Volume Three: The Storm at Xuanwu Gate Chapter Seventy-Three: Another Trouble Seeker?

A group of friends left the Prince of Qin's residence, chatting and laughing all the way. Li Mingyu spoke up, “I’ve just arrived in Chang’an and don’t know my way around. Which tavern would be best for our celebration?”

Changsun Chong replied with a cheerful grin, “There are taverns and restaurants everywhere. But if you want refined surroundings and fine wine, there's nowhere better than the Eastern Market.”

Hou Jie chimed in, “That’s right, the Eastern Market is the most bustling place in all of Chang’an. Exotic treasures from every direction, delicacies beyond count. And if, after food and drink, you wish for a bit of fun, well, not far from the Eastern Market is Pingkang Lane.”

Li Mingyu was taken aback, curiosity piqued. “Pingkang Lane? What sort of place is that?”

Hou Jie paused, then gave a sly smile. “I forgot you’re new to Chang’an and don’t know yet. I’ve never been inside myself, but I’ve heard it’s filled with beautiful women, lively and free, a place of pleasure and entertainment. You can watch dances, listen to music, and even have intimate conversations with the elegant courtesans. Truly an extraordinary spot.” His eyes glimmered with longing, clearly hoping Mingyu would take him there at once.

“Er, perhaps not today,” Li Mingyu coughed awkwardly. Seeing Hou Jie’s expression and hearing his description, Mingyu realized Pingkang Lane was the Tang Dynasty’s answer to the ‘red-light district.’ Hou Jie, barely ten years old and already dreaming of such pleasures, was certainly precocious.

Not wishing to dwell on the topic, Mingyu turned to the others. “Let’s head to the Eastern Market. How far is it?”

Cheng Chumo responded, “Once we cross this street and turn right, we’ll be there. But, big brother, the Eastern Market is mostly for the wealthy and powerful, a place for the elite. The food and drink won’t be cheap. With so many of us, I think we’d do better at the Western Market. I go there often—there’s an old place with lamb that’s truly authentic. How about I take you there?”

This was Mingyu’s first time treating his younger friends; he wouldn’t let himself lose face. He discreetly felt the heavy pouch of silver in his coat, filled with fifty brand-new Kaiyuan coins sent yesterday by Wang De—a full five strings of cash. Confidence surged through him. With a bold spirit, Mingyu declared, “Let’s go to the Eastern Market! Find the finest tavern! Tonight, none of us leave sober!”

The group of youths, all around ten, cheered loudly, brimming with excitement.

Their families were of middling rank—comfortable but not extravagant. Food and drink were never lacking, and the Prince of Qin occasionally bestowed extra gifts, but their fathers weren’t particularly powerful, and they had many mouths to feed. So, despite being from official households, they’d never once set foot in the high-end taverns of the Eastern Market.

Chang’an’s Eastern Market was a dazzling array of shops, merchants, bookstores, taverns, musical instrument stores, silk and brocade, jewels and antiques—a veritable sea of wonders.

Most passersby were richly dressed: noble sons with attendants trailing behind, grand ladies in carriages with maids, rotund wealthy merchants, and scholars in elegant blue robes. The spectacle was one of bustling prosperity.

Soon, they chose the busiest restaurant, its three-story facade imposing and grand, with a black-and-gold sign reading “Delight Pavilion.”

Li Mingyu led the way inside. The waiter hurried out to greet them, smiling broadly at every guest. “Welcome, gentlemen, please come in.”

Li Mingyu said, “We brothers wish to gather here today. Find us a spacious, elegant room.”

The waiter beamed apologetically. “I’m sorry, young sir, all the private rooms are taken today. But there are some open seats on the second floor by the window, overlooking the street—a unique view. Would that suffice?”

Mingyu nodded, “Very well. A view of the Eastern Market's splendor is good too.”

The waiter led them upstairs to a window seat, wiping the table as he asked, “What would you like to eat, gentlemen? Our Delight Pavilion is famous throughout Chang’an—delicacies of every kind.”

