Transmigrated into a minor official in a county government, with children at home waiting for rice t

Xi Mei took the noodles, picked up a mouthful, and put it in her mouth. After chewing a couple of times, her eyes lit up. The noodles were smooth and chewy, and the salty aroma of lard mixed with soy sauce spread in her mouth.

Qingge swallowed hard.

Zhang Sanlang glanced at him, then turned back to the stove, cooked another bowl, and brought it to Qingge'er. Qingge'er took the bowl, bent down, and started slurping the noodles into his mouth with a loud slurping sound.

The door to the west wing was open, and A-Yun was squatting by the door pasting paper boxes. She looked up at the aroma, glanced at the east wing, then looked down again. She scraped the paper boxes a couple of times with the bamboo scraper in her hand, and then couldn't help but look up again.

happy Mei'er, holding a bowl, waved to her from afar, "Sister Yun, come and try this. My father made soup noodles."

A-Yun shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

No sooner had he finished speaking than his stomach growled.

Xi Mei smiled, lightly got out of bed, walked over, and handed the bowl to A Yun, "Try a bite."

A-Yun looked at the bowl of noodles. The soup was clear, the noodles were thin and white, and scallions floated on top.

Unable to refuse such hospitality, she took the chopsticks, picked up a piece, and put it in her mouth. After chewing a couple of times, her eyes lit up. "Delicious! It's so fragrant!"

happy Mei took another pair of chopsticks, and the two squatted at the door of the west wing, sharing a bowl of noodles, one bite at a time.

Zhang Sanlang stood by the stove, glanced at them, smiled, and continued rolling out the dough.

He cooked three times to feed the three hungry cats before packing up and heading to the county government office.

Inside the household office, Zheng Tiesi sat in the corner, a thick stack of commercial tax registers spread out in front of him, his brows furrowed.

Zhang Sanlang walked over and asked, "Officer Zheng, how's the collection of commercial taxes going?"

Zheng Tiesi looked up, rubbed his eyes, and said, "Zhang Qianxing, only a few warehouses at the dock haven't submitted their tax invoices yet. We've urged them twice, but they both say the accounts aren't clear yet and asked for a few more days."

Zhang Sanlang sat down opposite him, picked up the stack of tax collection books, and flipped through them.

In the county town, merchants were taxed according to their trade. Cloth shops, general stores, and restaurants each had their own fixed quotas, ranging from several hundred coins to several strings of cash per month. They were usually easier to pay their taxes.

The docks were frequented by merchants who were required to pay a tax based on the goods they carried. Each trade, including grain, salt, tea, silk, and seafood, had its own tax rate. When a cargo ship docked, it had to declare its tax status, be counted and valued at the dock, and then the tax official would verify the count and issue a receipt. Only after the ship owner paid the tax could the cargo be unloaded.

The county town's settled merchants can collect 40 to 50 strings of cash per month, totaling around 500 strings per year. The dock merchants' taxes are the bulk of the revenue, with cargo ships constantly coming and going on the Guangji River, generating at least 80 to 90 strings per month, totaling over 1,000 strings per year.

Including the commercial taxes from various rural markets and the shop taxes from various neighborhoods, the annual commercial taxes collected by a household are worth approximately two thousand strings of cash.

Zhang Sanlang flipped to the section on docks and warehouses in the commercial tax register, his finger slowly tracing the surface of the paper.

The tax bills submitted by the seven warehouses for the past six months varied in amount.

Fengrun Inn, Guangji Inn, and Shunhe Inn reported roughly the same amount of goods each month, but their tax payments fluctuated wildly. He pulled out their tax invoices for this year and examined them one by one.

Fengrun Inn reported 28 strings of cash in July, 15 strings in August, and then returned to 29 strings in September. Guangji Inn reported 18 strings in June, 22 strings in August, and still hasn't reported anything in October.

Shunhe Inn was even more peculiar. In May, it reported 25 guan, in June it reported 30 guan, in July it dropped sharply to 10 guan, and in August it returned to 25 guan.

The fluctuations are too great; it's not like a normal business.

The business of a warehouse is all about stability; the buying and selling of goods should be done in a steady rhythm, and tax invoices should be consistent.

