Celestial Food Stall: I Set Up a Food Stall in Heaven

On the fourth day, Sha Wujing asked me if there was any department in Heaven that specifically handled matters "not under my jurisdiction".

Before I could answer, Venus arrived.

Venus is a well-known peacemaker in Heaven, specializing in handling difficult, unspeakable, and unapproachable matters.

He sat down in front of my stall, carrying a pot of wine and beaming with smiles.

He first exchanged a few pleasantries with me, asking "How's business?", then turned to Sha Wujing, speaking in a friendly tone as if he were an old friend.

It's as if that incident from five hundred years ago was just a small misunderstanding, something that can be resolved with a drink.

"Wujing, we're all old colleagues, why make things so ugly?"

He poured Sha Wujing a cup of wine and lowered his voice, "Now that you are a person of Mount Ling, coming to the Heavenly Court to demand unpaid wages makes it look bad for both of us."

"How about this—the Heavenly Court will give you a sum of money under the guise of 'compensation.' The amount is negotiable. Then this matter will be over."

Sha Wujing did not accept the wine cup.

He opened his eyes and stared at Venus, his gaze like two rusty nails.

"Compensation? What did I do wrong that I need compensation?"

Venus's smile froze for a moment.

That moment was so brief, so brief, that I would have missed it if I were flipping the grill.

But I didn't flip the grill. I saw it.

He stopped laughing, put down the wine pot, and his tone was still gentle, but the soft words had been removed, leaving only his bare bones.

"Wujing, breaking the glass lamp five hundred years ago was ultimately your fault."

"His Majesty was lenient with you then, and now he's willing to compensate you, please don't..."

He paused, then pronounced the last four words very lightly, as if he were weighing their weight on the tip of his tongue.

  

"Ungrateful."

These four words, falling lightly on the chopping board, struck Sha Wujing like a hammer, making him tremble all over.

You don't know what's good for you! You've got too much credit for me!

Sha Wujing suddenly stood up, his chest heaving violently.

He stared at Venus, his eyes reddening, his lips trembling for a long time, unable to utter a single word.

Those eyes, which had remained open for five hundred years after being pierced by flying swords in the Flowing Sand River, were now pierced red by those four words.

Breaking the glass cup was his fault.

Five hundred years in the Flowing Sands River, a flying sword piercing his chest, no salary or reward, living by cannibalism... Is all of this enough to atone for that transgression?

If that's not enough, then the 108,000-mile journey to the West, subduing demons and monsters, and how many times we were almost steamed and served on the table, is that enough?

If that's not enough, could the title of Golden Arhat be equivalent to the position of Curtain-Rolling General?

He didn't speak because he had too much to say.

Too many words stuck in my throat, and I can't utter a single one.

Like the sand in the Liusha River, it accumulates more and more until it eventually blocks the river channel.

Venus looked at him, as if waiting for an answer.

That smile returned to his face, gentle, kind, and patient, as if he were talking to a child who didn't know any better.

Sha Wujing did not give a reply.

He turned and left, his cassock dragging along the stone steps of the South Heavenly Gate, leaving a trail of dust on the ground.

The golden Arhat robe dragged on the stone steps, making a sound like a dull knife scraping sandpaper.

Venus sighed and got up to leave.

"Old Immortal Taibai," I suddenly said.

He turned around.

"Is this wine left over from the Peach Banquet?" I asked, flipping the meat on the grill without looking up. "It smells a bit sour."

Venus's expression changed slightly.

The change was so subtle that only someone like me, who has observed the process for decades, could detect it: the tail of his eyebrow twitched, and the corner of his mouth tightened slightly.

He didn't reply, and turned and left.

As his sleeve brushed against the cutting board, it knocked over the cup of wine that Sha Wujing hadn't drunk.

The spilled liquor soaked a corner of the notice, causing the ink to slightly bleed.

The wine jug was still on the corner of the table, the lid not tightly closed, and a faint sour smell wafted from the spout.

I picked it up and smelled it—it wasn't spoiled, it was just too old.

The leftover wine from the Peach Banquet, stored for five hundred years, has lost its flavor even at its finest.

It is said that after Venus returned, he had the warehouse check the remaining wine from the Peach Banquet.

The celestial official in charge of the storeroom spent three days flipping through the ledgers and replied with one sentence: "The wine from five hundred years ago is still in the ledger, and the wine jars are still there. No one dares to open the jars and smell what's inside."

Venus pressed the reply letter to the very bottom of his desk.

After Venus left, Sha Wujing sat on the bench for a long time.

The night wind blew in, and the fire in the stove flickered, casting half of his rugged face in light and half in shadow.

His shadow dragged on the ground, heavier than when he arrived.

I handed him a cup of hot tea. He didn't take it, but just stared at the notice on the counter, muttering, "He said I don't know what's good for me."

"I heard you."

"I went to the Celestial Registration Office three times, sought out the Bodhisattva, and posted notices for four days. Then he said I didn't know what was good for me."

"right."

Sha Wujing raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were red, but there were no tears.

The flying sword of Liu Shahe, which had been around for five hundred years, had long since pierced through his tear ducts.

But things that can't be worn out are more dangerous than tear glands. They burn behind the eye sockets, making the whole face feel hot.

"Boss Chang, tell me, should I come to collect this debt?"

I didn't answer. I stood up, draped the rag over my shoulder, and went into the kitchen.

The kitchen was tiny, just big enough for one person to walk around in circles. The stove, cutting board, oil cylinder, and spice rack were crammed full.

I took a piece of fat wrapped in oil paper from the beam and placed it on the cutting board.

