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

Princess Iron Fan wasn't the type to show up the next day.

She thought about it for three days at the Flaming Mountain.

For three days, she repeated the cook's words over and over again.

"Tears fall on stones and dry in the sun, but if they are made into sauce, they can be swallowed by those who need to swallow them."

She didn't fully understand, but she sensed the weight of the words "swallow it."

She has swallowed too much in her life, so much so that her throat is inflamed, her voice is hoarse, and she can't even cry out loud.

If tears could really be made into sauce, then the amount she accumulated over three hundred years would be enough to flood Moyun Cave.

Three days later, she arrived.

The street below the South Heavenly Gate is bustling with activity as early as the beginning of the morning.

Old Zhang, who sells magical fruits, had just set up his stall when Old Li, who sells magical artifacts, was arguing with the man next door who sells talismans about yesterday's chess game—a scene of ordinary life.

My little stall is as deserted as ever.

A crooked cutting board, a few chipped rough porcelain bowls, and a pot of water bubbling gently on the stove—it all seemed a world apart from the bustling street scene.

I'm squatting behind the cutting board, sharpening a knife.

The knife is the one I used to grill steak a few days ago. The blade has a small nick; if I don't sharpen it, it'll get stuck in my teeth when I cut meat next time.

The whetstone was picked up from the steps of Nantianmen. It was made of bluestone, and the sound of the whetstone scraping against the stone was slow and steady.

A wave of intense heat suddenly rushed in from the street corner.

It's not the wind, it's the air pressure. It's that kind of dryness that instantly squeezes out all the moisture from the air, making your skin feel tight.

The street is always warm and humid, like spring all year round, but this suddenly felt like someone had lit a steel furnace at the street corner.

The fairy fruit on Old Zhang's stall was visibly wilted, and the chess piece in Old Li's hand was suspended in mid-air, forgotten to be dropped.

Several hermits who were squatting on the side of the street eating breakfast all looked up at the same time. When they saw the person coming, they all lowered their heads again and moved their bowls to the side.

It's not that I'm afraid, it's that I don't want to get involved.

Princess Iron Fan stood at the street corner.

She wore a plain-colored fairy dress, the hem of which was still stained with charcoal ash from the Flaming Mountains.

It has been washed, but the ash has seeped into the material and can't be washed off.

The hairpin in her hair was replaced with a silver one; the old, broken jade hairpin with twin lotus blossoms was nowhere to be found, or perhaps still clutched in her hand.

  

She didn't bring a banana leaf fan.

The fan is too big; it's too conspicuous to carry around when going out.

But the fiery aura surrounding her was even more flamboyant than the fan; wherever she went, the temperature rose by three degrees.

She glanced at the stalls on both sides of the street, her gaze sweeping over Old Zhang's wilted fairy fruit and Old Li's chess pieces hanging in mid-air, finally settling on the table made of three broken wooden planks at the street corner.

She walked over. Her steps were slow, but each step was firm and measured.

The heels tapped on the stone slabs of the Heavenly Street, tap, tap, tap, like someone striking the night watchman's gong in the distance.

When she got to the stall, she didn't sit down. She stood and watched me sharpen my knife.

I glanced up at her, then looked down and continued grinding.

I scraped the blade against the bluestone three times, then spoke, my tone exactly the same as it had been three days ago on the mountainside of Flaming Mountain: "You've arrived?"

"I'm here." Her voice was still hoarse. That hoarseness, burned in her throat by resentment, might never heal.

I flipped the knife over, keeping the other side of the blade against the whetstone, and asked again, "Have you thought it through?"

She didn't answer. After a moment of silence, she took something out of her sleeve and placed it on the cutting board.

That broken jade hairpin with twin lotus blossoms. The hairpin head was broken into a single stub, and the body of the hairpin had been held by her for three hundred years. The jade surface was covered with fine cracks, like a piece of paper that had been crumpled and then flattened.

The dish you mentioned.

She stared at the broken hairpin. "Make it for me."

I stopped sharpening the knife, placed it on the edge of the cutting board, and picked up the broken hairpin to examine it.

The East Sea Jade, warm and smooth yet with a hint of coolness, continues to exude spiritual energy even after three hundred years.

The hairpin is cracked like this; it's obvious how much force the person holding it used.

"This dish isn't cheap." I put the broken hairpin back on the cutting board.

"I can afford it."

"I'm not talking about spirit stones."

She paused, looked at me, and the wariness in her eyes resurfaced.

It's exactly the same as when I broke it three days ago on the mountainside of Flaming Mountain.

"What do you want?"

I pushed the millstone aside, stood up, and wiped my hands with my apron: "This dish requires the heart and liver of the Bull Demon King as ingredients."

Her eyes narrowed suddenly, and the fiery aura around her surged violently. The rough porcelain bowl on the cutting board clattered loudly, and even two of the wilted immortal fruits on Old Zhang's stall rolled off the board.

