Movies are naturally out of the question for someone as lazy as William Carter. For him, it’s much more comfortable to prepare a few snacks at home, brew a pot of good tea, and connect the projector to watch a film. How uncomfortable is it in the cinema? These days, you get all sorts of people—smoking, cracking sunflower seeds, picking their feet, even acting out R-rated scenes in real life—just watching them is enough to ruin your mood.

The Old Place restaurant isn’t far from the neighborhood where William Carter lives. Head north across the street, take a turn, and you’ll arrive at the famous flea market. William Carter wandered around aimlessly and, before he knew it, had walked into this nighttime shopping paradise. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he went inside.

“Lillian Reed and Little Alice have a stall here, don’t they? Since I’m here, I might as well check out what kind of business she’s running…”

Curiosity killed the cat, and William Carter was clearly a curious person.

No one knows exactly when flea markets started popping up all over China, just like real fleas—appearing overnight in cities across the land, like a spring breeze bringing thousands of blooming pear trees.

For the government, it’s a fig leaf; for laid-off workers and college students running stalls, it’s the grand stage of life; for consumers at the bottom, it’s their own Golden Eagle International, their own Jia Jia Fu, their own Wal-Mart…

It’s all just a matter of perspective.

The people who come here to shop aren’t all poor—many white-collar and even gold-collar workers occasionally shed their airs to join the fun, tossing a few coins to experience the thrill of haggling, feeling like undercover emperors on a secret inspection. There’s a certain satisfaction in this kind of posturing.

William Carter is generous when it comes to food, but has few desires in other areas, so he often comes here to wander around, enjoying the leisurely shopping process while buying things. Only this time, his mood was a bit different—partly out of curiosity about Lillian Reed, and partly due to some inexplicable, unspoken sense of tender sympathy, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

That delicate figure on the electric tricycle, those slender shoulders, and the few stray strands of hair at the nape of her jade-like neck—all of it, in that moment, touched the softest part of William Carter’s heart, making him, without realizing it, start to care about this girl in difficult circumstances.

Flea markets across the country are pretty much the same—selling small goods, cheap clothes, pirated books, pirated CDs, and so on. If there’s any difference, it’s in the variety of local snacks.

Most of the market-goers are young people, especially girls, and these snacks are just to their taste. That’s why every city’s flea market has a snack street, which is absolutely essential. The business is so booming, it even outshines the regular shops. On these snack streets, imported treats are always present, but local specialties are even more indispensable, often made by the most authentic artisans.

With the mindset of a true foodie, William Carter naturally headed first to the snack street right next to the commercial area. Instantly, all kinds of delicious aromas hit him: lamb skewers, candied hawthorn, grilled quail, lotus seeds in rock sugar, stinky tofu—a full range of flavors, all whetting the appetite.

Some well-dressed young women, newlyweds, and 2B youth who fancied themselves successful, all transformed into foodies here. Every stall was packed with people buying snacks, and business was booming.

Only one stall, with a sign for Central Plains Fried Noodles, was doing terribly—almost no customers, a stark contrast to the bustling business at the other stalls.

“Lillian Reed, Little Alice?”

William Carter glanced over and saw Lillian Reed standing behind the stall, her face full of worry, while Little Alice sat beside her, clenching her little fists, her face full of anger as she stared across the way.

Opposite them was another stall with a fried noodles sign. The sign looked brand new, but the place was packed with customers, many of whom were lining up to buy. Business was booming. Waves of the aroma of fried noodles wafted from that stall, attracting even more people.

It looked like Lillian Reed had run into some fierce competition.

William Carter didn’t rush to greet Lillian Reed, but instead walked over to the rival stall to take a look and sniff the aroma.

Fried noodles, or stir-fried liangfen, is a well-known snack in the Central Plains. In Bianliang, everyone loves it—men, women, young and old. Paired with a sesame bun and a bowl of tofu pudding, it makes for an excellent breakfast or late-night snack.

Whether fried noodles taste good depends not only on the cook’s skill, but also on the quality of the noodles and, most importantly, the sauce. It’s said that the famous Fried Noodle Zhang in Bianliang has a secret family recipe for the sauce, which he keeps hidden even from his wife.

The best sauce, paired with mung bean or sweet potato noodles, must be fried to a perfect “crisp but not burnt.” A skilled chef can fry each piece of noodle to a golden crisp on one or even both sides, like a pan-fried bun—golden but never burnt black. The result is chewy and crispy, fragrant in every bite—this is the mark of a top-quality dish.

But the noodles are soft, and getting them cooked through is already hard enough, let alone crisping one or both sides. If the chef’s skill is even a little lacking, the noodles will stick to the pan. Even if you manage to scrape them up quickly, they’ll break apart. You can still eat them, but both the taste and appearance will suffer.