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

Zhang Guolao's words, "You get six, I get four," had barely faded when he was already impatient.

"Young shopkeeper, empty talk is meaningless. I'm a man of action when it comes to business."

He rubbed his hands together, his eyes darted around, and he turned and walked toward the donkey.

"Seeing is believing. Today I'll show you with my own eyes what a unique ingredient, found nowhere else in the world, truly is."

He walked to the wooden post, reached out to untie the reins, and led the donkey to the open space in front of the food stall.

The donkey remained docile, head down, being led along by him.

The four hooves trod on the cloud bricks, each step making a muffled thud, neither hurried nor slow.

"Cutting meat requires a certain technique."

Zhang Guolao took out a thin-bladed knife from his sleeve. The blade gleamed coldly and looked very sharp.

He was talking to me while he started gesturing with his hands.

"You can't cut too deep, and you can't cut too shallow. If you cut too deep, you'll damage the meridians, and the flesh that grows back won't be tender; if you cut too shallow, there won't be enough meat to make a dish. After thousands of years of studying this, I've figured out this sense of proportion better than those celestial officials in the Imperial Stables."

He said this with a hint of pride in his tone, as if he were showing off a unique skill.

But I noticed that he hid the hand holding the knife in his sleeve for a while before revealing it.

Those fingertips were trembling.

He wasn't nervous; this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him.

This is the kind of physiological reaction that you can't suppress even with excitement before you've done something wrong.

The donkey stood there, motionless.

It stared at the knife, its eyes empty.

Zhang Guolao walked to the side of the donkey and suddenly changed his expression.

The speed at which he changed his expression was even faster than the celestial officials in the Lingxiao Palace who played the good cop/bad cop roles.

He abandoned the shrewd calculations he had displayed during the business negotiations, his brows furrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned down, adopting a look of heartache and reluctance.

He reached out and stroked the donkey's neck, his movements deliberately gentle, and his voice softened.

  

It also carried a slight, just-right tremor.

"Good donkey, good boy, don't be afraid, it won't hurt, it'll be over in a bit."

The donkey didn't move.

"As you know, our journey of cultivation has not been easy."

His tone grew increasingly somber, as if he were speaking of some tragic destiny.

"You know how I've treated you all these years. If it weren't for accumulating merit for you, why would I have the audacity to come to this run-down stall and try to do business with people?"

He paused, then gently stroked the donkey's mane with his fingers, a gesture that looked incredibly affectionate.

But the knife in his other hand was already firmly pressed against the donkey's hind leg.

"The physical body is nothing but a shell; it can be cut off and regenerated. But the merits you accumulate will stay with you for three lifetimes. If you are a donkey in this life, you will be a dragon-horse in the next, and in the next life, you may very well become a dragon."

His voice grew softer and softer, as if he himself had come to believe it.

"When others cut off your flesh, they are harming you; when I cut off your flesh, it is to save you."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the blade sank into the donkey's hind leg.

That was incredibly fast; Zhang Guolao's hand was extremely steady, and the blade sliced ​​along the muscle.

A piece of meat the size of a palm was removed.

Blood beads rolled down the blade, and the donkey's body trembled slightly.

The movement was extremely slight, like a shiver or an unintentional tremor as if brushed by a breeze.

Its four hooves remained firmly planted on the cloud bricks, without neighing, without struggling, and without even flicking its tail.

The hind leg tucked in slightly, the knee bent gently, and then slowly straightened.

A barely perceptible force-dissipating action.

It was as if, to it, having its flesh cut off was just a habit repeated a thousand times, nothing to be surprised about.

But what happened next opened my eyes even more than the act of cutting off my own flesh.

Zhang Guolao placed the bloody piece of donkey meat on the cutting board.

He turned around, squatted down in front of the donkey, stared at the wound that was slowly healing, and his eyes suddenly reddened.

"Does it hurt? I know it hurts."

He reached out and gently patted the donkey's side, his voice choked with emotion.

"Do you think I feel good about this? I raised you from the bottom of my heart. Seeing you suffer is more painful than cutting my own flesh."

The donkey kept its head down and did not respond.

Those dull, gray eyes were half-closed, as if looking at the cloud-patterned bricks beneath their feet, or as if they weren't looking at anything at all.

Zhang Guolao's shoulders trembled slightly, as if he were truly suppressing his grief.

His breathing became heavy, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down several times.

Finally, a tear slid down his cheek, down his nose, and landed with a thud on the donkey's back.

The tear rolled a little along the donkey's hair and condensed into a perfectly round bead.

Bathed in the sunlight filtering through the clouds, it sparkled and looked quite sincere.

I watched all of this from the sidelines with a cold eye, without feeling the slightest ripple in my heart.

But my eyes weren't idle—that single tear was the most valuable thing in Zhang Guolao's performance.

When hypocrisy reaches its extreme, it becomes mere seasoning.

I silently reached out and took the cleanest white porcelain bowl from the stove, passing it from under his trembling shoulder.

While he was still immersed in his self-indulgent performance, I placed the rim of the bowl against his cheek and caught the second drop steadily.

This drop was fuller than the first, and it was still warm when it fell to the bottom of the bowl.

Zhang Guolao was completely unaware, or perhaps he was aware but too lazy to care.

He straightened up, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and sniffed.

When he turned to look at me, his expression had changed completely.

Her eyes were still red, but the corners of her mouth couldn't help but turn up.

"Young shopkeeper, you've seen it too, this meat grows so fast."

He pointed to the donkey's hind leg, where the skin had just been cut and had already healed, leaving only a thin, pale pink line.

Another stroke was added to the existing old marks.

"With this, what will you have to worry about with your food stall? Our business will be guaranteed to be profitable no matter what!"

I didn't reply, but just lowered my head and looked at the fresh donkey meat on the cutting board.

The meat is of exceptional quality. Its texture is delicate, its color is bright, and it even carries a faint, ethereal aura; it is truly no ordinary product.

The teardrop in the white porcelain bowl beside it was so clear it didn't look like a tear at all; it looked more like a drop of dew squeezed out of the clouds.

I picked up the piece of donkey meat, placed it on the cutting board, and began to chop it into minced meat.

The blade struck the meat, one stroke after another, steadily and calmly.

I poured that tear into the minced meat; the tear seeped into the texture of the meat and disappeared.

Only a very faint salty and astringent taste remained.

This tear, taken alone, is disgusting, but when added to a fire, it becomes ironic.

With the stove fire burning brightly, I wrapped the prepared filling into the dough, placed it in the oven, and closed the oven lid.

Soon, the first donkey meat sandwich was ready.

The golden-brown crust, steaming hot, and the aroma of meat mixed with a caramelized fragrance wafted straight into one's nostrils.

Judging by its appearance alone, it is indeed a presentable dish.

Zhang Guolao's eyes were fixed on the burning fire.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently; the sadness he had felt while forcing tears during the performance had been completely washed away by his appetite.

He can't wait.

I ignored him and turned to rummage through the baked buns in the oven.