Old Zhang bent down to pick it up, glancing over at the same time, his eyes filled with "I knew this woman coming here wouldn't be good news."

"You want his life?" Her voice was very low, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from between her teeth.

"It's not his fate." I picked up the teapot from the cutting board, poured myself a glass of cold water, took a sip, and said, "It's his heart and soul."

She didn't understand.

I put down my teacup and added slowly, "The Bull Demon King keeps a pure white spirit bull outside the Moyun Cave. It has not a single stray hair on its body, and he has sent little demons to guard it day and night, treating it like a precious treasure."

That wasn't a cow—that was his heart and soul. He kept his heart and soul outside the cave, and abandoned you on the Flaming Mountain.

Princess Iron Fan's pupils suddenly contracted.

It's not out of anger; I'm angry that she's worthless.

It's because she understood what the words "heart and soul" meant.

"You want to use that cow to cook?" she asked.

"Um."

"Then let him eat it?"

"Um."

She was silent.

This silence was longer than the previous one.

The sounds of the Heavenly Street returned: the crisp sound of Old Li's chess pieces striking the ground, the distant argument between two wandering immortals haggling over prices, and the rustling sound of Old Zhang rearranging the immortal fruits back on his stall.

Amidst the commotion, Princess Iron Fan stood before my stall, silently staring at the broken hairpin on the cutting board for a long time.

Then her lips twitched slightly.

It wasn't laughter, but rather that after being suppressed for so many years, someone had finally come up with a more comprehensive method for her revenge than she had come up with herself.

She thought about killing him, burning down Moyun Cave, and tearing that vixen out of the cave and ripping her apart.

But all of that was her revenge.

This dish was meant for the Bull Demon King to swallow himself.

"Isn't that cow his most prized possession?"

She spoke, the hoarseness in her voice fading, replaced by an indescribable calm.

"If that precious food were cooked and served to him, would he be able to eat it?"

I didn't answer.

I know I don't need to answer this question. She's not asking me; she's asking the Bull Demon King three hundred years in the future.

She was silent for a while, then reached out and pushed the broken hairpin on the cutting board half an inch towards me.

"Grind this hairpin into powder and mix it into the sauce."

I was taken aback.

She said this in the tone of instructing the cook to prepare ingredients, but I could hear the underlying meaning.

This hairpin was something she had held onto for three hundred years; it was the only point of leverage she had when she knelt on the waist of the Flaming Mountain, and she refused to let go even when it was broken beyond repair.

Now she's going to grind it into powder, mix it into the sauce, and make the Bull Demon King swallow it. Not as revenge—but to return his shattered feelings to him.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"He gave it to me." She looked down at the broken hairpin. "I'm returning it to him."

I reached out and tucked the broken hairpin into my bosom. I didn't ask any further questions.

The chef doesn't ask about the origin of the ingredients, but only how to use them.

Cold jade is ground into powder, resentful tears are made into sauce, and white oxen are used as meat.

The recipe for this dish was complete the moment she pushed the hairpin towards her.

"Three days later, at Moyun Cave on Jilei Mountain."

I put away the sharpened knife, took off my apron and draped it over the edge of the stove. "I'll cook. You eat."

Princess Iron Fan nodded, turned and left. Just like when she came, her steps were slow, each one firm and measured.

But when I stepped out of the street, the temperature on the street had dropped back down.

Old Zhang's magic fruit slowly regained its fullness. While Old Zhang was bending down to pick up the fruit, Old Li secretly switched the position of a chess piece. Old Zhang caught him red-handed, and the two started arguing again.

I poured out the water from the stove, replaced it with fresh water, and added more firewood.

Flames licked the bottom of the pot, steam rose in wisps, and I sat in front of the stove, taking out the broken hairpin from my pocket.

The hairpin is warm, a temperature that comes from being warmed in the palm of your hand for three hundred years, not the scalding heat of a fire.

By the light of the stove fire, I turned the hairpin over and saw a line of tiny characters, as thin as mosquito legs, engraved at the end:

May I live as long as you.

These four characters were carved by the Bull Demon King back then.

Princess Iron Fan held onto the hairpin for three hundred years, until the hairpin cracked and the tip shattered, but she never broke these four words.

Perhaps she couldn't bear to part with it, or perhaps she felt that those four words were already shattered, and it wouldn't matter whether she held on to them or not.

I put the broken hairpin away and stirred the stove. The water in the pot started to bubble, and it would boil in a little while.

I've already thought of a name for this dish. Instead of "The Grievous Woman's Steak," I'll call it "Long Live the Same Life as You."

Grind those four words into powder, mix them with tears of resentment, brush them onto the meat of a white calf, and bring it back to the person who carved those four words to eat.

Let him taste what he was like three hundred years ago.