The pork fat was picked up from the Nantianmen market the day before yesterday. It was top-quality black-haired pork, with fat three fingers thick, and as white as jade.

It lay on the cutting board, like a silent piece of jade.

I spread out the fat, picked up the back of the knife, and started pounding.

The back of the knife struck the fat repeatedly with a dull thud. It wasn't chopping, it wasn't slicing, it was pounding.

The force should be even and the rhythm steady. Pound the fat and fascia of the fat piece by piece until it becomes gelatinous and no longer its own.

This skill was learned from a tattered cookbook in the mortal world.

The recipe says there is a lost ancient dish called "Liuli Rou" (琉璃肉).

The pork fat is pounded into a paste, mixed with egg whites and starch, shaped and deep-fried until soft. The finished product is crystal clear and looks like glass. It was the grand finale dish at ancient banquets.

I've always wanted to recreate this dish, but I always felt like something was missing.

Traditional Chinese-style glass-like meat is supposed to be sweet, crispy, and delicious, but I don't think that's right.

Glass is beautiful to look at, but it shatters at the slightest touch. Just like the dignity of the Heavenly Court.

So I changed the recipe.

Pound the pork fat, then mix in egg white and mung bean starch, and stir clockwise until it becomes elastic.

Then, I took out a bowl of dark-colored stuff. It was a filling made with black sesame powder and bitter melon juice.

Black sesame seeds symbolize the flying sand of the Liusha River, as fine as dust and as black as an abyss.

Bitter melon juice, it doesn't have any special symbolism, it's just bitter.

It was real, tangible suffering.

Five hundred years, every day was bitter. So bitter that your tongue went numb, your throat tightened, and the bitterness lingered in your mouth even after you swallowed it.

I wrapped the bitter filling inside the fatty mud and shaped it into a glass cup.

The cup has a slightly flared mouth and a thin, translucent body, just like the glass cup used at the Peach Banquet back then.

When you pinch the rim of the cup with your fingers, you can feel the weight of the bitter filling inside—the more brittle the outer shell, the heavier the bitterness inside.

Finally, a piece of gold leaf was placed at the bottom of the cup.

No, it's not gold leaf. It's glutinous rice paper dyed with turmeric powder.

It looks glittering, but it melts in your mouth.

It's the same title as that of the Golden Arhat.

When the oil in the wok is heated to about 30% of its maximum temperature, I hold the glass cup and gently place it into the oil.

Low-temperature frying, a slow and meticulous process from ancient methods.

The glass cup slowly expands in the oil, the sugar shell becomes translucent, and you can vaguely see the black sesame filling churning inside, like the undercurrents of the Liusha River surging.

Once fried, remove from the oil and plate.

I carried the jade plate out of the kitchen and sat down in front of Sha Wujing.

"You wanted to be reinstated," I pushed the plate over, "Here, have a taste."

Sha Wujing looked down at the glass cup in the plate.

Through the glistening sugar shell, he could see the black sesame filling inside.

The black mass nestled quietly inside the transparent cup, like a heart sealed away for five hundred years.

Then I made a move. I tapped the jade plate on the cutting board.

It was a very light bump.

The sugar coating on the glass cup was too brittle; a crack spread from the rim to the bottom, like a lightning bolt frozen on the transparent surface.

The cracks gleamed faintly under the lamplight, like a crisp sound that had been suppressed for five hundred years, finally being released.

Sha Wujing's pupils contracted slightly. He stared at the crack, his breath catching in his throat.

"This dish is called 'Official Reinstatement in a Glazed Cup'."

I wiped my hands, speaking as if I were introducing an ordinary side dish.

"Eat it while it's hot. If it cools down, the bitterness won't dissipate."

Sha Wujing picked up his chopsticks and took a piece of candy shell. It tasted crisp and slightly sweet, but the sweetness was fleeting, like the last smile at the Peach Banquet.

As he chewed, he reached the bitter filling at the bottom.

The aroma of black sesame and the astringency of bitter melon mingled together, like the sandstorm of the Liusha River rushing into your throat, like the first night after a flying sword pierces your chest, like the sigh of Guanyin in the Purple Bamboo Forest.

The bitterness spreads from the tip of the tongue to the back, growing stronger and stronger.

Finally, he chewed on the piece of gold leaf. Before he could swallow it, it melted.

The glutinous rice paper melts on the tongue, and the turmeric powder has a slightly spicy taste.

The glittering gold thing was actually so thin.

It's so thin that it shatters at the slightest touch of a tooth, and so fragile that it disappears with a flick of the tongue. You can't even hear a sound.

"This golden Arhat statue," I said, wiping the grill without looking up, "also melts in your mouth."

Sha Wujing's chopsticks stopped in mid-air. He looked down at the shattered glass cup and melted gold leaf in the bowl, and remained silent for a long time.

So long that the stove fire went from burning brightly to smoldering, so long that the night wind at Nantianmen went from cool to cold, so long that I thought he would never speak again.

Then his shoulders started to shake.

It wasn't a loud wail, but a trembling that was suppressed to the extreme. Like the first crack of ice coming from the deepest part of a mountain that had been frozen for five hundred years.

Tears rolled down his rough face and landed on the cutting board.

One drop, two drops, landed beside the crack, like shards of a glass cup finally finding their shape.

A person who had never shed a tear after being pierced by a flying sword for five hundred years was brought to tears by a dish.

I didn't look at him.

I stood up, poured him a pot of tea, and turned to go back to the kitchen.

The stove needs firewood, the dishcloth needs to be rinsed, and a cook always has endless tasks to do.

Crying is unpleasant when there are people watching.