WSMTATMC C136

Chapter 136

As soon as Chen Qingyan and the others entered the prefectural academy, the household suddenly grew quiet.

With little to occupy him, Elder Liang planned to travel again—though not far—taking Liang An and Chen Guang to amble through the counties and towns around the prefectural city. Wherever there was fine scenery or good food, they would wander; with enough funds and reliable protection, the old gentleman could roam at ease.

Madam Li and Fang Ling were both rather reserved women. Back in their old hometown, things had been easier—Madam Li had a few friends of many years, with whom she could chat or go to offer incense. In the prefectural city, being strangers, neither wished to go out to make acquaintances. Most of their time was spent at home coaxing Yuanbao, preparing Qingyun’s dowry, and sewing clothes for the younger ones.

Once the fifth lunar month began, the weather steadily turned hot. Folks on the streets changed to summer wear—those with means donned gauze garments; ordinary people wore short shirts of ramie, cool and breathable.

After half a month with the door shut, Wang’s Vegetable Shop reopened.

Wang Ying had spent days preparing with the servants—first, having Steward Chen bring batches of fruit in from the experimental field outside the city. Peaches, grapes, cherries, and tangerines were ripe—just right for popsicles and iced drinks.

Next came the sugar syrup for popsicles. Ershun and Tian Ju set up a stove in the courtyard and boiled several cauldrons. Sugar being dear, to keep costs down they used ordinary brown sugar rather than refined white.

Once cooled, the syrup was poured into prepped bamboo tubes. The idea had struck Wang Ying while buying mountain spring water—if the price was to be decent, the packaging had to be right. Without a container, popsicles would melt into a mess and put customers off.

Bamboo was cheap—a section worked out to less than a single cash—but splitting it took work. Beyond cutting, they used a small branding iron to sear “Mi Xue” into each tube, to build brand recognition.

When someone ate from a bamboo tube and a passerby asked what and where—if the eater couldn’t name it, at least the tube read “Mi Xue Ice Shā,” and the name would roll off the tongue.

Indeed, Wang Ying had renamed the shop “Mi Xue Ice Shā.” He had first thought of “Mi Xue Ice City,” but “Ice City” felt too grand; better “Ice Shā,” especially since that’s what he meant to sell.

The prefectural city differed from the town—spending power was higher—but to stand firm, the customer base still had to be the common folk. Affordable, honest, and tasty was the sure path.

Also, ice and vegetables were not the same. Winter vegetables could be a near monopoly, but ice was not. He’d asked around—in the city, there were at least four sellers of ice. These were major ice dealers with their own ice cellars, having stored tens of thousands of jin, waiting to sell to wealthy houses in summer.

So Wang Ying’s target could not be that crowd. If competition arose, there would be friction. Cutting off another’s profits is like killing their parents; at that point, forget the “nephew” pretense—being a true son wouldn’t save him.

Left overnight in the field, the syrup popsicles froze hard with a chime. On the first day, he dared not make too many—just three hundred. He set the price at one cash each—three strings if all sold. The limit was bamboo tubes; otherwise, the field could have frozen thousands more.

There were also ice blocks for shaved ice. The ice was tipped into a scrubbed stone mortar and pounded into “ice shā,” drizzled with honeyed milk, then topped with raisins, sweet beans, and fresh fruit. One small bowl—palm-sized—sold for three cash; a large, for five—aimed at richer patrons.

On the fifth of the fifth month, Wang Ying and the crew took down the old shop banner and hung a new sky-blue one. In black, “Mi Xue Ice Shā,” with a painted, simple iced drink motif that caught the eye.

No sooner was it up than nearby shopkeepers came to gawk.

“Shopkeeper Wang—not selling vegetables anymore?”

“No. Summer greens don’t keep and don’t move; in a few days, they rot.”

“True enough. Scallions and garlic are only a few cash a bunch—hard to make much.”

They’d envied him all winter—lines out the door, high prices, and still people fighting to buy—who knew how much silver he’d made. Now warm weather had stalled his vegetable sales—their hearts felt balanced.

“I see you’ve changed the sign—doing something new?”

Wang Ying smiled and nodded. “Heat’s here—going to sell iced drinks.”

“Oh? Got an ice cellar?”

He had nothing of the sort—nor could he say the field froze it. He smiled and nodded vaguely.

Men then carried baskets of bamboo popsicles off the cart and into straw-packed “insulated” chests, covered with a thick quilt—a whole day and they wouldn’t melt.

