Chapter Eight: A New Idea

The two of them wiped the sweat from their brows and returned to the factory. To avoid arousing suspicion from the security guard on duty, they had to leave through the main gate.

“Tomorrow, find someone with a cart and get the refrigerator fixed. I need to sell breakfast in the morning. That’s our income, after all!” Chen Huajiang didn’t want Liang Long to do nothing; without involvement, he wouldn’t take it seriously. Even if he had shares in the business, he should still pitch in wherever he could.

“Leave it to me. I’ll even repaint it for you—what color do you want?” Liang Long replied.

“Do whatever you like. Just make sure the refrigerator is in the snack shop by tomorrow afternoon,” Chen Huajiang instructed.

Since they needed to store meat, it had to be in the afternoon. It was summer, after all; leave meat out overnight and it would spoil.

“Got it!” Liang Long responded cheerfully.

When Chen Huajiang got home, Lin Jiayin and Huanhuan were already asleep. He quickly washed up and lay down in bed. Lin Jiayin, half-asleep, rubbed her eyes and asked, “Why are you back so late?”

“I had something to take care of. Go back to sleep,” Chen Huajiang replied, gazing at Lin Jiayin’s silhouette as she lay on her side, his mind wandering. If it weren’t for Huanhuan, who knows what might have happened.

He woke up just after five the next morning—selling breakfast meant getting up early. When he arrived at the snack shop, Daguang was already there. Millet porridge was easy enough, so Chen Huajiang handled that while Daguang took care of making the steamed buns. Soon, everything was ready.

But the expected crowd never arrived. They’d thought yesterday’s braised pork at lunch was a hit, so breakfast should sell too. Yet only five or six people showed up. People in those days were thrifty; most ate breakfast at home before work. Few bought breakfast outside, unless they didn’t know how to cook.

Luckily, they’d only made fifty buns, but more than forty remained.

“Why isn’t anyone buying? That’s not right,” Daguang said, disappointed.

“I told you, business isn’t just about short-term bursts. Yesterday’s lunch went well, but today there’s no one. These buns—we’ll have to sell them at lunch. Anyone who orders braised pork gets a free bun. If we leave them until evening, they’ll spoil,” Chen Huajiang decided. He couldn’t just let the buns go to waste.

“So, are we selling buns for breakfast tomorrow?” Daguang asked.

If mornings didn’t work, evenings probably wouldn’t either. After work, everyone went home for dinner. It seemed lunch was the only viable option.

“We’ll probably only sell at lunchtime from now on. Morning and afternoon won’t work. Today, let’s treat lunch as a tasting session. If it goes well, we’ll sell buns and braised pork together at lunch.”

It meant the evening hours would be wasted, and relying on lunch alone wouldn’t bring in much profit. Chen Huajiang pondered this as Daguang started slicing meat for the braised pork. Yesterday’s results had been great; thirty portions sold out quickly, so today he planned to make sixty.

Chen Huajiang watched closely—he needed to learn. If Daguang ever stopped working with him, he’d need to do it himself.

At noon, more people came than in the morning. Many had heard about the delicious braised pork and came to try it. The buns were well received too. Chen Huajiang spotted Lin Jiayin coming over.

“Go pick up Yaya and bring her here for lunch. Making food at home wastes time, and you won’t get to rest,” he said.

Back then, kindergartens didn’t provide lunch, so parents had to fetch their children. It wasn’t like decades later, when that became standard.

“Alright, I’ll go get her.”

By the time Lin Jiayin returned with Yaya, most people had finished eating. The braised pork was gone again, but Chen Huajiang had saved a portion for his daughter.

Lin Jiayin took a bite of Daguang’s braised pork and was genuinely impressed.

“Sister-in-law, how’s my cooking?” Daguang asked, proud.

“Your skills are excellent, Daguang. One day I’ll set you up with someone—any girl would be lucky to have you with cooking like this,” Lin Jiayin joked, smiling.

Daguang scratched his head sheepishly. He’d been introduced to girls before, but they all thought he was too quiet.

After lunch, Lin Jiayin took Huanhuan and left the snack shop.

Around three o’clock, Liang Long arrived with a handcart, carrying a red refrigerator that looked as good as new. Chen Huajiang gave him a meaningful look; Daguang couldn’t know the fridge came from the factory—if anything happened later, he’d be the first to spill the beans.

“Brother Jiang, where’d you get that refrigerator?” Daguang asked in surprise.

“Liang Long got it, of course. He may not be good at much, but you can rely on him for the big things,” Chen Huajiang replied, praising Liang Long.

“When it matters, you can count on me! Now, come on, give me a hand and help carry this inside,” Liang Long said.

The three of them lifted the fridge and moved it to the back room. Chen Huajiang plugged it in; after waiting a while, he saw it was working perfectly. He had Daguang put some items inside, locked the door, and left.

“How much did we make today?” Liang Long asked on the way back.

“Just under twenty yuan. Not much. No one bought breakfast—I don’t know why,” Chen Huajiang answered truthfully. At the beginning, there was no point in hiding the numbers from Liang Long; there wasn’t much money to speak of.

“Don’t bother with breakfast sales. There used to be someone selling buns outside my building—they gave up too. With wages being what they are, who wants to spend extra eating out in the morning?” Liang Long said. “But I’d suggest doing something different in the evenings. Try to get some beer, fry a few dishes—plenty of people like to have a drink at night.”

Liang Long’s suggestion sparked a new idea in Chen Huajiang. There were many single young men in the factory, and their usual evening activity was to sit at a street stall with some peanuts and a little liquor.

“How about we do a barbecue?” Chen Huajiang suggested, though he knew the other two wouldn’t understand.

In the 1980s, in a place like theirs, no one had even heard of barbecue. Even lamb was rarely sold, let alone grilled.

But who knows, maybe it would catch on.

“What’s a barbecue?” asked Daguang.

“Never heard of it. Is it any good?” Liang Long added.

Just as he expected.

“You don’t know? I came up with it myself. Do you know anyone who sells charcoal? Or lamb?” As for the grill, he could easily find someone to weld one together.

“Where would you buy charcoal? People use firewood. And we’re not making hot pot—what do you need charcoal for?” Liang Long asked, puzzled.