Chapter Seventy: The New Head Chef

It didn’t take much time for Yang Xiaolin to thoroughly understand Lu Er’s situation. Even the people Lu Er knew in the consulate—Yang Xiaolin made sure to ask about them all.

“Lu Er, if you don’t go to the consulate tomorrow, will they send someone to look for you?”

Lu Er nodded hurriedly. “Yes, the family of the French envoy Shirley really loves Chinese food. They have me cook for them every day at noon.”

Yang Xiaolin nodded, a sly smile appearing on his face. “Good. Biaozi, don’t make a sound.”

Before Lu Er could react, Biaozi lunged forward, one hand clamping over Lu Er’s mouth, the other plunging a knife straight into his chest.

Biaozi was truly skilled at killing; the blade struck directly at the heart, in and out, and Lu Er was gone, lifeless and unresponsive. His methods for cleaning up afterward were equally experienced; Yang Xiaolin watched as Biaozi used his knife to slowly sever Lu Er’s head.

Those around were no strangers to death, having seen plenty in western Liaoning. They watched calmly. If it had been someone else, they’d have likely vomited as Biaozi decapitated the corpse.

Blood welled and splattered onto Biaozi’s face, but he seemed utterly unfazed.

Er Ganzi stepped in and stripped Lu Er’s body bare, leaving nothing behind. Any distinctive marks were cut away with a knife. What remained was a naked, headless corpse—a sight to send chills down one’s spine.

Once the cleanup was done, Biaozi tossed aside his knife, grabbed a rag from the table, and wiped the blood from his face. “Alright, Boss. Throw it in the river for a few days. When it floats up, no one will recognize it.”

Yang Xiaolin nodded, found a few brothers, and under cover of night carried the headless body out. The head had to be thrown far away, not with the body. At that time, Beijing saw deaths every day; a few men carrying a corpse at night raised no suspicions.

Yang Xiaolin said, “Biaozi, tomorrow I plan to wait in Lu Er’s room. I’ll say I’m his brother. They’re short a cook, so naturally they’ll need to hire another.”

Biaozi looked at Yang Xiaolin. “Boss, you know how to cook?”

Yang Xiaolin shot him a glare. Back in the day, Officer Yang was a first-rate family man; his cooking skills, while not quite as good as a professional chef’s, were more than enough for the French. Besides, opportunity was knocking—he wouldn’t let it slip away.

“Unless you want to go?”

“Me? Boss, you must be joking. I’m better at eating than cooking.”

Yang Xiaolin exhaled. “Then I’ll have to go. You keep watch over the brothers. No one’s allowed out unless absolutely necessary! Every day, send someone to Dongjiaomin Lane to check things out. If there’s a chance, I’ll bring you inside.”

Biaozi nodded. “Alright, got it.”

Night had deepened. When Yang Xiaolin again knocked on the young mistress’s door, he noticed her gaze was evasive—perhaps embarrassed from her earlier loss of composure.

“Young mistress, I want to ask a favor of you.”

“What is it?”

Women are indeed changeable; the saying is true. The young mistress had grown cold and distant once more, though that lingering melancholy seemed impossible to dispel.

“I’d like to see if Master Zhao’s books contain any recipes, the kind for stir-frying and cooking.”

Lu Er had not lied. The next day, just past nine, someone came to Lu Er’s room looking for him. This man was portly, slightly bow-legged, and in his forties. Lu Er had mentioned him before—his name was Wu Daoliang, head of all Chinese servants at the French consulate.

He’d gotten the position by marrying off his daughter to a French military officer.

Wu Daoliang had come in search of Lu Er. It was nearly noon, and the French envoy would soon dine, yet Lu Er was nowhere to be found. There were plenty of cooks outside, but the French wouldn’t hire just anyone. Wu Daoliang had no choice but to come himself.

“Where’s Lu Er?”

Wu Daoliang entered, looking around, and pulled Yang Xiaolin from the bed.

Yang Xiaolin feigned grogginess. “Looking for my brother? May I ask who you are?”

Wu Daoliang frowned. “Enough nonsense. Where is Lu Er?”

Yang Xiaolin sat up, pulling on his clothes. “Yes, where did my brother go? He said he was going out for breakfast—hasn’t returned yet.”

“Lu Er’s your brother? I’ve heard he has a sibling, but—”

Yang Xiaolin cut him off, explaining, “Oh, back when the disaster hit Shandong, my brother and I got separated. I just found his whereabouts. Where could he be?”

Wu Daoliang scrutinized Yang Xiaolin. “Why don’t you have a Shandong accent?”

Yang Xiaolin looked at him. “You’re Uncle Wu, aren’t you? When my brother and I got separated, I was twelve. All these years, wandering all over, I don’t even know what accent I have anymore.”

“How do you know me?”

“Yesterday my brother told me. Said you were especially generous, helped him out a lot.”

Wu Daoliang smiled. “He really said that? Well, at least he’s grateful. Where is he now?”

Yang Xiaolin forced a bitter smile. “I truly don’t know. Uncle Wu, why don’t you sit here? I’ll go look for him.”

Wu Daoliang had no patience left. The consulate was waiting for the cook to start the fire; the French envoy’s daughter had specifically requested Chinese cuisine. He was frantic. “That Lu Er! Always causing trouble. I told him not to meddle with the English, but he wouldn’t listen! If the envoy blames us, what am I supposed to do?”

Yang Xiaolin stepped closer. “Uncle Wu, is it cooking you need? How about I cook in my brother’s place?”

Wu Daoliang looked him over. “You? Can you handle it?”

Yang Xiaolin thumped his chest. “My skills are better than my brother’s!”

He was bluffing. He had no idea how good Lu Er’s cooking was, and wasn’t sure if the few dishes he’d studied last night would turn out well.

Wu Daoliang had no other options. He quizzed Yang Xiaolin about Lu Er, found his answers satisfactory, and stopped doubting. “Let’s treat a dead horse as a live one. Come on.”

And so Yang Xiaolin entered the French consulate on Dongjiaomin Lane. In truth, the work of a cook is just that—nothing extraordinary. Master chefs are hard to find; Lu Er himself was mediocre, which is why he only ran a small eatery.

The French liked to eat simply because they hadn’t tasted much Chinese food.

Now, with Yang Xiaolin taking over, the old recipes remained, and after a night spent poring over them, he managed to prepare several dishes that drew endless praise from the French envoy Shirley. He declared today's meal particularly excellent.

Wu Daoliang immediately told Yang Xiaolin to stay as their cook. As for Lu Er, nobody bothered about him anymore.

Such is the fate of a dog.