Word of the Li family's breakfast stall spread like wildfire through the northern district.
In less than an hour, the aroma of pan-fried dumplings and the rich, savory scent of braised tofu had wafted through alleyways and courtyards, carried on the shoulders of housewives returning with takeaways, their arms full and faces glowing with satisfaction.
"Try the wings from Li's stall!" one woman exclaimed as she passed a neighbor hanging laundry outside. "Crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside—my old man nearly licked the plate clean!"
Another chimed in, calling to a friend across the street, "Don't bother cooking today, Meiling! I brought you some of that egg and scallion porridge. Your stomach's been weak lately—this is like silk!"
The savory scents lingered long wherever women had passed with the takeaways, stirring curiosity and appetite alike. Even neighbors who had never paid attention to morning stalls began wandering out in their slippers, sniffing the air like bloodhounds.
By the time the morning rush hour began to settle and the usual lull descended on the street, Li Jianfang stood behind the stall, wiping sweat from her brow and exchanging a relieved glance with her daughter.
"Looks like things are finally quieting down," she said, exhaling as she glanced at the depleted trays. "We've already sold more than fifty servings of each dish. That's more than I expected in a day, let alone an hour. Do you know I usually only sell 20 servings of each dish at most."
Li Ziqing, still tying up the strings of a takeaway box, chuckled softly. "That's good, Mama. Let's take it slow now."
But fate had other plans.
Just as they began packing away a few of the empty trays, a familiar shout echoed down the road. "There! That's the stall I was telling you about!"
A group of ten or twelve women, led by an elderly matron who took takeaways earlier, approached at a brisk pace. Behind them followed a cluster of neighbors, curious onlookers, and even a few fathers tugging along yawning children.
"You're still open, right?" the matron asked briskly, eyes scanning the remaining dishes. "My daughter-in-law brought your tofu home. I nearly cried—it was so good that I felt like my old tongue has got salvation."
Li Jianfang blinked in surprise but quickly recovered, bowing her head politely. "Yes, yes, we're still serving."
"Good," the woman nodded. "I'll take three of everything you have today. And extra wings—those went too fast."
Just as she finished placing her order, another group arrived, pushing forward excitedly.
"Are you the one selling the chive and shrimp dumplings?" a young man in office attire asked, adjusting his tie. "I smelled it two blocks away. Someone in my ally said this was worth being late for work."
"Hey! No cutting!" someone further behind shouted. "I've been in line for five minutes!"
Another voice laughed, "You? I left my tea boiling to come here—I better not go back empty-handed!"
Within moments, the quiet lull had exploded into another full-blown wave of hungry customers. The queue began to form again, stretching all the way down the sidewalk.
Li Jianfang stared for a moment, stunned. Then she let out a half-laugh, half-sigh and called back, "Ziqing, fire up the grill again."
Already pulling on her gloves, Li Ziqing grinned. "I never took them off."
Meanwhile, Li Jianping leapt from his stool, already arranging clean plates and wiping the counter in a frenzy. "Quick, Zian—more bowls! We're back in business!"
Behind the stall, steam rose once again, sizzling and fragrant. The clatter of woks, the rhythmic crackle of oil, and the occasional call of an order filled the air. Customers buzzed with anticipation, murmuring to each other excitedly.
"This is like a gourmet restaurant," one man whispered, clutching his food like treasure.
"I know, right?" his friend replied. "And to think I almost bought that soggy congee from Old Wu's."
Another woman leaned forward, peering past the heads in front of her. "I'll wait two hours if I have to. That porridge made me feel like I'd slept an extra night."
----
Dagoi was late again.
He glanced at his watch, heart sinking. 7:42 AM. He should've been on the bus fifteen minutes ago. His wife had gone to her mother's place three days ago, and without her morning nagging and the clatter of pans, the house was just too quiet. The alarm hadn't even registered in his half-sleep.