Li Mingyu scoffed inwardly at the waiter’s boast. A rustic from over a thousand years ago bragging about food? He decided to tease him. “It’s our first visit—why don’t you tell us about your specialties?”

The waiter laughed and rattled off, “We have many dishes, but what guests love most are Golden Cream Pastry, Crystal Cake, Longevity Porridge, Noble Pink, Imperial Yellow Rice, Jade Dew Balls, Cherry Pilaf, Chilled Fish Slices…”

Li Mingyu was stunned by the parade of names—none familiar, none clear in preparation or ingredients. Was the waiter a time traveler, or perhaps from a comedic troupe? This was the Tang Dynasty’s version of ‘naming dishes.’

In the end, Mingyu waved his hand, “Just bring a serving of each of your best dishes, and some good wine.”

“Of course!” The waiter’s eyes crinkled in delight. Though these youths were young, their clothes were fine and their manner distinguished—they must be sons of noble families. He’d serve them well and maybe earn a generous tip.

Soon the table was laden with dishes, each piled high. Mingyu tasted each one and found the waiter’s bragging was justified—they were truly delicious. He couldn’t help but marvel at the wisdom of the ancients. Even without the invention of the wok, through constant experimentation, they’d crafted cuisine rivaling anything modern.

With the feast before them, the young friends’ mouths watered. They fell upon the food, devouring it with gusto.

A rich aroma wafted over as the waiter arrived, carrying a jar of fine wine. He opened it with a smile, “Gentlemen, this is our best vintage—Spring Stone Frost. Please, have a taste.”

The wine’s fragrance was strong and sweet, its color pale gold. Mingyu sipped, finding it soft, cool, and slightly sweet. He nodded in approval, “It’s very good. Everyone, try some.”

The Cheng brothers inherited their father's passion for drink—wine was their lifeblood. Strictly monitored at home, they weren’t allowed to drink, but here, all restraint vanished. Cup after cup, they found themselves unsatisfied, and Cheng Chuliang shouted, “Bring bigger bowls!”

Back at Tiger Gate Pass, when war loomed, the army forbade alcohol. Cheng Yaojin often lamented, “Without wine, I feel off—my mouth is as dry as dust.” Mingyu had learned in their chats that Cheng was never without wine except during battle: he drank heartily every day. He took pride not only in his martial skills or the luck of marrying the noble lady from the esteemed Cui clan, but most of all in his collection of hundreds of wine jars, always boasting to Mingyu that, once victorious, he’d invite him to sample them all.

Wine in the Tang Dynasty hadn’t yet adopted distillation; its alcohol content was low. Two jars were emptied in an instant, the boys licking their lips. Mingyu realized that Cheng’s wine would be gone before they even reached his father’s collection; at this rate, even ten jars might not suffice. He quickly ordered the waiter to bring more.

As the cups clinked and the wine flowed, Mingyu accepted every toast, draining his glass each time. In his previous life, he was famed for his drinking—two pounds of strong spirits was nothing to him. Though Tang wine was weaker, its delayed potency was impressive, and with the constant urging, Mingyu soon felt a pleasant buzz.

Alcohol brought a mild excitement, and, egged on by the Cheng brothers, Mingyu’s tongue loosened. He recounted yesterday’s events at Chang’an’s city gates, and, when they clamored for more, he regaled them with stories from Tiger Gate Pass.

During the Sui and Tang, martial spirit was at its height. These young men, just at the age to idolize heroes, yearned for the battlefields their elders described, the knights and adventurers of tales. His stories stirred their blood, and they slapped the table in admiration, thrilled and excited. They felt today’s acceptance of Mingyu as their big brother truly the right choice—not only was he formidable, punishing the dissolute, but also clever and resourceful, with the legendary feat of capturing Dou Jiande alive. Their respect deepened to awe.

Young men are most prone to raucous excitement; their spirited shouting soon drew complaints.

At that moment, someone came stomping down from a private room on the third floor—a young man, flushed with drink, staggering badly. He reached the second floor and bellowed in a hoarse, duck-like voice, “Damn it! Who’s making all this racket down here, spoiling my drinking mood? Don’t think I won’t throw you lot right off this floor with a flick of my finger!”