Just as I'd expected, the first day at the stall brought a flood of rave reviews. At five in the morning on the second day, I'd barely got the stall set up when Auntie Li came rushing over, market basket in hand: "Xiao Lu! Save me two fish! My daughter-in-law ate one last night, and when she looked in the mirror this morning she said those stubborn age spots she's had for years had faded loads!" Before she'd even finished, Old Uncle Zhang from the vegetable stall came shoving through to the front row, leaning on his walking stick and pulling out a fistful of crumpled notes: "Five for me! I won three hands of mahjong in a row — it's definitely your grilled fish bringing in the luck!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The news spread through the wet market like it had sprouted wings, blown wildly out of proportion with every retelling. I couldn't help marvelling — was this really the power of neighbourhood aunties and uncles? It put every food-blogger influencer to shame. Uncle Li from the stinky tofu stall next door stood with his hands on his hips, rolling his eyes: "I've been selling my family's secret recipe for twenty years and never had people going on like this about my food!" But jealous as he was, he still asked me to set one aside for him.
The most absurd of all was the head of the market's security team. Every day he'd plant himself beside my stall under the guise of "maintaining order" and "preventing a stampede," while quietly slipping the grilled fish tails I gave him into his pockets.
Because my supply of Qi-Gathering Pills was limited, I had no choice but to put up a sign: Daily limit: fifty fish. That was all it took — the queue stretched from the east end of the market clean to the west end, with aunties and uncles dragging out little folding stools to hold their spots two or three hours in advance.
A fur-coat-wearing socialite slapped down a thick wad of cash: "Owner! I'm buying you out — grill me two hundred!" I glanced at the pigeon-egg diamond ring on her finger, then deliberately looked at the dwindling supply of cleaned fish in my cooler box, and smiled apologetically: "Madam, with that kind of money you could own a dozen fish farms! I really am a small operation here — there's no way I can sell you that many. Besides, look at all these folks lined up behind you!"
The socialite was about to argue when a chorus of wailing broke out behind her. An old man held up an insulated container: "Miss! I've been queuing since four in the morning — I'm trying to get a fish to my wife in hospital, it might be her lifeline!" Auntie Li, with her grandson in her arms, bellowed at the top of her voice: "Have a conscience! We old folk are all counting on Xiao Lu's fish for our aching backs!"
I seized the moment to scatter some cumin over the grill, and as a cloud of thick smoke rose up, I made a show of coughing: "I really am a good cook with no ingredients left — there genuinely isn't any more." The smoke stung the socialite's eyes and the jostling crowd sent her stumbling. She finally gave up, snatching back her money and cursing as she teetered away on her ten-centimetre heels: "In all my years I've never had money and still couldn't buy something!"
I'd barely let out a breath when the socialite came clicking back on those heels, this time with two burly men hauling camera equipment behind her. She planted herself in front of me and shoved a microphone in my face: "Everyone watch! This is the profiteer — selling outrageously priced grilled fish and deliberately creating a shortage!" The camera panned to the grill, where the fish were sizzling and sending up fragrant wisps of smoke — fragrant enough that one of the cameramen couldn't help swallowing.
The security captain suddenly lunged forward and smothered the lens with his hands: "No filming, no filming! This is our wet market's proprietary grilled fish recipe!" Before he'd finished speaking, Auntie Wang from the crowd suddenly hollered: "Is your TV station taking backhanders or what? I ate the fish and my back stopped aching — yesterday I even carried a whole sack of rice!"
"That's right, that's right — my old man said his chest felt much better after eating the fish!" The aunties and uncles chimed in one after another, some pulling out their phones to point cameras right back at the crew. "Friends, look at this — some dodgy TV station has come out of nowhere trying to smear our local street food sensation. Do they think we ordinary folk are all blind? Come on everyone, let's have this out!"
The socialite stamped her foot in fury, then suddenly jabbed a finger at my grill and shrieked: "He — he's a fraud! He's cheating money out of you old people! I guarantee he's put something in that fish to make you feel temporarily better and then much worse afterwards!"
I was still getting pelted with her spittle when Lin Yao suddenly caught sight of a gilded pangolin embroidered on the lining of the socialite's jacket — she'd seen it somewhere before. It was the same logo as on the business card of that man in gold-rimmed glasses who'd come to talk "business" last time. Quick as a flash, Lin Yao reached out and yanked the emblem free from the woman's jacket: "Baizhen Lou? Well, well! We turned you down once and now you've come to smear us!" I really did pick the right wife — when things kick off, she's always the first in.
"So it's commercial sabotage after all." "Of course it is, shameless." "A restaurant that big, and they're still going after a street vendor."
The pointed remarks from the crowd drained the colour from the socialite's face. Before she could respond, a middle-aged man stepped out of the crowd — the very same procurement manager from before. He stood there stony-faced, raising a loudspeaker to shout: "Everyone listen to me! This person has definitely been injecting hormones into the fish. I'm calling the relevant authorities right now!"
"Then call them," I said, full-voiced and steady. "Our grilled fish can withstand the heat of the grill, and it can withstand an inspection too."
An upright person has nothing to fear from slander. I simply didn't believe that soaking fish in Qi-Gathering Pill water before grilling could possibly turn up anything in a test — at most, it was a trendy medicinal-cuisine flavour. If that came back with a violation, now that would be strange.
Sure enough, the man in gold-rimmed glasses had called in a few uniformed enforcement officers before long. Each of them wore a chest badge with their officer number and name. They pushed through the crowd to my stall, and I watched the lead officer switch on his enforcement recorder — when my stomach gave a sudden lurch. Wasn't this the son-in-law of Auntie Chen from the estate next door?
He adjusted his glasses. "Hello. We're from the District Market Supervision Comprehensive Enforcement Brigade. We've received a public complaint alleging suspected food irregularities at this stall. Please cooperate with an inspection." He said it all with a perfectly straight face, but not before giving me an imperceptible look. He turned away and said gravely: "First, check the stall registration documents!"
Lin Yao dug around in her canvas bag and produced the Temporary Stall Registration Form.
"Show me your health certificates." Before he'd finished asking, Lin Yao had already pulled them from the canvas bag and handed them over. Captain Zhang glanced at them and handed them straight back. "We'll check the hygiene conditions."