Chapter 39 What’s Missing

In the end, after Qin Luo quickly washed three pots—so thoroughly that she almost used the seven-step handwashing method to prove her hands were clean enough to grab steamed buns—and after Ou Yang returned from taking out the trash without any understanding of how agonizing waiting could be, the two of them finally enjoyed the fermented rice steamed buns together.

These two ate snacks like Zhu Bajie eating ginseng fruit—fast and in bulk.

Ou Yang, relying on his big mouth, could finish one bun in three bites.

Qin Luo could only match his speed, swallowing one in less than half a minute.

Meanwhile, Qin Huai stood by the steamer, slowly savoring, reflecting, chewing carefully, and appreciating each bite: …

Could you two at least show some respect for the chef’s labor?

Zhao Rong and Qin Congwen had already gone to sleep and missed the first batch of “failed” buns. Qin Huai distributed the remaining buns to the cafeteria staff, and soon only the steamer itself was left.

“Brother, how did you manage to make fermented rice buns after just taking a nap? You’re amazing! Will you make them again tomorrow? I forgot to take photos to send to He Cheng (Qin Huai’s cousin) just now. If you make them tomorrow, I’ll take pictures and send them to him. It’d be even better if you also make mung bean cake, red bean cake, and osmanthus cake—they’d look great displayed together.” Qin Luo said with great anticipation, as if an invisible tail behind her was wagging rapidly.

Qin Huai felt that Qin Luo’s intentions were practically written all over her face and said, “I can make fermented rice buns.”

“The rest won’t happen.”

Mung bean cakes, red bean cakes, and osmanthus cakes together would not be something that could be finished by 1 p.m.—it would basically mean working overtime until 3 p.m.

Qin Huai firmly refused.

Ou Yang, who had finally slowed down and was still chewing his last bun, didn’t care at all. He wasn’t picky—he would eat whatever was available. Even if Qin Huai made buns from tree bark, he would still eat them.

Most importantly, his parents hadn’t adopted Qin Huai back then, so he couldn’t naturally say “bro, I want to eat this” like Qin Luo did.

Thinking of this, Ou Yang let out a deep sigh.

Then he burped.

Indeed, buns are very filling—five were enough to make him full. No wonder Qin Luo had only eaten three today and finished so quickly.

Wait… three?

Didn’t Qin Luo already eat dinner?

Ou Yang: (=°Д°=)

Qin Luo was still trying to bargain: “Brother, make osmanthus cake again tomorrow! You haven’t made it for a week. I’ve been working really hard lately—I even cleaned the bathroom yesterday!”

Qin Huai paused thoughtfully. “I feel like before I took my nap, you were hinting that I should make four-joy dumplings. I was originally planning to make them. Since you don’t want them, then osman—”

“Absolutely not! Brother, make whatever you want—I fully support you!” Qin Luo said decisively. “The bathroom doesn’t seem clean enough—I’ll go clean it again!”

Watching Qin Luo leave, Ou Yang said, “She…”

“She’s been a natural at cleaning since childhood,” Qin Huai said. “When she was little, our grandfather joked with her and my cousin that whoever cleaned first would get the five-spice buns. The two of them fought over brooms and mops from the first day of the lunar new year all the way to the fifteenth.”

Ou Yang truly didn’t understand the Qin family at all.

—

At 4 a.m. the next morning, Qin Huai arrived at work on time.

Qin Congwen had already prepared all the ingredients as usual, sitting face to face with Zhao Rong, both of them wrapping buns.

After changing clothes and entering the kitchen, Qin Huai did not start kneading dough or preparing fillings for the usual five-spice buns. Instead, he first took out the fermented rice and began making fermented rice buns.

The same steps as yesterday:

Kneading dough, proofing, kneading again, second proofing, shaping, and steaming.

The same failure as yesterday.

Fermented Rice Bun B-

Looking at the “B-” rating displayed on the buns, Qin Huai found the minus sign particularly glaring.

Was the temperature still not properly controlled?

Where exactly was the temperature off?

The water temperature for kneading? The room temperature during fermentation? Or the heat during steaming?

Qin Huai murmured to himself while stirring the filling for the five-spice buns.

“Wendy? Our Huaihuai has someone he likes—and it’s a foreigner?!” Qin Congwen, who had been trying to read his lips from a distance, was shocked.

Zhao Rong rolled her eyes at him: “It’s temperature! Your son is thinking about buns!”

Qin Congwen didn’t understand. He had watched the entire process of Qin Huai making the buns—perfect kneading, perfect shaping, perfect fermentation, perfect air release. Although they hadn’t finished steaming yet, it would surely turn out perfect.

Everything had been done perfectly. What was there left to think about?

