Chapter 5 The Great Dough Escape

The guilt over the “philatelist incident” lasted exactly until 10:00 PM, when Wei decided the only way to restore the shop’s honor was to prepare a massive batch of breakfast baozi for the following morning.

“I’ve tripled the yeast, Meiling!” Wei announced, dumping a mountain of flour into the industrial mixer. “Higher rise means fluffier buns. Fluffier buns mean higher customer satisfaction. It’s simple culinary math!”

Meiling, too exhausted to argue with Wei’s “math,” simply pointed a warning finger at the temperature gauge and went upstairs to sleep.

By 1:00 AM, the dough began its ascent. Because Wei had forgotten that yeast thrives in the humid Shanghai heat—and because he had used a triple dose of the “super-active” variety—the mixture didn’t just rise; it expanded with a predatory intelligence. It pushed open the lid of the mixer with a slow, wet squelch.

By 3:00 AM, the dough had overtaken the kitchen island. By 4:00 AM, it had squeezed through the gap under the back door and flowed into the alleyway like a slow-motion tidal wave of gluten.

Meiling was jolted awake by the sound of metal scraping against pavement and her brother’s muffled screams. She dashed to the window and looked down into the alley.

“Wei? What are you doing?” she yelled.

Below, her brother was engaged in a desperate, sticky struggle. A giant, pale, sentient-looking blob of dough had completely enveloped Wei’s parked scooter. Wei was currently waist-deep in the mass, trying to pry his handlebars out of the “mouth” of the yeast-monster.

“It’s got the Vespa, Meiling!” Wei shrieked, his arms disappearing into the white foam. “Every time I pull, it just… it absorbs me more! It’s like quicksand, but it smells like sourdough!”

Meiling grabbed a rolling pin and ran outside. The alley was a disaster of white, bubbling dough that seemed to be inching toward the main street.

“Wei, stop pulling!” she commanded, watching as the dough let out a large, gassy burp of fermentation. “You’re just aerating it! If you give it more oxygen, it’ll grow faster!”

“I can’t just let it have my scooter!” Wei cried, now pinned against the wall by a particularly aggressive bulge of dough.

In a display of sheer desperation, Wei tried to bite his way out. He immediately regretted it.

“Too much… raw yeast…” he wheezed, his face covered in sticky webbing. “Tell Dad… I died… for the breakfast menu…”

Meiling sighed, reached for the industrial-sized bag of salt near the door, and began to rain it down upon the blob. As the salt hit the surface, the dough began to deflate and weep, releasing Wei and his scooter with a series of wet, apologetic pops.

“No more math for you, Wei,” Meiling muttered, helping her brother stand.

“Fine,” Wei gasped, scraping dough from his eyebrows. “But you have to admit—that dough had spirit.”