38. Time to Eat

Supporting three hundred household servants is no easy task.

First, they must be fed, and then clothed—surely they can’t go around naked.

When illness strikes, a kind master might call in a traveling doctor who shakes a bell; a harsher one would simply tell them to drink more hot water. No matter the ailment, the prescription is always the same: drink more hot water.

Yang Fan had already gathered ten personal attendants, and the other six were among the strongest household servants.

They stood in a line behind Yang Fan.

Mo Zhuo, Zhang Gada, and Lv Dan were promoted to level two.

They were appointed squad leaders of the household servants.

Each now led two rookie servants.

There was also a sixteen-year-old boy named Ming Yan, who served as Yang Fan’s personal page.

He was chosen because he was the only literate one among the three hundred servants. His family had once supported him through five years of private schooling, but after three years of severe drought and crop failure, they lost their land and became Yang Fan’s servants.

He was responsible for attending to the previous master’s smoking, hence the name Ming Yan. Tobacco had only recently been introduced to the Ming dynasty, so the prior master was definitely a trendsetter.

If the master favored martial arts, the boy would carry the sword, earning the title “Sword Attendant.”

In short, the naming conventions for servants followed this pattern.

During Yang Fan’s absence of several days, the previously purchased food supplies were nearly depleted, causing unrest in the courtyard.

If the master did not return soon, they would revert to the previous life of hunger.

When the master returned, word spread through the courtyard like wildfire, and everyone’s faces lit up with joy, as if celebrating the New Year.

Yang Fan ordered the provisions from the warehouse to be brought out.

There were about a hundred plastic barrels filled with kitchen scraps, sorted by type: flour-based foods, rice, soups, and meats, each in a different colored container.

Before the blast furnace, four large cast-iron pots were lined up in sequence; with so many people, one pot of food simply wouldn’t suffice.

Three hundred souls stood densely packed before the pots, mouths watering at the sight.

“First, each person shall receive a stainless steel basin and a steel spoon. Do not lose them. Anyone who loses theirs will have to eat with their hands from now on,” Yang Fan declared, hands clasped behind his back.

Ten attendants carried stacks of small steel basins to distribute. These were the cheapest kind, bought in bulk—one thousand at a time, costing one yuan each.

As per the purchase agreement, the spoon handles were perforated and connected to the basin rims with fine steel chains to prevent loss. The material was cheap, but the process was tedious. If not for Yang Fan’s order of ten thousand sets, with a promise of an additional one hundred thousand in the future, the supplier might not have bothered.

Of course, these were not made of 304 stainless steel, and whether any heavy metals might leach out was of no concern. In these times, if one didn’t die from heavy metal poisoning, they’d be long gone from other causes.

The crowd erupted in excitement.

The silver-white basins gleamed dazzlingly under the bright late autumn sun.

The master had actually provided such fine tableware; cries of gratitude and tears erupted from women and children alike, all kneeling densely in the courtyard.

“Thank you, Master!”

Yang Fan waved his hand, signaling everyone to rise.

Then, food began to be ladled into the pots.

In the first pot, a towering stack of large steaming baskets rested atop, filled with assorted flour-based foods—steamed buns, pancakes, fried dough sticks, stuffed buns, baked flatbreads, and bread. Most were partially eaten; not a single piece was whole.

In the second pot simmered assorted meats, including large bones still tethered with sinew and flesh. Few people nowadays paid careful attention to gnawing bones thoroughly—they contained connective tissues, soft parts, and marrow. There were also shredded meat, chunks, and slices, primarily pork with some beef and mutton.

After gnawing the big bones, they were collected and crushed to be cooked with radish for morning soup. Zhao Fu had carefully planned this—no scrap of food was to be wasted.

The leftover rice and soup were combined and cooked in two pots.

This concoction was known as “beggar’s porridge.”

Legend had it that Emperor Li Longji of the Tang Dynasty coined the term.

The tale went that he once lived among beggars for several days.

He observed how, regardless of how much each beggar collected, all the food was poured into a single broken pot.

Water was added, and the mixture boiled down. The blend of diverse ingredients produced an indescribable aroma.

Later in life, when his appetite waned, he recalled the beggar’s porridge and instructed his imperial chefs to prepare it—though not with leftovers, but with fine ingredients. At that point, it was no longer beggar’s porridge but more akin to a luxurious “Buddha Jumps Over the Wall” delicacy.

Mo Zhuo, wearing an apron, stirred the large pot with a shovel.

