BPIFC -Volume 1 – Chapter 176 Small Restaurant

Seeing Jiao Dalang take Huang Ran away, Sun Desheng didn’t react much—but Che Qianzi couldn’t stand it.

He stood by the window, pointing at the two figures downstairs and said, “You’re just going to let them leave like that? You should’ve at least tried to follow them, wear them down, see where they go! Who knows what they’ll say over drinks? What if Old Huang really ends up getting the advantage?”

“Brother, relax,” Sun Desheng said with a grin. “Others might slip up and say something, but Jiao Dalang won’t.”

He didn’t mind the filth at all and sat right down on the bed.

“Jiao Dalang isn’t an ordinary guy. He’s someone who once spent several hundred years alongside Director Wu.”

“Wait a second!” Che Qianzi blinked. “So that Jiao guy is also immortal? Just how many immortals are there nowadays? I used to think they were rarer than pandas… are they everywhere now? Is there like a billion of them?”

“Still rarer than pandas,” Sun Desheng chuckled. “From what I know, there are only about a dozen.”

He continued, “Anyway, besides Jiao Dalang, there are a few other serious figures. Some have gone overseas, others have retreated deep into the mountains to live in seclusion. When I have time, I’ll tell you more about Director Wu’s past.”

Just then, his phone rang.

Sun Desheng glanced at the caller ID and answered with a smile.

“Yes, this is Sun Desheng… hmm, no, ten years is not enough. I need at least twenty. Of course I know it’s difficult, that’s why I’m calling you. I know surveillance footage usually gets deleted after two years, but there’s always some leftover recordings… you should have a way…”

After a few words, he hung up with a satisfied smile.

Che Qianzi immediately caught on. “Fatty, are you trying to pull surveillance footage from twenty years ago? That’s almost impossible, right? Don’t most systems overwrite data? Even our Taoist temple had two cameras and they got overwritten…”

“That’s normal civilian systems,” Sun Desheng said with a smile. “Those get erased after a while. I’m talking about permanent archives.”

“Footage from TV stations, photos and videos taken by tourists, military and police records… there’s plenty that can still exist from twenty years ago. As long as you really want to dig, there’s no clue you can’t find—it just takes time.”

While listening, Che Qianzi’s stomach growled.

He smiled bitterly. “So what do we do now? Old Huang and Jiao Dalang went off to a restaurant. You’re not going to starve me, are you? At least let’s get some wontons or something.”

Sun Desheng laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t mistreat you. We’ll eat local food downstairs. I saw a small restaurant when we came up—don’t underestimate small places like that. That’s where you get real local flavor.”

With no other choice, Che Qianzi followed him downstairs.

But when they arrived, they saw the sign:

“Authentic Northeast Pork Stew Restaurant”

Che Qianzi stared blankly. “Fatty… we came all the way to Hangzhou to eat Northeastern pork stew? Did the Hangzhou chefs offend you somehow?”

Sun Desheng scratched his head. “I misremembered. But this is the only place nearby. Brother, just tell me—are you hungry or not?”

That one sentence did it.

Che Qianzi walked straight inside.

It wasn’t mealtime, so the place was empty. Only a woman in her sixties was dozing off inside. Hearing them enter, she opened her eyes, stretched, and spoke in fluent Hangzhou dialect.

Seeing they didn’t understand, she switched to Mandarin.

“You two here to eat? Order whatever you like. This place serves authentic Sichuan cuisine.”

Che Qianzi immediately interrupted, “Wait, didn’t the sign say Northeastern pork stew? Fatty, maybe we should change places.”

As he turned to leave, the old woman quickly said, “That stew shop closed down. New owner changed the sign. Now it’s proper Sichuan cuisine.”

“I’ve worked here my whole life. Don’t let the small storefront fool you—we’ve had all kinds of famous cuisines here: Sichuan, Shandong, Jiangsu, Cantonese, Zhejiang, Fujian, Anhui, Hunan… every one of them has opened here at some point. Everyone says it’s authentic.”

Hearing this, Sun Desheng put his arm around Che Qianzi and led him in.

They sat down and looked at the handwritten menu on the wall.

“Let’s have fish-flavored shredded pork, boiled beef, mapo tofu, and saliva chicken. That’s enough for two people. And two bowls of rice.”

The old woman went to place the order.

Soon she returned with a small plate of marinated bamboo shoots and placed it on the table.

“Complimentary from the boss. Do you drink? We have good Shaoxing yellow wine.”

“Sure, one bottle. Warm it up,” Sun Desheng said with a smile.

Noticing nicotine stains on her fingers, he took out a cigarette and handed her one.

“Have one. Light it up.”

He then asked, “Sister, you’ve really worked here your whole life?”

“I was assigned here after graduating from middle school,” she said after taking a drag. “Later the shop was contracted out and became private, but I’ve stayed on as a waitress all these years. There were originally three of us—one died, one left, and now only me remains. I’m retiring at the end of this year.”

She was clearly talkative. Once she started smoking, she began chatting nonstop, even sharing neighborhood gossip under Sun Desheng’s prompting.

Soon the food arrived.

Sun Desheng added an extra cup, poured her some wine, and said, “Sister, have a drink with us.”

After a few cups, her face turned slightly red.

Then Sun Desheng casually asked, “We’re tourists staying in the room upstairs. I heard someone died there before—is that true?”

“Don’t listen to nonsense,” she said. “That room is fine—just hasn’t been lived in for a long time.”

She thought for a moment.

“A long time ago… there was a young man who stayed there for a few days. After he left, no one ever stayed there again.”

“A young man? White hair? Was it this person?”

Sun Desheng showed her a photo of Wu Rendi.

The old woman thought for a long time, then shook her head.

“It was too long ago. I can’t remember someone from nearly twenty years back. But I’m sure it wasn’t white-haired.”

She added, “But someone definitely stayed there. Don’t worry, it’s not haunted.”

Then she suddenly remembered something.

“Oh—there was also someone who came looking for the person who stayed in that room. He held a photo and asked everyone if they had seen this man.”

“I can guarantee that much.”

“Later I don’t remember if he found him, but I remember him clearly—he spoke in Northeastern dialect and cursed a lot… very harshly.”

“He was about fifty-something, and a monk or priest of some kind… either a Taoist or a Buddhist monk.”