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All employees of Taifeng Building were swimming in a sea of happiness, just like university students about to have a winter break with no final exams, no homework, and even bonuses handed out by the school.

While the staff rejoiced, the customers naturally became sad. Whether they were new or returning patrons, these people had actually been looking forward to Taifeng Building’s New Year’s Eve dinner menu. As long as they weren’t short on cash, everyone didn’t mind spending a bit more money to enjoy a sumptuous and delicious New Year’s Eve meal at their favorite restaurant without losing face in their social circles.

But what awaited the eagerly hopeful customers was the news that Taifeng Building would not be open for business from the Little New Year to the Lantern Festival.

For some who treated Taifeng Building as their dining hall, like Han Guishan who didn’t lack money, this news struck like a bolt from the blue, and even during meal times, they couldn’t help but sigh. They wished they could pull out the owner of Taifeng and crack open his skull to see what was inside, and perhaps teach him a thing or two about how to run a business.

How could a high-end restaurant not do business during New Year’s!

How could they not want to earn money, how could they refuse to earn money that’s being forced upon them!

Han Guishan sat in the private room on the second floor, looking at the pickled vegetable buns in his hands and letting out a deep sigh.

Wang Jing looked up at Han Guishan, scooped a spoonful of Mapo tofu, and took a couple of sips of soy milk.

The Mapo tofu on the table was laden with plenty of Sichuan peppercorns and chili pepper in the red soup covering the white tofu, and it was unmistakably Wu Minqi’s unrestrained masterpiece.

Ever since “Taste” was published, Taifeng Building had seen an influx of visitors from other places coming solely to try the dishes written about by Xu Cheng in “Taste.” Every day, many customers were spiced to tears and went temporarily tongue-tied by Wu Minqi’s spicy dishes, so much so that Taifeng’s juice sales skyrocketed, bringing Mrs. Wang Xiulian such joy she considered holding a special meeting just to commend Wu Minqi’s outstanding contribution to the restaurant. For this reason, Mrs. Wang Xiulian went as far as to add two options next to Wu Minqi’s dishes on the menu—(moderately spicy/lightly spicy).

Ever since she read “Taste,” Wu Minqi seemed to have broken free from her shackles. Normally when cooking, she would still give some thought to the tolerance for spiciness of Beiping’s customers, but now she cooked entirely for herself, so much so that Jiang Feng sometimes felt the scent of spiciness invading his own wok when they cooked side by side.

Han Guishan took a bite of the pickled vegetable bun; it was the familiar taste, the familiar throat-cutting spice, the familiar stomach-filling sensation.

Han Guishan sighed again.

Wang Jing could no longer tolerate it and put down her chopsticks. The wooden sticks made a crisp sound when they touched the porcelain plate.

“Han, just eat your meal nicely and stop sighing all the time. You’ve been like this since the day before yesterday, always sighing at meal times—who are you putting on a show for?” Wang Jing said angrily.

Just as Wang Jing lost her temper, Han Youxin quietly tossed the half-eaten pickled vegetable bun under the table and quickly stood up to grab a big piece of red-braised lamb meat from the table, munching away with glee.

Han Youxin thought his actions were flawless, unaware that Wang Hao, who had been pondering the copy at the door, had seen through everything.

In stark contrast to the Taifeng Building staff who looked forward to the annual meeting and vacation every day, and who worked happily every day after Mrs. Wang Xiulian announced the holiday on the 16th, was Wang Hao.

Wang Hao had only 3 days and 6 hours of paid annual leave this year.

Although he was just an intern and had not yet graduated, and therefore should not have been treated like a full-time employee, Wang Hao’s advertisement copywriting, inspired by his frequent work as a waiter at Taifeng, was exceptionally good. In just a few short months of the internship, he’d already completed three exceptional projects, earning the trust of his leaders. Now, Wang Hao was just waiting to finish his graduation thesis and graduate from college to sign an official employment contract and become a true 996 worker, no stranger to working overtime, lack of sleep, and hair loss.

Now, Wang Hao’s biggest challenge was his graduation thesis.

As a stellar student who teetered on the brink of delayed graduation, who could only write copy and ramble in novels but not thesis papers—a new-century underachiever—the graduation thesis was undoubtedly a tiger blocking the road to a bright future for Wang Hao.

So, today, Wang Hao did not simply come to Taifeng to find inspiration as a waiter; he had a purposeful agenda to use the restaurant as a stepping stone to inspiration while serving tables.

He needed to find Jiang Feng—no, his most beloved and revered “Emperor Father”—to help him seek Professor Li’s guidance for his thesis.

Wang Hao was at this moment rehearsing in his mind how, when facing Jiang Feng during the lunch break, he would broach their longstanding friendship and occasionally present father-son relationship. Then he could transition to the following topic and successfully secure Professor Li’s help.

Wang Hao’s thoughts drifted away, no longer paying attention to how many pickled vegetable buns Han Youxin had thrown under the table.

