Chapter 4 The Undercover Critic

The scent of “wealthy forest” was still lingering in the rafters when Meiling noticed him. He was sitting in the back corner booth, partially obscured by a large potted bamboo plant. He wore a heavy beige trench coat—despite it being a humid Tuesday in Shanghai—and oversized sunglasses that made him look like a very suspicious beetle.

“Wei, don’t look now,” Meiling hissed, elbowing her brother as he tried to polish a spatula with his sleeve. “The man in the corner. He’s been there for an hour, and he hasn’t ordered a single bun. He’s just… writing.”

Wei squinted. “Maybe he’s a poet? ‘Ode to the Smashed Pork Bun’?”

“He’s taking notes on the floor plan and the kitchen entrance,” Meiling countered, her eyes narrowing. “That’s not a poet. That’s a corporate spy from Mr. Chen’s conglomerate. They’re finally making their move for the secret recipe”.

Wei’s face hardened, his protective instincts finally overriding his usual desire to blow things up. “A spy? In our house? Not on my watch. Let’s give him a ‘special’ welcome.”

Meiling nodded. This was a threat she could get behind. She reached for the “experimental” batch of dumplings Wei had made earlier—a recipe he’d titled ‘The Dragon’s Breath’. Originally intended for a spice-tolerance competition that never happened, they were packed with enough ghost pepper and Sichuan peppercorns to make a volcano break into a cold sweat.

“On the house,” Meiling said, sliding the steamer basket onto the man’s table with a sharp, professional smile.

The man jumped, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal darting, watery eyes. “Oh! I… I didn’t order—”

“A gift for a new friend,” Wei added, leaning over the booth with a menacing grin. “Eat up. They’re… authentic.”

Under the weight of their intense gaze, the man nervously picked up his chopsticks and popped a ‘Dragon’s Breath’ dumpling into his mouth.

For three seconds, there was absolute silence. Then, the man’s face turned a shade of purple that Meiling didn’t know the human body could produce. His eyes bulged, and a visible wave of sweat erupted across his forehead.

“Is there… a problem?” Wei asked, crossing his arms.

“Hot,” the man wheezed, his voice sounding like sandpaper. “So… much… spice…” He began to scribble frantically in his notebook, his hand shaking so hard the pen was nearly tearing the paper.

“Aha! Recording the chemical composition for Chen, are you?” Wei accused, reaching for the notebook.

The man clutched it to his chest, gasping for air. “No! I’m… I’m allergic to chili oil! And I… I was just trying to finish… my inventory!”

Meiling snatched the notebook as the man staggered toward the water dispenser. She opened it, expecting to see blueprints or recipe notes. Instead, she saw meticulously taped images of colorful, perforated squares.

“1984 Commemorative Year of the Rat—Mint Condition,” she read aloud.

“He’s not a spy,” Meiling whispered, horrified. “He’s a stamp collector.”

“And he was just taking notes on his collection because the lighting in here is good?” Wei asked, looking at the man, who was now desperately trying to shove a handful of ice cubes into his mouth.

“Wei,” Meiling sighed, “we just nearly assassinated a philatelist.”