"Warehouse delivery just came, gotta count everything. Later let’s grab some bean juice, my treat. That place’s bean juice has been passed down for generations, tastes proper local. This early, there’s already a line."
If it were any other breakfast,
Lin Xu might’ve gone with Old Yu.
Perfect chance to buddy up with the neighbor, have him bring in some rare ingredients.
But if it’s bean juice, nah, he’s good.
"Bean juice, I really can’t get used to it. I’m about to make some Shengjian Buns—Old Yu, why not eat here, yeah?"
"What’s so special about Shengjian? Bean juice—now that hits the spot, especially paired with two fried rings, nothing better."
Old Yu wasn’t interested in Shengjian Buns.
Shook his head and left the shop.
Lin Xu took the few pieces of pork skin he bought this morning, tossed ’em into a pot, added scallion, ginger, and liquor, and prepared to blanch them for some pork skin aspic.
Good Shengjian Buns are seven parts pork, three parts aspic.
Chop the pork skin jelly fine and mix into the pork filling; when heated, it melts into that juicy filling that everyone loves and hates—one careless bite and bam, soup all over your shirt.
But really, it’s that soup—so tasty—that makes Shengjian Buns a crowd favorite.
Let the fresh Shengjian cool a bit, bite a tiny hole, then sip those still-hot juices—nothing like that flavor sliding right down your throat.
Carefully finish the soup.
Then eat up the bun, crispy-bottom soft-top, loaded with meat—the satisfaction’s unreal, feels like life is complete.
If you manage to eat the whole thing without spilling a drop, the sense of achievement is wild, like you just pulled off some big feat.
After the water boiled in the pot,
Lin Xu gently skimmed the scum off with a spoon.
Then he scooped out the pork skin, dropped it on the cutting board, and while it was still hot, scraped off the greasy bits and stubble—so only a half-transparent, springy skin remained.
He scraped, then washed the pork skin twice in hot water.
Trying to get rid of any leftover grime on the surface.
Then, tossed all the pork skin in the pressure cooker, added some water, threw in scallion, ginger, and liquor again, sealed the lid, and set it to cook.
When it comes to pork skin aspic, as long as the skin’s cleaned well,
the rest don’t matter all that much.
If he didn’t need it quickly for Shengjian Buns, Lin Xu wouldn’t even bother with the pressure cooker.
While the pork skin was cooking, he mixed some flour with cold water and a bit of yeast.
For Shengjian Buns, you want "half-open" dough.
That means dough that’s starting to rise, but not all the way.
This way, the buns won’t puff up too much and squeeze out the filling, but won’t be too dense and tough like dead dough either.
Buns made with half-open dough are soft and just right, sizing up nice and even.
Skin thickness comes out perfect, too.
Once the dough was rising,
Lin Xu dug out the rental contract from the cash register drawer.
The contract was drafted with a real estate agency—no info on the landlord, just a phone number for renewing after the lease is up.
It’s still not even six, way too early to call.
He figured he’d save the number to his phone first.
Contact after breakfast.
As he punched in the landlord’s number, Lin Xu was about to save it—turns out it was Old Gao’s number.
Both numbers were exactly the same.
No wonder Master was coming by as soon as the shop opened.
Turns out he’s the landlord.
This system’s got a sense of humor, alright.