Chapter 72: Laying Out the Second Floor and Brewing the Master Stock!
Ling Jing set to work laying out the second floor.
Compared to the ground-floor dining area, this level was undeniably spacious, though calling it vast would be an exaggeration.
Every square foot needed to be utilized wisely to comfortably accommodate as many patrons as possible.
She bought eight four-person tables for 320 points.
Placing them squarely in the central zone.
The second-floor space was rectangular, running long from north to south and narrow from east to west.
—The Chinese Restaurant sat south of the West Wall, naturally oriented north-to-south. Its main entrance faced north, while the farm behind it lay to the south.
Ling Jing arranged the tables two per row, making four neat rows.
Next, thirty-two round stools for 160 points.
Grouped in sets of four, allocated to each four-person table.
Once the eight four-person tables were settled, Ling Jing gauged the clearance: even with people seated, a walkway wide enough for a single person remained along the north and south walls.
Smooth passage for Caicai to deliver dishes.
That left the east and west flanks unfilled.
She reopened the Mall and purchased seven two-person tables for 140 points.
These she aligned against the east and west windowed walls.
Leaving ample clearance for the staircase, she placed one fewer table on that side.
She added fourteen matching round stools for 70 points, dragging them into position beside the two-person tables.
The aisle between the two-person tables and the central four-person tables was slightly more generous, clearing just over a meter.
Roughly matching the width of the stairs.
All set. The once-empty second floor was now fully furnished.
Eight four-person tables accommodated thirty-two guests.
Seven two-person tables accommodated fourteen.
Under ideal, fully seated conditions, it could host forty-six diners at a time.
—If larger parties arrived, the central four-person tables could easily be pushed together.
She could always drag in extra stools if seating ran tight.
Ling Jing dusted off her hands, taking a step back to survey the second-floor dining hall.
A maximum capacity of forty-six—say, forty on average. Even with just two turns per table, it could comfortably handle a hundred and twenty diners.
Seating would be plenty.
Yet the immediate commercial returns might not be nearly so dramatic.
The dishes served up here were bound to be priced higher.
She had planned it that way from the start.
By the most fundamental law of demand, higher prices inevitably brought lower consumption—at least where non-essential goods were concerned.
The roasted potato had remained the undisputed bestseller at the Chinese Restaurant for an entire week.
—No matter how many novel delicacies she rolled out, roasted potatoes sold out every single day without fail.
Because it was the cheapest food on the menu that purged toxins.
Purging poison and staving off starvation were the two absolute necessities for every living soul in this world.
The dishes destined for the second floor, by contrast, were hardly “necessities” for the average scavenger.
Yet for Awakeners—or seasoned crews like Long Qian’s, who had already begun hunting lesser mutants in the perimeter—the equation changed.
The squad Zhou Xue had brought today had “worked” on her doorstep from dawn till dusk. Aside from grabbing roasted sweet potatoes, they had poured every last coin into Malatang skewers and rice porridge.
Ling Jing deduced this was directly tied to the Malatang’s ability to convert toxins into raw energy and the porridge’s power to delay fatal mutation or cleanse hallucinations.
What about other buffs, then?
Even setting tactical necessities aside… once people’s pockets grew heavy, who wouldn’t want to treat themselves to something exquisite?
With the scavengers’ feverish enthusiasm for harvesting wild crops, “striking it rich” was only a matter of time.
As the proprietor of the establishment, Ling Jing couldn’t leave people with heavy coin pouches and nowhere to spend them.
The second floor was guaranteed to find its audience.
All she had to do was ensure the food was undeniably delicious.
That was the heart of it all.
…
Returning to the kitchen, Ling Jing set about prepping tomorrow’s culinary lineup.
With the automated skewer assembly humming along, she set the Malatang broth on to simmer.
She bought three 40-liter stainless steel stockpots for 35 points each.
Though smaller than the specialized electric Malatang vats and unpowered, their price tags were surprisingly comparable.
Presumably, the raw material cost couldn’t be squeezed any lower.
She then spent 15 points in the Mall for a box of braising spice packets containing forty sachets, 40 points for a ten-catty jug of high-proof baijiu, 25 points for five catties of rock sugar, and 15 points for a five-catty jug of Shaoxing cooking wine.
Time to get cooking!
Filling all three stockpots with water, she set them over the four-burner stove to bring them to a rolling boil.
Into two of the stockpots, Ling Jing dropped hefty pork marrow bones; into the third went shiitake mushroom stems, water steeped in bamboo shoot husks, and corn silk.
She tossed a braising spice pouch into each pot, dropped the heavy lids in place, and let them simmer.
The two-burner gas range was put to work right alongside. Ling Jing fired it up and heated the wok with oil.
Tossing in leftover pork backfat, she rendered it down until fragrant lard pooled in the wok, then tossed in scallions and ginger over roaring heat, frying them until the scallion-ginger oil was intensely aromatic.