Unless some months reported the actual figures and others only reported a fraction of the figures.

Zhang Sanlang memorized the names, numbers, and months of these families.

The owners of Fengrun Inn, Guangji Inn, and Shunhe Inn are not listed in the ledgers.

But he remembered what Wu Yan had said: these warehouses were run by Kong You'an's people.

He closed the list of commercial taxes and placed it back on the corner of Zheng Tiesi's desk. "Zheng Tiesi, let me review the tax invoices for these warehouses once they are submitted."

Zheng Tiesi responded.

After returning from his evening shift, Zhang Sanlang went to the gatehouse first.

Old Sun was squatting by the door, sharpening his knife. The kitchen knife lay on the bluestone, the sharpening sound echoing loudly. He saw Zhang Sanlang, grinned, and said, "Sanlang's back?"

"Uncle Sun, can I borrow your iron jar? My little sister caught a cold yesterday, and she's feeling a bit better this morning. I'm planning to make her something nice to eat tonight to help her recover."

Old Sun stood up, flipped over a flat-bottomed iron pan, and handed it over.

The surface of the cauldron was polished to a shine, and the hands were wrapped with hemp rope.

Zhang Sanlang took the iron cauldron, returned to the stove in the east wing, and placed it on the stove burner.

Roll the dough into a thin sheet, sprinkle with salt, vegetable oil, and chopped green onions, roll it up, roll it out again, and stack it several times.

Knowing that he was going to cook something delicious again, Xi Mei'er quickly ran over to help light the fire and add firewood.

The bottom of the pan was heated up, and Zhang Sanlang scooped in a spoonful of lard, which sizzled as it melted.

The pancakes were fried in the pan until golden brown on both sides, and the aroma of oil and scallions mingled together, filling the whole yard.

Qingge squatted by the stove, staring intently, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

The first scallion pancake came out of the pan, and Zhang Sanlang cut it into four pieces. Qing Ge'er took one piece, and without even noticing how hot it was, he opened his mouth and took a big bite, his lips glistening with oil.

happy Mei took a piece and ate it much more politely, tearing it apart in small bites.

When the second dish was ready, Zhang Sanlang asked Ximei to deliver it to Sister Sun and her daughter.

Aunt Sun took the pancake, broke it in half, and handed it to A-Yun. A-Yun took it, took a bite, and mumbled, "Delicious."

Aunt Sun then took a bite of her own half, paused for a moment, then took another bite. "Zhang Qianxing's cooking is truly excellent!"

The third dish was ready, and Mother He came out of the back room, drawn by the aroma. Zhang Sanlang cut a piece and handed it to her. Mother He took it, broke off half and gave it to He Liu Shi who was following behind her, while she chewed on the other half, smiling with her eyes narrowed.

Zhou Chenshi stood at the entrance of the main house, craning her neck to look this way. Zhang Sanlang had Ximei deliver a portion to her as well.

Zhou Chenshi took a small piece and smiled, "Brother Zhang, it's a pity you're not running a restaurant with your skills."

Aunt Sun nodded in agreement, "That's right. This pancake is so fragrant and crispy, it tastes so much better than the ones sold on the street."

While chewing on her pancake, Mother He mumbled in agreement, "Zhang Sanlang opened a restaurant, let's all go and support him."

Zhang Sanlang smiled and shook his head, then scooped another spoonful of oil into the pot. "Open a restaurant? It's not that easy."

As he flipped the flatbread, he said, "The flatbread you're eating is made with five-sieve fine flour that was brought back from the official granary. You can't buy it on the market at all. It's ground and sifted five times over, and you can't even get three ounces from a pound of wheat."

"Even if you could buy them, the price would be outrageously high. How much would each pancake cost? Five coins? Ten coins? If you sell them too cheaply, you wouldn't even make back the cost of the flour."

"If it's too expensive, people might as well eat steamed buns. Wu Bo's steamed buns are two coins each, and even if you have a big appetite, three or four will fill you up."

He paused, flipped the pancake over, and said, "Wealthy families in the county town who want to eat well will rather go to a proper restaurant and have meat. Our scallion pancakes are just for our own enjoyment; if we were to sell them, who would buy them?"