“Ah, wife, today is already the 14th!” Han Guishan said with a face full of sorrow, as if the company’s stock price had evaporated a small target overnight.

“What about it being the 14th?” Wang Jing replied nonchalantly as she picked up a piece of eel from the spicy blood curd.

Han Youxin tried to follow suit and pick up an eel, but Wang Jing stopped him with her chopsticks: “Youxin, this dish is too spicy; you can’t eat it.”

Han Youxin: QAQ

Han Guishan looked at Wang Jing, not noticing that the pickled vegetable bun in Han Youxin’s hand had disappeared: “Ah, wife, you don’t understand.”

Wang Jing smiled helplessly, “What’s there to understand? Isn’t it just that Taifeng Building will be having its last day of business before the New Year tomorrow? It’s not closing down for good. Anyway, how could you not find a place to eat during the New Year? Are the many restaurants in Beiping too few to keep you from starving? If it really comes to it, I can cook for you. But let’s be honest, you say hiring a chef at home is expensive, yet you come to eat at Taifeng Building every day—is that really cheaper than hiring a chef?”

Wang Jing downed the last of her soy milk, wanting to pour another glass only to find the bottle empty. She turned to Wang Hao and said, “Sorry to bother you, but could you get me another bottle of soy milk?”

“Sure, please wait a moment,” Wang Hao said as he went to get more soy milk for Wang Jing.

Just thinking that from the day after tomorrow until Lantern Festival he wouldn’t be able to eat pickled vegetable dumplings made Han Guishan feel all out of sorts.

Back when his family was poor, he could only eat pickled vegetable dumplings during the New Year. Now that he was wealthy, it had ironically reversed—he couldn’t eat them precisely when it was the New Year.

How could Han Guishan not be saddened by this?

The sorrowful Han Guishan decided that tomorrow he would reserve all the pickled vegetable dumplings, take them home, and freeze them in his refrigerator’s freezer to eat slowly, hoping they would last until the end of the Lantern Festival.

With his spirits lifted, Han Guishan decided to eat well.

“Right, should we go back to Shenzhen for the New Year’s today?” Without soy milk to drink, and thus not in the mood for spicy food, Wang Jing’s idle mouth decided to disturb Han Guishan and have him join her in conversation.

“Let’s go back. Didn’t we already make plans with Ninth Sister and Tenth Sister to return on the first day of the New Year? Last year, when we went to offer incense, I already promised our parents at their grave that we would go back this year to do the same. Of course, we’re going back,” Han Guishan said.

Wang Jing nodded, “Then it’s settled. We’ll go to my place on the second day. For the New Year’s Eve dinner, I think we shouldn’t eat out. It’s our first year after moving from Alan City to Beiping, so I should personally cook the New Year’s Eve dinner.”

“Alright, I’ll listen to you, my dear wife,” Han Guishan agreed quite readily.

As long as he could fry the green beans without ending up in the hospital, he was up for anything. Poor Han Youxin, Han Guishan suddenly remembered that it had been years since his son had tasted his mother’s cooking.

It was time for his son to reminisce about tough times, to understand how delicious pickled vegetable dumplings were.

Thinking this, Han Guishan affectionately placed a large piece of sweet-and-sour pork ribs onto Han Youxin’s plate, “Youxin, eat up.”

Han Youxin was pleasantly surprised and cooperatively stuffed the ribs into his mouth, his small mouth packed tightly.

At that moment, Han Youxin tasted not only the sweet-and-sour flavor of the pork ribs, the taste of the meat, the flavor of the sauce, but also the rich taste of paternal love.

After a year, Dad had finally given him meat instead of just dumplings!

Han Youxin spat out the bone, swallowed the meat, and yelled excitedly, “Dad, I love you!”

And incidentally, he also completed the winter vacation homework assigned by his teacher.

Han Guishan’s face turned red. He hadn’t expected that simply giving his son a piece of rib would excite the boy so much. He couldn’t help but reflect on whether it was because he had been too busy with work lately and hadn’t had enough time to spend with his son that his son felt so starved for fatherly love.

“Youxin, are you full yet?” Han Guishan asked affectionately.

Han Youxin shook his head resolutely.

Han Guishan looked toward the dining table.

There was still half a dish of mapo tofu left, the Mao blood wang was almost finished, the sweet-and-sour pork ribs were nearly untouched, there was more than half a dish of braised lamb left, and three pickled vegetable dumplings remained.

He had planned to take these three pickled vegetable dumplings home to freeze and savor them later.

Han Guishan hesitated.

Han Guishan made up his mind.

Everything was for his son.

Han Guishan picked up a pickled vegetable dumpling and placed it in Han Youxin’s bowl, then patted his little head.

“If you’re not full, eat another dumpling. The restaurant will be closed after tomorrow, and it won’t open again until after the Lantern Festival. You won’t be able to eat these again until then,” he said.