“Heh, there’s oil! Look, a thick layer of oil floating on top.”

The oily layer contained all manner of oils—soybean, sesame, rapeseed, peanut, palm, sunflower. Yang Fan couldn’t name them all, but as long as it wasn’t lethal, it was fine.

“And spices! This pot has spices.”

As the aroma wafted forth, the crowd grew restless, surging forward.

Zhang Gada sensed danger; these people hadn’t seen oil in years. Their eyes were like those of starving wolves, frightening to behold. He hurriedly urged the attendants to use horsewhips to keep order.

“Fall back! Fall back! Line up!”

“Queue according to the assigned teams: A, B, C, D. Come forward in order to receive your meal.”

“Those who refuse to line up will receive three lashes, as per the master’s orders.”

“First come, first served. Those at the end of the line get nothing—that’s fair.”

Under the threat of the whips, the crowd begrudgingly formed a noisy queue.

Team A was the craftsmen’s team, forty-three strong.

Team B was the apprentices, numbering ninety-eight.

Team C was the family members, one hundred fifty-five in total—mostly children and some women.

Team D was the hired staff, paid workers, including Mr. Liu from the accounting office and a dozen or so outside laborers.

These workers were generally not entitled to meals here, but Yang Fan considered the ironworks a single enterprise and did not wish to discriminate. If they wanted to eat in the factory, they could, but only after others had finished.

If they disliked the factory food, they were free to eat elsewhere. Choice was a kind of benefit.

In front of the pots, a long row of tables was set up, covered with cloth. On them lay a neat row of large stainless steel basins filled with flour-based foods and beggar’s porridge.

Bamboo tongs were provided to pick up the flour foods.

Soup ladles were available to serve the porridge.

It resembled a self-service buffet.

Lv Dan loudly instructed, “Line up and take food in order. Take only as much as you can eat. Waste will be punished with a month of toilet cleaning.”

The craftsmen, older and the factory’s technical backbone, deserved the best treatment.

Fu Lao Liu, the senior craftsman, naturally went first.

Fried dough sticks—half pieces, bitten into, clearly leftovers.

But Fu Lao Liu paid them no mind. Few people could eat fried foods these days.

Many small landowners still survived on coarse grain porridge; where would they find oil for frying?

He trembled with excitement, much like Wu Lao Er, who suffered from strokes and twitched at every sight.

He quickly picked several pieces of fried dough into his basin, then suddenly noticed buns beneath, with oil stains glistening on the surface—meat-filled buns.

He hastily abandoned the fried dough and began gathering the buns.

Behind him, Chang Zhu protested, glaring at the shameless man who was nearly emptying the bun supply.

“What are you doing? Leave some for those behind! You old geezer, I hope you choke!”

Chang Zhu was the second senior craftsman, equal in status to Fu Lao Liu. Each managed a blast furnace and led a dozen apprentices.

Fu Lao Liu pretended not to hear, grabbed a few more buns, then moved forward, filling his basin nearly to overflow with beggar’s porridge. He hurried to a corner near the wall.

Along the way, the basin’s heat burned his hands fiercely, making him grimace as he sat on a large stone to eat.

The craftsmen all sat on the eastern side, eating together.

“Hey, this porridge is good! It’s got a layer of oil on top,” exclaimed a craftsman who hadn’t seen oil in years. Ignoring the burn to his mouth, he drank it greedily.

Being able to eat coarse grain porridge with wild vegetables was already a luxury; who would have dared hope for oil?

“Has flavor, and plenty of salt—delicious!”

Salt was expensive these days; many couldn’t afford it. Though the salt fields were not far from here, multiple markups made salt a luxury.

“And spices! What kind of spices are these? More fragrant than cloves. So tasty!”

Modern seasonings were even rarer, often imported by Arab merchants. Pepper powder cost more than its weight in silver—far beyond common folk’s means.

Before they finished eating, the attendants returned carrying stainless steel buckets. Zhang Gada personally ladled out a spoonful of meat for each.

“Meat too! Thank you, Master!”

The craftsmen once again dropped to their knees in gratitude.

Though they had glimpsed the meat before—likely reserved for the master and his maids—they hadn’t expected the craftsmen to receive any.

Of course, only the craftsmen enjoyed the privilege of a daily spoonful of meat. Others did not.

This fully embodied Lord Yang’s respect for talent.

Want to eat meat?

Fine, become a craftsman first, then you’ll have a spoonful of meat every day.

Yang Fan noticed the apprentices’ eyes reddening with desire.