While Wen Yin was cooking, the rest of the kitchen was a whirl of activity. It was midday; the dining rooms were filling up and the hotel’s cooks had their hands full.
Wen Yin set a bowl of flour in front of her and began to work it with warm water, kneading with practiced, economical motions. After letting the dough rest for twenty minutes, she rolled it out into a thin, even sheet. Rolling by hand was an art—too stiff, too coarse, too thick and the noodles would boil up half-cooked and gummy. She rolled until the dough was almost translucent, then, with a steady hand, began slicing it into strands.
The speed never faltered. Each cut fell with metronomic precision, producing ribbons so uniform that the apprentices watching could hardly contain themselves.
“My God, Teacher Wen, how do you do that? So fast and so even!” one of them cried.
“If it were me, I’d have ruined the whole batch halfway through,” another admitted.
Wen Yin, focused on her work, only smiled and kept cutting.
She tossed scallion, ginger, and garlic into the wok and fried them until fragrant, then added tiny diced tomatoes, stirring them until they gave up their juices. When the pan held a good deal of tomato liquid, she dropped in a few larger chunks to boost the freshness. A little hot water, the noodles in to cook, and a few slices of ham sausage—simple, soulful—and the tangy tomato soup noodles were done.
She plated a steaming bowl and carried it out without delay. She had meant to sit in the back kitchen and eat a quick bite, but a voice called her over. Grandpa Shao had sent for her.
Seeing her come out of the kitchen with sweat darkening her hairline, Mr. Shao’s face softened. He waved a napkin at her and sounded almost apologetic. “Does your kitchen not have air conditioning? What a state.”
Wen Yin dabbed at the sweat on her forehead and nose and gave him a small, embarrassed smile. “It’s just the heat from cooking. I’ll cool down soon. By the way, I heard from Xiang Wei that you liked the pickled vegetables I made this morning. If you’d like, I can pickle a little each day as an appetizer.”
Her shy offer made Grandpa Shao’s pleasure increase. He couldn’t stop talking about the baby cabbage she’d pickled earlier. “I’ve never had pickles that tasted this good. Even Chef Li’s couldn't compare. Your food has a homey touch I just can’t resist.”
He looked at her with genuine concern. “Haven’t you had anything to eat since you ran over here from your store?”
Wen Yin was handed a menu mid-sentence. Grandpa Shao waved it away like a child who’d found a new toy. “Order whatever you want. I’ll have Chef Li make it. This one’s on me—sit and eat with an old man.”
Wen Yin tried to refuse, but his disapproving look and the gentle pat on her hand dissolved her resistance. “Don’t worry about it. I just want to have a meal with you.”
So she picked a few dishes and sat, chatting and laughing with him. By the time they were done, Grandpa Shao’s impression of her had only grown. She was far more industrious and capable than he’d imagined—no wonder she had caught Shao Yinan’s eye. The thought made him beam.
After they’d discussed the menu for the next day and confirmed he had no objections, Wen Yin left. Over the next week she made a point of coming to eat with him regularly and even taught a trustworthy apprentice at her dessert shop how to handle the sweets. With someone to take over the morning pastries, Wen Yin’s workload eased; sometimes she even had time to make breakfast for Grandpa Shao.
Not everyone was pleased. Shao Yinan, who had gotten used to waking up to Wen Yin’s presence, resented her sudden early departures. One morning, realizing she was slipping out after preparing his breakfast, he cracked one eye open and, without missing a beat, slid an arm around her and pulled her into his chest.
His voice was low, rough with sleep. “Where have you been going so early and coming back so late? What mischief have you been up to behind my back?”
His head tucked into her shoulder, warm breath trailing across the sensitive skin at her neck. Wen Yin laughed and squirmed.
“Mischief? I’m doing good things,” she protested, pouting.
Hearing her tone, Shao Yinan rolled over so they faced each other. Sleep still clung to him, but his eyes—soft, liquor-clear, the kind that made everything look adored—were fully awake. He stared at her, unblinking, and for a moment the room felt smaller, charged.
Wen Yin teased by covering his eyes with her hand. She felt his long lashes scrape over her palm like a delicate tremor.
He didn’t like the darkness. His fingers caught hers and pulled them down. “You like this, A-Yin?” he asked, the sliver of danger in his voice making the air between them taste electric.
That was the look he always got when he was trying to persuade her into something he called “bad.” Nervous, Wen Yin scrambled upright. “I… I have things to do. You should lie down a bit longer — it’s Sunday, you need to rest. I’ll be back soon.”
Shao Yinan reached to pull her back, but she had already predicted his move and slipped aside. He swiped the air and caught nothing, watching her bound out like a little hare.
He ruffled his hair and made an exasperated sound. Lately she’d been spending more time away from him. And had her trips to the Li family hotel grown more frequent? Several times she’d sent him to fetch her from there. The thought prickled his mood.
He picked up his phone and dialed Secretary Li.