People crowded the door, puzzled by the commotion. Once the popsicles were settled, Wang Ying brought down cut fruit from the cart, and eyes went wide.

“Peaches?”

“What’s that orange fruit? Never seen it!”

“We’ve an estate by a warm spring,” Wang Ying explained, smiling. “The fruit ripens early, only the trees bear few. A tree yields a few peaches at most—too paltry to sell whole. Better to dice them into the iced drinks for a taste.”

Ah—that explained winter vegetables too—a warm spring. Thankfully the fruit was scarce; otherwise, like the greens, he’d mint money again!

As he spoke, Tian Ju pounded out shaved ice, poured honeyed milk, and scattered fruit bits—ladling palm-sized bowls for each boss.

“Come in and taste—see how it is. We’ve only just started and don’t know how business will go.”

The shy demurred—“stomachs can’t take cold”—and left. The thick-skinned tucked in.

Across the way, the sesame oil seller was the thick-skinned sort—both resenting Wang’s profits and loving a free bite. Wang Ying had sent him vegetables before, yet he still cursed the shop’s “black heart” prices behind his back.

He took the bowl, eyeing it with a curl of the lip—“Ice? What can that do?” He took a spoonful—and sat bolt upright. The crushed ice in honeyed milk—fragrant and sweet—and the fresh, crisp fruit opened taste buds dormant all winter, as if sitting shaded beneath a fruit tree.

The second bite came in a rush—sweet beans and raisins brought new texture, chew giving a sweet-sour echo.

In a few mouthfuls, the bowl was bare. He tipped the last liquid into his mouth and sat with an odd pang in his chest.

He remembered a day years ago when his parents yet lived—on a hot day in town, his mother had quietly used pin money to buy him one bowl of ice. The taste was like this—and yet not—but it brought back the picture of her hand going to the cloth pouch at her waist. The little him raised the earthen bowl for her to try; she patted his head. “Mother isn’t hot—eat, son.”

“Shopkeeper Song? Shopkeeper Song?”

“Eh?” He started, wiping the corner of his eye, and handed the bowl back.

“How’s the taste?”

“Not… not bad. Should sell.”

“Good. I was worried.”

“How much for a bowl?”

“Small is three cash.”

“Three?!” His voice slipped high. “Why not rob?”

“You know ice is dear. There’s honey, milk, raisins, sweet beans, and fruit. There’s not much profit.”

True enough—costly ingredients. Still, three cash was steep; fine for a treat, ruinous as a daily habit. He fished three coins from his sleeve and offered them.

“This bowl’s on the house—just a taste,” said Wang.

A little abashed, Song murmured, “Then… another for me, please…”

“Sure. Xiao Tian—another for Shopkeeper Song!”

Soon the boss from across the street arrived—wealthy and expansive. He judged that his husband would like shaved ice and ordered three large, to be sent home at once.

Business picked up quickly—but most customers were old patrons. Ordinary folk, though they could afford, dared not step in to ask.

Here, Ma Qianzi’s knack shone. He’d sold popsicles in the village—knew the trade and had a good bark. He hitched a box of bamboo popsicles to the mule cart and took to the streets.

“Popsicles! Sweet popsicles! Icy and fresh! One big stick for one cash~”

The cry drew a cluster.

“Little brother—what’re you selling?”

“Whoah.” Ma Zhandong reined up and pulled a stick from the chest. “Bamboo-tube popsicles—cool and refreshing. Would you like one to try?”

One cash wasn’t dear. The man counted it out and took a tube. “How do you eat this?”

“See the stick inside? Warm the tube in your hand a bit, give it a twist, and—you can pull it out. Not finished? Slide it back in.”

He licked a taste—sweet and fragrant. “Clever! Do you come daily?”

“Not always—but we have a shop. The ‘Mi Xue’ on the tube is our name—on Zhengyang Street. Same price there—one cash.”

“Good—I’ll look in next time.”

He took the money and moved along. In a morning’s work, all one hundred sticks were sold—and the shop got a fine round of publicity.

Now half the people in town had heard that a new iced-drink shop on Zhengyang Street sold bamboo-tube popsicles for one cash—a sweet bargain.

It was no secret that ice was dear—an arm-length block might go for three strings; by that reckoning, a chunk cost several cash. They were selling for one—indeed, a deal.

On day two, Wang Ying again set three hundred sticks—and they sold out before midday. Even the shaved ice was snapped up.

In a trice, “Mi Xue Ice Shā” was once again the trend in Jizhou.