Now he was sprinting down the cracked pavement, shirt half-tucked, tie flapping uselessly in the wind. His polished shoes—meticulously maintained for the sake of his employer's standards—slapped noisily against the asphalt.
He worked as a chauffeur for a wealthy man in Central District. The salary was good, but the expectations were higher. And today, of all days, his employer was throwing a private celebration for closing a multimillion-yuan deal. Every domestic staff member had a role to play. If Dagoi wasn't there soon, he wouldn't just be late—he'd be unemployed.
Just as he turned into a side street leading to the bus stop, something hit him—an aroma so warm and savory, it felt like a punch to the gut.
He staggered in his steps, nose twitching. His stomach, empty and forgotten in the morning panic, suddenly let out a loud growl.
"What is that smell?" he mumbled to himself, blinking toward the source.
Ahead of him, two middle-aged women walked with paper takeaway boxes in their hands, steam curling from the edges.
"Oh my heavens, that tofu from Li's breakfast stall," one of them sighed with dreamy eyes. "Soft like clouds, and the mushrooms just melt!"
"And those chicken wings!" the other replied, licking her fingers. "I got extra for my son, but I think I'll eat them myself."
Dagoi's feet slowed. He caught a word, Li's Breakfast Stall.
Li...? Since when did breakfast stalls smell like gourmet restaurants?
He shook his head abruptly. "No, no, no. Focus. You're late, fool!" he hissed to himself and broke into a jog again.
But as he approached the main road, the chatter only grew. Passersby—people holding similar takeaway bags—were all talking about the same thing.
"Worth every yuan," a teenager was saying to his friend. "I'd skip school again just to stand in that line."
"You skipped school?" his friend scoffed. "I'm telling your mom."
Further ahead, Dagoi nearly tripped when he saw it.
The queue.
It stretched all the way down the block. People in regular household ware, retirees in sandals, mothers with kids tugging at their skirts—all lined up with anticipation painted on their faces.
He gawked for a moment, completely forgetting the time. The stall was barely visible from his angle, but he could make out the wisp of steam rising behind the crowd, and the metallic clatter of ladles and pans.
"This… all for breakfast?" he muttered in disbelief.
A young man in front of the line caught his expression and laughed. "First time seeing the line? Buddy, this is the third wave this morning."
Dagoi blinked. "For what, exactly?"
"Try it once and you'll know. Best garlic-soy chicken wings you'll ever eat. And that silken egg porridge? Man, it tastes like home and heaven had a baby."
Dagoi's stomach growled again, louder this time. He shifted uncomfortably.
He looked down at his watch. 7:48 AM.
He could catch the next bus if he ran. Just maybe he'd make it by 8:30, if traffic was kind. But as he took one step back, his eyes landed on a little girl biting into a dumpling, eyes wide and cheeks bulging like chipmunks.
"Papa," she said between chews, "I wanna eat this every day."
Her father laughed. "Only if we wake up early enough, sweetheart."
Dagoi hesitated, torn between obligation and desire.
Then, without even realizing, he took a small step forward—toward the line.
Just one taste wouldn't hurt... right?
Without even realizing it, Dagoi found himself stepping into the line—drawn in by the aroma, the chatter, the warmth in the air that made his empty stomach cry louder than his conscience. The memory of his employer's banquet faded into the background like a fog dissolving under sunlight.
He waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. The line inched forward, but his anticipation only grew. By the time twenty minutes had ticked by, he was near the front, heart thudding like he was about to walk into a temple rather than a breakfast stall.
Then he saw it—the neat display of glistening chicken wings, lacquered in dark soy glaze, sprinkled with sesame and scallions.
Just as he stepped up, the vendor greeted him with a warm smile. But then he glanced at the handwritten price board propped beside the counter.
Garlic-Soy Chicken Wings – ¥15 per serving.
Silken Egg & Scallion Soy Porridge – ¥7 per bowl.