“The buns he made just now had no issues,” Qin Congwen said. “If I could knead dough like that, I’d wake up laughing in my dreams.”

“Then it’s no wonder you’ve been selling buns for so many years without making it big,” Zhao Rong retorted mercilessly. “Stop worrying about your son. I saw from Luo Luo’s posts that Huaihuai was working on buns until 7 p.m. yesterday. How much sleep has he had? Don’t let him overwork himself. Go help watch the filling—I’ll handle wrapping the buns.”

Qin Congwen quickly put down the dough sheets and went to help.

Qin Huai decisively handed over the simmering filling to Qin Congwen and went to guard the steamer.

Even if he couldn’t see inside, just sitting nearby and smelling the aroma was comforting.

Qin Congwen felt his son was becoming somewhat obsessed.

Could it be that Huaihuai and fermented rice buns were incompatible?

The more Qin Congwen thought about it, the more it seemed reasonable. Fermented rice buns were already one of the few items Qin Huai struggled with. Recently, he had been obsessed with buckwheat buns, and this likely triggered memories of past failures—so now he was challenging himself again.

Sigh, Luo Luo wasn’t awake yet; otherwise, they could ask her how yesterday went.

But judging by Qin Huai’s current state, he had probably been hit hard.

Qin Congwen decided to use his specialty later—to comfort his son.

After all, he himself had been “hit” by Qin Huai for years, so he fully understood how to comfort someone in such situations. He was practically an expert!

As he stirred the filling, Qin Congwen proudly thought to himself: I really am a great father! Hahaha!

At 6:07 a.m., the fermented rice buns were taken out of the steamer.

Because making them took extra time, the five-spice and three-spice buns were still steaming.

At this hour, the Yunzhong Cafeteria had not yet officially opened, but the first-floor hall was already filled with elderly men who had come after their morning runs, along with a few early-rising women who didn’t run but loved breakfast.

They didn’t mind the delay.

At table 9, Uncle Xu, Uncle Cao, Uncle Wang, and Uncle Liu—who truly enjoyed morning runs—were already drinking chilled mung bean soup.

After a refreshing run in the not-too-hot morning air, sitting in the comfortably air-conditioned cafeteria, breathing in the aroma of buns and rice wine, and enjoying a bowl of cool, slightly sweet mung bean soup—everyone felt that a wonderful day had begun.

Uncle Wang even wished there were some crab-shell pastries.

“Why doesn’t Chef Xiao Qin make crab-shell pastries more often?” he grumbled while drinking his soup.

Uncle Wang was like a dedicated fan of an underrated idol group—complaining that the company didn’t recognize their talent while still showing up every day to support them, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite.

Except he was a fan of crab-shell pastries.

Specifically, shrimp-filled crab-shell pastries.

In the cafeteria, because Qin Luo didn’t like shrimp, Qin Huai didn’t usually make shrimp fillings. Moreover, crab-shell pastries required an oven, so they were usually made alongside other baked items. As a result, they appeared very rarely on the menu.

So rarely that Uncle Wang wanted to ask Qin Huai: don’t you have a conscience? Twenty-one days—twenty-one whole days—and shrimp crab-shell pastries only appeared twice! Do you know how I’ve lived through these days?!

What’s so great about that “fried dough twist” thing? Why did it appear 17 times in 21 days?!

Uncle Wang’s inner roar went unheard. He could only finish his mung bean soup and stare at Qin Huai busy in the kitchen.

“Is it ready? Do you smell alcohol?” he asked.

The others responded: “Yes, smells like rice wine.”

“Just a bit faint.”

“Did Chef Xiao Qin make sweet rice wine eggs for himself? I’ll order a bowl later!”

“Those are made to order, right? I don’t see it on the menu. Maybe he made it for himself?”

“Hehe, then I’ll have to get one too.”

In the kitchen, Qin Congwen stared at the freshly steamed fermented rice buns, stunned.

They were beautiful.

Truly beautiful.

He rarely used the word “beautiful” to describe buns, but these were exactly his ideal bun.

Soft, white, smooth, round, and adorable—these were every steamed bun lover’s dream.

When did his son acquire such skill?

And yet he still wasn’t satisfied?

“Dad, try one,” Qin Huai said, handing him half a bun. “I still feel like something’s missing. I remember there used to be a shop near our street that sold fermented rice buns when I was a kid, but I don’t remember what theirs tasted like. See what’s lacking in mine.”

Qin Congwen took the bun and took a big bite while it was still hot.

Chewed. Swallowed.

Oh my heavens—so this is what fermented rice buns taste like!

The old shop near them must have been wasting their talent!

“Huaihuai!” Qin Congwen said sincerely, “you lack confidence!”

Qin Huai: …