Chapter Ninety: A Treacherous Trap

In addition to photos, Chen Xin had also recorded a short video—a little segment showing Aunt Bingzi bringing dishes to the table and everyone, including her daughter, son-in-law, and Chen Xin's group, enjoying the meal together. The focus was on the lavish spread of dishes and Aunt Bingzi's beaming face as she held her grandchild in her arms.

The tofu banquet followed a standard of six cold dishes, twelve hot courses, and two desserts. The cold dishes included marinated tofu, braised dried tofu, scallion oil tofu skin, diced chicken with tofu, tofu cubes with tiger-skin eggs, and tofu threads with pork rolls—a balance of three meat and three vegetarian, both savory and sweet. Among the hot dishes, aside from the usual tofu specialties, there were also skill-testing plates like stuffed tofu balls and Imperial Tofu. But the one that stole the hearts of the two young women was the drunken tofu pudding—freshly made tofu pudding simmered with fermented sweet rice, rock sugar, wolfberries, and chestnut flour. No need for excessive embellishments; the pure, delicate sweetness was more than enough to enchant the girls.

“I think this tofu pudding is delicious. It’s not quite the same as the kind I had in Jiangsu and Zhejiang,” one of them said.

“This is my mother-in-law’s specialty dish,” Aunt Bingzi replied, “She passed the recipe on to me. Making this broth is no small feat—the ingredients are too many to count. Once the soup is ready, you add thin bean starch and tofu pudding, then top it with crispy pork cracklings. Our family has eaten this for breakfast for decades and never grows tired of it.”

Aunt Bingzi served Yi Bai another bowl and broke off a piece of flaky pastry for him to eat alongside. The buttery, crisp pastry and the silky tofu pudding complemented each other perfectly, elevating Yi Bai’s palate to new heights.

Zhou Hao, who preferred lighter flavors, favored the Imperial Tofu and stuffed tofu balls. The Imperial Tofu was a palm-sized cube set in a seemingly plain broth—except the broth had been simmered for over ten hours, with all the grease skimmed away and mountain delicacies added for flavor. When served, only the tofu and the broth remained, nothing more, letting the freshness speak for itself.

As for the stuffed tofu balls—they began as tofu cubes deep-fried until the skin crisped, then carefully sliced open to scoop out the soft center, leaving a hollow shell. This was filled with a mixture of minced pork, winter bamboo shoots, shiitake mushrooms, and diced lotus root, then deep-fried again, drained, and finally braised, most often in a sweet-and-sour fish-fragrant sauce.

A single tofu banquet could never exhaust all of the small town’s tofu recipes, but the classics were more or less all there.

Chen Xin and her companions spent three days in the town. The first day, they dined at Aunt Bingzi’s home; the next two days, they sampled tofu dishes from other households around the town.

In terms of flavor and mastery, Aunt Bingzi’s skills were still the best. Yet Uncle Xin’s tofu fish stew from Downtown Street was also an unforgettable dish—spicy, aromatic, and appetizing, with tender fish that soaked up the flavors. A fish no longer than a finger would slip apart effortlessly, leaving behind a perfectly intact fish bone.

They were eating and drinking with Uncle Xin, having just heard the story of Uncle Xin and Aunt Xin, when suddenly, from the next street over, shouts of a fight broke out.

The town’s wooden houses were mostly two or three stories, with streets so close together that neighbors were practically back-to-back. Uncle Xin’s home sat at the back entrance of Downtown Street, separated from the neighboring Zhou family by only one building. The commotion was unmistakably coming from Zhou’s house.

Uncle Xin frowned. “What’s the Zhou couple fighting about now?”

“It doesn’t sound like the Zhou couple themselves—it’s Aunt Zhou and some outsiders,” someone replied.

There were still a few tourists around—more during the summer, but in the winter holidays, families rarely traveled here except for college students and single young people.

Uncle Xin set down his chopsticks, told Chen Xin and the others to keep eating, and went to see what was happening. He used to be on the village committee, but after falling out with the village chief, he resigned to open an eatery and started a fish farm. His fish were renowned; most restaurants in the surrounding area bought from him.

About ten minutes later, Uncle Xin returned with two young people. Chen Xin recognized them as the young couple who had shared a car with them to the town. She hadn’t seen them in the past two days and assumed they’d already left, but here they were, still in town.

The young man in the couple had a large bruise swelling on his forehead. Aunt Xin hurried to fetch some oil for him to apply and then wrapped a piece of ice from the fridge in a towel for him to press against his injury.

“The Zhou couple are becoming more and more outrageous,” Uncle Xin grumbled to his son. “All those kids did was say their tofu tasted sour, and they accused them of slander, demanded ten times the meal price, and claimed their reputation had been damaged.” Uncle Xin was clearly enraged. The Zhou couple were obviously extorting outsiders—utterly shameless.

“Uncle, their tofu really was sour,” the girl sobbed. “We didn’t lie or say anything bad, just asked why it tasted that way, and she reacted like this.”

Chen Xin immediately sensed something was wrong. If tofu is sour, it’s clearly gone bad. To extort customers on top of that was sheer bullying. Didn’t anyone in town do anything about it?

“Our mayor is Uncle Zhou’s brother-in-law,” Uncle Xin’s son explained quietly to Chen Xin. “The Zhou couple always argue about this—the aunt thinks her husband only makes money thanks to her family, while he claims he gives more than half his earnings to her family and that they’re no real kin at all.”

Uncle Xin’s son was a college freshman, home early for the holidays, helping out with family chores, and clearly unimpressed by the Zhou family’s antics.

“They’ve pulled this scam on outsiders several times, and if it weren’t for the mayor suppressing complaints, it would’ve blown up long ago. Many people have been cheated but are too afraid to speak up. Now, with fewer and fewer tourists, I bet it’s all because of them.”

The young man sighed quietly, thinking how his hometown could have developed a thriving tourism industry if only a handful of shortsighted people weren’t bent on making a quick buck at the expense of the town’s reputation.

Uncle Xin could only bring the young couple away—there was nothing else he could do to seek justice for them. He and Aunt Xin simply prepared some fresh dishes to fill the couple’s stomachs.

Yi Bai was about to say something, but Zhou Hao quickly pulled him back, shaking his head.

“We’ll talk about this when we get home. Anything you say or do now will only cause trouble for Uncle Xin.”

Yi Bai grumbled but sat down obediently.

“We don’t need to do anything—just include this story in the write-up. Once it’s online, someone will see it and help them get justice,” Chen Xin said. She suspected Bingzi was a local official; although Bingzi hadn’t said so, and Aunt Bingzi hadn’t let anything slip, Chen Xin had a sharp sense from Bingzi’s words that he was eager for her blog to spread the town’s culinary charm—something typically done either out of true selflessness or with a purpose in mind. From Bingzi’s tone and notes, Chen Xin guessed it was likely the latter.

“I’ll show Bingzi the article before I publish it. Then we’ll see.”