A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (22)

Lian strolls into the imperial kitchens as if she owns the place, with a nod at one of the servants hurrying by with an armful of vegetables. I glance about, curiosity overruling caution, as the last time we were only permitted to crowd into the kitchen courtyard. Now, past the stacks of steamers and racks of dried fish, we are in the kitchen proper.

The room is busy with activity. The sounds of chopping, cooking, and fire crackling fill the space. It is a large room, but to my surprise, this is only one wing of the kitchen. I can see moon doors separating one section from another. Servants walk in and out of the round openings, carrying trays piled high with ingredients or baskets filled with goods. Against the far wall, there is a line of wood-burning stoves made of brick. More steamers are stacked up against the wall in the corner. In the center of the room there is a huge table covered with flour. The uniforms of the servants here are dusted with white, their hands working rapidly. The dough is rolled out, filled, then fingers pinch and turn, quickly closing each bundle, before it lands on a tray.

Before I can discern what sort of filling goes into those buns, a rumbling voice greets us.

“It’s been a long time!”

Lian is picked up by a giant of a man and spun around, before being placed back down on the floor, both of them laughing.

“Small Wu!” She giggles. “Here, meet my friend, Zhang Ning.”

This man looks as big and broad as an ox, contrary to his name, with bronzed skin and fierce eyebrows that match his bushy beard.

“Pleasure.” He bows, clasping his massive hands across his chest, before turning again to look at Lian with affection. “I thought once you advanced in the competition you would forget about your people.”

She smirks. “Do you think my father would permit it? Or that you would allow me to forget?”

He lets out a round of booming laughter, clapping her on the back.

Lian turns to me and explains, “Small Wu is in charge of the bakery. He’s an expert at jiaozi, pastries, buns…”

Such food is not common in my province, as we eat mostly rice, but I am ready to experience it all.

“She does not believe you, girl. She thinks I am meant for chopping wood and stoking the fires.” Small Wu gives me a wink, then chuckles at my attempts to reassure him.

“I wake the dough.” He flexes the muscles in his arm. “I am up before the dawn gong. Not like those lazy workers of the Rice Department.” He looks at a woman who is walking by. She gives a snort, not even pausing to respond to his antics.

“Small Wu!” one of the women at the table barks at him. “The dough is not going to work itself!”

“Yes, yes, boss!” He stands up tall and salutes her, before turning to us again with a grin. “Some days I am not sure if I am in charge of the staff or if they are in charge of me. You two should make yourself useful as well.”

“Us?” I look at Lian, who smiles.

“When I was little, before I left for my apprenticeship, I used to sneak into the kitchen all the time. They give the best treats.” She pulls me to the table. “If we help, there will be food for us, too.”

We’re set to work on basic tasks. Small Wu pulls out a mound of dough almost the size of his torso from a basket and slams it on the table, releasing a cloud of flour into the air. Lian and I are given—thankfully—much smaller balls of dough to work with. We roll them into logs and then cut them into small pieces to be weighed on the scales. It reminds me of working in my father’s storeroom. Rolling, cutting, weighing, the familiarity of each step. I feel the pang of homesickness in my chest once more, but I force myself to swallow it away. Instead, I focus on making the best buns possible.

We cover the bottom of several wicker baskets with these dough balls, sending them down the line to be filled. At the end of the table, a great number of buns are placed on trays to rise, enough for a feast. After Small Wu deems that we’ve worked enough, we are able to try some for ourselves.

Rolling out our shoulders after having been hunched over for so long, we set up tables in the courtyard for the midday meal. We’re given buns with airy pockets inside them, a center of juicy pork, mixed with minced shallots and ginger. They taste even sweeter because we shaped these with our own hands. Small Wu introduces us to his husband, A’bing, who works in the Fish Department. He brings us a soup pot with an entire deep-fried fish head bobbing inside it, surrounded by cabbage, tofu, gold mushrooms, and bean curd. The soup is meant to be eaten with grilled radish cakes, for dipping into the broth.

The conversation flows as freely around the table as the wine that is constantly poured into our cups. I listen to Small Wu and Lian’s banter, reminiscing about funny moments they shared long ago. A’bing is subjected to Lian’s teasing about enduring Small Wu’s bad jokes and how she imagined herself their matchmaker when they first met. I’m content to sit there for a while, letting the sound of their voices wash over me. If I close my eyes, I can pretend I am back home again, listening to the melodic sound of my mother’s voice and my father’s responses.

“Boss! Boss!” A rapid patter of feet and a slam of a tray on the table. I jump, eyes snapping open. A boy leaps on top of a stool, shaking with excitement. Small Wu pulls him back before he lands face-first in the fish soup. “Have I got news for you!”

Small Wu sits him back down properly on the stool and gives him a small bun to munch on. “What did you hear, Qing’er?”