“Sorry, I just remembered something I need to do at home. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

……

“Sigh, I never expected the job pressure in the Northern Song Dynasty to be even worse than in my own time. And those bosses, typical capitalists—damn it, working yourself to death all day, and all they offer is food and lodging, not even a salary. This is really a rip-off.” Kevin Thompson stood by the river, venting his frustrations at the water.

At most, in another month, Drunken Immortal Residence would probably change hands. If Kevin Thompson didn’t hurry and find a job during this window, he’d really end up sleeping on the streets.

But after searching all morning, he still hadn’t found a decent job, which made Kevin Thompson quite anxious.

“Shaobing, shaobing…”

Shaobing? John Miller?

Kevin Thompson’s face lit up, and he quickly turned his head, but to his disappointment, the one shouting “shaobing” wasn’t the legendary John Miller, said to be less than five feet tall, but rather an old man with white hair and beard. The old man wore a coarse linen shirt, carried a bamboo pole with baskets, and was slowly walking toward Kevin Thompson while calling out his wares.

Kevin Thompson looked disappointed and let out a long sigh.

Of course, Kevin Thompson wasn’t interested in John Miller himself, but he was quite curious to meet John Miller’s famously beautiful and flirtatious wife—Mary Walker.

However, according to Water Margin, John Miller was from Qinghe County, so how could he possibly appear in Dongjing Bianliang? Besides, he was a character from a novel; whether he really existed in history was still up for debate. Most importantly, John Miller didn’t even sell shaobing, but rather steamed buns—Kevin Thompson had simply remembered it wrong.

He didn’t see John Miller, but instead, Kevin Thompson’s stomach started growling. He’d been running around all morning without even a sip of water, and now he was starving. When the old man approached, he quickly called out, “Grandpa, how much for a shaobing?”

The old man smiled kindly. “One wen each.”

That’s pretty cheap. Kevin Thompson nodded. “Alright, I’ll take one.”

Seeing a customer, the old man’s face lit up. He quickly set down his pole, opened the lid of one of the baskets, revealing a bamboo basket covered with a white cloth. When he lifted the cloth, the basket was full of round shaobing, each about the size of an adult’s palm, looking quite thick, though the color was a bit off, almost burnt.

The old man took out a shaobing, wrapped it in yellow paper, and handed it to Kevin Thompson.

“Thank you!”

Kevin Thompson took the shaobing and pulled out a wen from his pocket, placing it in the old man’s callused hand.

Kevin Thompson had eaten all kinds of flatbreads in his life, but never a Northern Song shaobing. He was quite curious, and with his stomach empty, he took a big bite right away.

Wow! This tastes awful! What is this stuff? There’s no flavor at all.

Not only did it taste bad, it was hard to swallow. After just one bite, Kevin Thompson nearly choked. He quickly turned to the old man for help, “Cough, cough, Grandpa, do you have any water?”

The old man smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, young man, the water I brought is already finished.”

Damn!

Inhale! Hold! Exhale!

Kevin Thompson took several deep breaths before he recovered.

“Young man, are you alright?” The old man saw Kevin Thompson’s face turning red and asked with concern.

Kevin Thompson let out a long breath and shook his head. Looking at the shaobing in his hand, he felt like crying but had no tears. But with his stomach growling, he had no choice but to nibble at it slowly, chewing carefully—truly miserable.

How could anyone buy such terrible shaobing?

As he ate, Kevin Thompson wondered, finding it more and more unbelievable. So he asked the old man, “Grandpa, how’s business lately?”

The old man sat on his carrying pole, wiping his sweat and shaking his head with a sigh. “It was alright in winter, but since spring started, not so good. To be honest, you’re only the second customer I’ve had today.”

So I’m not the only one suffering.

Kevin Thompson felt a bit better, and continued, “So how much do you make in a month?”

The old man chuckled. “Not much, just enough to barely fill my stomach.”

A miracle!

Something this bad can barely fill your stomach—if that’s not a miracle, what is? If you tried selling these shaobing on the streets of Beijing, you’d lose money with every one you made.

Actually, the shaobing weren’t quite as bad as Kevin Thompson made them out to be—otherwise, the old man would have starved long ago and wouldn’t dare try selling them. It’s just that in Kevin Thompson’s own time, there were so many delicious flatbreads—like hamburgers and pizza, filled with meat and fruit—how could they not taste good? But these shaobing were just plain flour, nothing added at all. No wonder Kevin Thompson couldn’t get used to them.

Kevin Thompson had never missed hamburgers so much in his life. Even though he’d always considered them junk food, compared to these shaobing, they were a hundred times better.