Ethan Sullivan was instantly infuriated at the sight and said, “You can have the potstickers, now hurry home.”

He roughly wrapped up the potstickers and shoved them into the boy’s arms, barking, “Get lost, now!”

The boy turned around woodenly, and the man shielded him as they left the crowd.

“Ah!”

Only now did the scalding potstickers show their power—the boy quickly pulled the oiled paper packet from his arms, intending to throw it on the ground.

“Forget it, I’ll give it a try. If it’s not good, I’ll just flip his stall later… No, that’s not good, his sister looks nice… never mind.”

He didn’t realize the danger in these words—if Ethan Sullivan had heard, he would surely have smiled kindly, then taught him a lesson he’d never forget.

After the two had walked a while, the man suddenly sniffed and said, “Young master, that smells amazing.”

The boy smelled it too, but he was already lost in the deliciousness of the potstickers, unable to extricate himself.

“So fragrant!”

Most of the night market visitors were there in search of good food—there were plenty of gourmands.

Everyone followed the aroma and saw a stall with a pot set up, a steamer basket on top.

“What is it? Hurry up and bring it out.”

A seasoned foodie couldn’t wait to have a taste.

Someone recognized the man and exclaimed, “Weren’t you out of business?”

The man said with a sigh, “It’s a recipe from Ethan Sullivan.”

He lifted the steamer lid and took out the chickens one by one.

“This chicken is called ‘Imperial Concubine Chicken’—rich in flavor and very good for your health.”

The old foodie’s nose twitched like a wolf catching the scent of prey.

“Hurry up and give me one.”

“One chicken…”

“Don’t talk about money, how vulgar!”

The old foodie took the first bite of the chicken wing, then closed his eyes.

“There’s a taste of wine… You actually used wine to stew the chicken? And chestnuts… and…”

The old foodie opened his eyes, grabbed the man by the collar, and demanded, “Who made this?”

The man blurted out, “Ethan Sullivan.”

The old foodie tossed down a handful of copper coins, grabbed a chicken, and ran off.

Was it really that delicious?

“I want one!”

In an instant, the stall was swamped.

The old foodie ran to Ethan Sullivan’s stall, but was blocked by the people in line.

“No cutting in line, or you’ll be thrown out!”

He gnawed on the chicken he was carrying, ready to try the potstickers as well.

Potstickers had only recently become popular in Bianliang, but most people weren’t that interested.

The old foodie wasn’t interested either, but for the sake of that delicious steamed chicken, he decided to give it a try.

“Sold out!”

Ethan Sullivan shook the bag, sending a bit of flour flying in the wind.

He quickly packed up his things, hoisted his carrying pole, and ran.

The steamed chicken stall was already packed, surrounded by layer upon layer of people, not a gap to be found.

Ethan Sullivan hadn’t expected such a scene—seeing it, he dared not linger.

“Ethan Sullivan…”

“Where’s Ethan Sullivan?”

“Where’s Ethan Sullivan…”

Ethan Sullivan had already made his escape.

Why were people so easily startled these days?

Ethan Sullivan felt he was truly wronged.

It was just a hometown-style steamed chicken—why all the madness?

He’d forgotten that the steamed chicken was a later innovation, thinking he’d just casually made a dish to thank a friend for running with him that night.

He never expected it would cause such a commotion.

He glanced back and saw more than ten people chasing after him, so he grumbled, “This is all I know how to make!”

“Need any help?”

Ethan Sullivan glanced at the source of the voice and saw it was that boy. He roared, “Hurry up and get home!”

He fled with his carrying pole, while the night market behind him could no longer calm down.

The man’s dozen or so chickens were snatched up in no time. He stood there in a daze, eyes brimming with tears, chicken bones scattered at his feet.

“Ethan…”

……

George Washington felt hungry again, but he knew that if he got used to eating late-night snacks, the stewards would treat it as a new source of income, and the palace would have yet another annual expense.

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty…”

Recently, the ministers at court had all been urging George Washington to adopt a child, which disgusted and annoyed him, but he couldn’t refute them, so he was quite frustrated.

Eunuchs were the emperor’s closest attendants, so they naturally sensed his mood. Lately, the palace eunuchs had been consciously seeking out cheerful news to report.

George Washington said listlessly, “What is it?”

His personal eunuch, Charles Brooks, came stumbling in, face full of excitement. “Your Majesty, there’s a new delicacy at the Zhouqiao night market.”

George Washington’s eyes lit up, but then he caught himself and put on a stern face. “What kind of delicacy?”

Charles Brooks beamed as he turned and clapped his hands.

A palace maid entered, carrying a food box.

Charles Brooks said proudly, “Your Majesty, as soon as I heard the news, I sent someone to line up. We finally managed to get a chicken. Your Majesty, I’ve already tasted it.”

Of course, the emperor’s food had to be tested for poison—Charles Brooks clearly had George Washington’s full trust.

George Washington cleared his throat, and someone handed him chopsticks. He picked a bit of meat from the chicken’s rib area.

“Mm… sweet, fragrant, delicious… oh… and wine… exquisite!”