Chapter Seventy-One: A Gift to This City

On May 4th, far more people attended the farewell ceremony than Tang Maocai had anticipated.

In Tang Maocai’s mind, his younger brother had always been somewhat unreliable. Even in the restaurant business, Tang Maocai believed in professionalism and replicability—how else could one build something grand and strong? But Tang Maode stubbornly insisted that such methods wouldn’t work on the street. Thus, the two brothers, whose personalities had differed since childhood, remained estranged as adults; they seldom saw each other, but were never neglectful when it mattered.

As the elder brother, Tang Maocai felt both duty and responsibility to receive the guests, and so he stood outside with Wang Jun, greeting them with cigarettes in hand. Fortunately, the funeral home was tucked away in a secluded location, with a large parking lot; otherwise, Tang Maocai would have fretted over how to accommodate so many vehicles.

A black business car turned into the funeral home, guided by a sign ahead: “For those attending Mr. Tang Maode’s memorial, please turn left.” Taking the left turn, the occupants caught sight of Tang Maocai and Wang Jun.

The car door opened, and a woman dressed in a black suit stepped out. She appeared to be in her thirties; her hair was sleek and neatly draped over her left shoulder, exposing a fair neck from the right side. She carried herself with extraordinary poise and elegance.

Tang Maocai dared not be inattentive; he stepped forward, wondering to himself how his brother had come to know such a person.

The woman strode directly toward Tang Maocai, her faint smile perfectly polite. “Hello, I’m in charge of the music division at DY’s Content Department. My name is Su Qingzhu—I suppose you could call me half of Tang Zhichu’s supervisor.”

Tang Maocai hurriedly escorted Ms. Su into the hall where the memorial was held, still pondering to himself—DY’s Content Department, was it the same DY that had recently become so prominent?

After leading Su Qingzhu into the hall, Tang Maocai immediately called Tang Zhichu.

Tang Zhichu found Su Qingzhu seated in a corner of the hall. He had heard her name before; after he won the competition, the staff who contacted him had mentioned a “Sister Zhuo.” Yet he had never met her in person.

“Ms. Su, what brings you here?” Tang Zhichu hadn’t even greeted her when Su Qingzhu spotted him. He was tall, and indeed, handsome.

Su Qingzhu rose and said, “Isn’t it perfectly normal for me to come? I’ll call you Zhichu, if you don’t mind. I hope our first meeting won’t feel abrupt.”

Tang Zhichu shook his head. “Ms. Su, thank you for your thoughtfulness. It’s still early—perhaps you’d like to join me in the lounge for some tea?”

Su Qingzhu smiled. “No need. I came today simply to attend your father’s memorial. Treat me as any ordinary guest, or as a colleague if you prefer. Seeing you in good spirits, I won’t offer you condolences; with such an outstanding child, your father must be happy.”

Tang Zhichu thanked her. She made it clear: today was not for any business, only to honor the deceased. This was respect.

After a brief exchange, Tang Zhichu excused himself.

Today, he was at the center of it all, busy with many people.

But Tang Zhichu managed to find Jiang Lan. She had come yesterday as well, arriving at two in the afternoon and staying until ten at night; today, she returned. For someone as much a workaholic as Jiang Lan, such devotion did not go unnoticed by Tang Zhichu.

“Lan, could you help me with something? In the hall, third row from the back on the right side, there’s a lady. Please keep an eye on her—I’m worried she might encounter trouble.”

Jiang Lan nodded, glanced toward the rear, and without needing Tang Zhichu to point her out, spotted the lady at once—a presence impossible to miss.

“Don’t worry, go do what you need to,” Jiang Lan reassured him.

Tang Zhichu’s request was because Su Qingzhu’s elegance and beauty might attract idle attention. Would Jiang Lan be able to handle it? Certainly. Over these days, all the uncles had gotten to know Jiang Lan—especially those burly men from the restaurant business. If Jiang Lan called, they would surely help. Of course, it was best if nothing happened.

Tang Zhichu had chosen a relatively expensive, formal memorial service—to give his father one last bit of dignity. The host announced the beginning, gave a brief overview of the deceased’s life, then all stood, the mourning music played, and there was a three-minute silence. The elder delivered a eulogy; direct relatives gave thanks. Finally, three collective bows.

Tang Maode had not been a particularly distinguished man; most of his circle had never witnessed such solemnity. The atmosphere was so dignified and reverent that many saw Tang Zhichu in a new light—capable and reliable.

After the memorial, the banquet hall upstairs awaited. Tang Maocai grabbed the microphone and invited everyone to come up for the meal.

...

On May 7th, Tang Zhichu returned home alone.

Tao Bo, somewhat frightened, had moved in with Wang Jun. The past days had been spent arranging cremation and burial; only after his father was laid to rest did Tang Zhichu finally feel relieved.

His eldest aunt advised him to sell the old house, but after much consideration, Tang Zhichu decided to keep it.

He sat alone at home for an hour before stepping outside.

In front of Old Tang Sichuan Cuisine, the restaurant had closed for three days due to Tang Maode’s passing, but now reopened.

Seeing Tang Zhichu standing motionless at the entrance, a cautious waiter approached, “Boss, come inside. The sun’s strong.”

“No need to worry about me. Go about your work.”

Old Tang Sichuan Cuisine—the final sign his father left in this world.

Moments later, Wang Jun came out, probably called by the waiter. He said nothing, simply stood beside Tang Zhichu.

Suddenly, Tang Zhichu spoke, “Brother Jun, the day Dad passed was a Thursday. From now on, every Thursday at noon, the restaurant won’t open. Instead, we’ll prepare a hundred lunchboxes, each at a twelve-yuan cost, for everyone. I’ll cover the expense.”

Wang Jun nodded, “Alright.”

“Everyone’s salary goes up by three hundred. Let the kitchen staff know—the quality of the dishes must be top-notch, and portions slightly increased. I don’t intend to make money from this place anymore; let it be Dad’s gift to the city.”

Wang Jun hesitated for a moment, but nodded.

“Don’t worry, Brother Jun. Mind if I call you that?”

Wang Jun smiled, “What’s there to mind?”

“Good. I still have about six hundred thousand in my accounts. Find a suitable car, think about who should manage the restaurant, set up a proper system—eliminate those who don’t fit. But if any truly devoted staff face difficulties, let me know, I’ll help. Brother Jun, from now on, will you be my driver? Is that alright?”

Tang Zhichu looked directly at Wang Jun as he spoke.

Wang Jun laughed, “Then I’ll have much less to do.”

Tang Zhichu shook his head, smiling, “Not necessarily. You might get busier.”

Wang Jun replied seriously, “Don’t worry, I won’t drag you down.”

Truth be told, Wang Jun hadn’t helped much lately—most relatives and friends hadn’t, either. Tang Zhichu had handled it himself. When Wang Jun chatted with others, not a single person failed to give Tang Zhichu a thumbs up.

So Wang Jun didn’t object to Tang Zhichu’s plans for Old Tang Sichuan Cuisine. As for its profitability, Wang Jun trusted him.

Sometimes Wang Jun was bewildered—was this still the quiet little Zhichu he remembered? But it was a good thing; not only Tang’s second brother, even Wang Jun himself sometimes wiped tears. To accomplish so much, it was no easy feat.