His brows jumped. He muttered under his breath, "Isn't that a bit much for breakfast…?"
Still, he reached for his wallet, patting the back pocket of his trousers—and froze.
His fingers slipped inside, pulled it open his wallet... and stared.
Ten yuan. Just one crumpled ten-yuan note. That was it.
Dagoi smacked his forehead in frustration. "I forgot to grab cash," he muttered.
He looked at the food again—at the very last pieces of chicken wings now being spooned into a serving tray. The aroma made his throat tighten. His stomach growled again, loud enough that the woman behind him gave him a glance.
Meanwhile, behind the stall, Li Jianfang stood in silence.
The third wave of customers had just cleared. She scanned the containers on the counter—empty. Every pot had been scraped clean. All the dumplings were gone, the tofu dishes sold out long ago, and now even the beloved chicken wings and porridge were down to their final portions.
Li Ziqing came over, wiping her hands. "Mom, there's just one plate of garlic-soy wings left... and a little porridge. Barely half a bowl."
Li Jianfang let out a long breath. "Then that's it," she said quietly, both satisfied and regretful. She looked up at the line—still long, winding toward the far end of the street. Her heart ached a little for the people who had waited patiently.
Her eyes landed on the man next in line.
He was wearing a neatly pressed chauffeur's uniform, but it was wrinkled now, sweat dotting the collar. He held an open wallet in his hand, staring into it with quiet dismay. She watched as his thumb brushed the ten-yuan note like he was willing it to multiply.
And then he looked up—at the food, at the last portion—and his eyes softened with yearning. A longing that spoke louder than words ever could.
Li Jianfang recognized that look.
He must have forgotten to bring his money, Li Jianfang guessed, watching the man's furrowed brow as he stared helplessly into his wallet. Yet, it wasn't just the absence of bills that caught her attention—it was the quiet disappointment in his eyes. The way he hesitated. The longing. She couldn't bear to send him away, not after he had stood patiently in line for nearly half an hour under the rising sun.
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "Sir," she called out softly.
Dagoi snapped from his daze, stiffening as if caught doing something wrong. Embarrassment flushed his face. "Ah—I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I forgot to bring enough money—"
Before he could finish, Li Jianfang raised her hand with a calm grace. "You've waited long enough," she said, her voice warm and even. "There's just one serving of chicken wings left. It's yours."
He blinked in surprise. "But… I only have ten yuan. It's fifteen, isn't it?"
Li Jianfang offered him a soft, reassuring smile as she packed the last golden-glazed wings into a paper box, their sweet garlic-soy aroma curling into the morning air like a whisper. "That's enough," she said kindly. "In fact, there's a little porridge left too—not a full bowl, but enough for a taste. You can have it as well."
Dagoi looked at her, hesitant, clearly caught between gratitude and pride. "Really?"
She extended the box across the counter. "Yes. Sometimes," she said, her voice low but steady, "breakfast should warm more than just the stomach—it should warm the heart too."
His throat tightened with emotion. He reached into his wallet and slowly took out the ten yuan note, smoothing it between his fingers before handing it over with reverence. "Thank you… Thank you, ma'am."
As he took the box, Dagoi offered a polite nod. He had heard murmurs before—rumors, really—about a breathtaking woman running a breakfast stall somewhere on East Third Street. But he'd always dismissed them. His mornings were usually unhurried, his work starting late enough that he never bothered with roadside stalls.
Yet now, standing here with the fragrant warmth of the food in his hands, he understood what people had meant.
Li Jianfang wasn't just beautiful—she was striking, dignified, with a poise that didn't quite belong to a street vendor. Her features were elegant, her presence composed, and there was a kind of quiet strength in the way she managed her small business.
He was married—happily so—and never the type to ogle or gawk. Still, for a moment, he found himself pausing. Not to stare, but simply to acknowledge.
She was extraordinary.
Dagoi gave her a respectful smile, one full of quiet gratitude, and turned to leave without another word.