While the fragrance peaked, she poured the sizzling oil into one of the pork bone stockpots—this was the master stock for pure meats.
Rinsing the wok clean, she brought it back to searing heat and spooned in fresh lard.
With the fat smoking hot, she dumped in a generous heap of smashed garlic cloves with a sharp sizzle, frying them until the pungent garlic oil was golden and piping hot.
Turning on her heel, Ling Jing seized the jug of high-proof baijiu and splashed a generous measure straight into the wok.
Whoosh—!
Once the spirits cooked off and the aromatics melded, she hoisted the heavy iron wok and poured the mixture into the second pork bone stockpot.
—This was the braising stock for offal.
Next, sliced onions and ginger went into another ladle of shimmering lard, fried until sweet and fragrant.
Looking at the aromatics for the third pot, Ling Jing felt a pang of mild regret—if only she had vegetable oil on hand.
For now, pork lard was all she had.
The contents of this third batch were poured into the pot simmering with shiitake stems and bamboo husk broth.
This was the braising stock for vegetarian fare.
She sliced more ginger and tied scallions into neat knots, tossing them into the bone broths to suppress any lingering gaminess.
Scrubbing the heavy wok once more, she dropped in rock sugar over a gentle flame, stirring patiently until it melted into a deep, bubbling amber caramel. In went a splash of boiling water.
Stirred until smooth, the sugar color was ready.
She ladled the rich caramel into each stockpot, seasoning them with light soy sauce, cooking wine, and coarse salt.
With the seasonings incorporated, she capped all three pots with their lids, dialing the flame down to a gentle simmer.
Now came the ingredient prep.
Scrubbing the pork intestines clean, she moved on to the pork stomach, tongue, ears, and liver.
That mutated boar she had hunted on her very first night had been exceptionally plump, leaving behind offal that was pristine, thick, and well-developed.
Rinsing them thoroughly, she scored them with rough cuts to allow the braising liquor to penetrate deep.
Once prepped and blanched, everything was tipped straight into the offal stockpot. Lids on, heat cranked to high.
Ling Jing turned around to prep the centerpiece for the next pot.
Chopping through plump, tender trotters, she split four pig’s feet into eight hefty chunks.
She then pulled out a generous slab of pork belly, slicing it into thick cuts.
After so many days of churning out cauldrons of one-pot stew, the pork belly from that first boar had been running dangerously low.
Who would have thought that while chasing that massive golden mutant, another beast would stumble right into her path?
Though not quite as massive as the first boar and yielding less pork, it was more than enough for the time being.
Thank you to the golden mutant for the generous donation.
Smiling at the thought, Ling Jing retrieved a slab of beef and sliced it down.
And the poultry.
If memory served, these were wings from that mutated bull-lion chimera.
Diced into raw chunks, Ling Jing couldn’t definitively tell which bird every piece had come from—it was far too wild a hybrid, likely containing species she had never seen before.
Unfamiliar flavors might compromise the integrity of the braise, so she picked out only the cuts she could clearly identify as pigeon.
Cleaving through them with a heavy butcher’s knife, she gathered the wings and legs alongside the beef and pork, blanched the whole batch, and tipped them into the meat stockpot.
And thank you to the bull-lion chimera for the donation as well.
Capping the meat pot with its lid, she dialed the burner to high.
After washing down the knives and cutting board, Ling Jing moved on to the vegetables.
While braised meats were prized for their rich, savory layers of rendered fat and spiced soy sauce, braised vegetables were all about crisp, clean sweetness.
Potatoes, lotus root slices, yardlong beans, bamboo shoot tips, broccoli, Chinese cabbage, shiitake mushrooms, and daikon chunks.
Many ingredients overlapped with the Malatang skewers, but the final flavor profile would be an entirely different beast.
A pity she had no kelp or soy products on hand.
Whenever Ling Jing had braised dishes back home, bean curd skin and dried yuba were always her personal favorites.
Rinsing and chopping the greens, she gave them a brief blanching, tying the beans into neat knots before sliding everything into the vegetable pot.
Just as the lid settled over the third stockpot, the offal pot came to a rolling boil.
Ling Jing lifted the lid, stirring the bubbling depths with a long-handled ladle.
Infused with the caramelized sugar color, the braising broth shone a deep, glossy chestnut.
The gaminess of the offal was thoroughly reined in by the cooking wine, ginger, scallions, and star anise from the spice sachets, sending a heady wave of warming spices and rich animal fat billowing into the room.
Amidst the billowing steam, the ingredients bobbed and tumbled in the bubbling broth. Even before the rich color fully penetrated their flesh, the intoxicating aroma was already impossible to contain.
Ling Jing set the lid back down in satisfaction, dialing the flame down to a low, patient simmer.
