Chapter 2: A Sweet Job

When she arrived at the entrance of the Prince's Mansion, Bao Mianmian felt a massive headache coming on.

The two vermilion gates simply would not let her in.

It wasn't just that they wouldn't let her in; the old man guarding the gate looked her up and down.

Then, he somewhat politely pointed her toward the "proper" path.

With Bao Mianmian's intelligence, she understood instantly: the reason she wasn't allowed through the front gate was that someone of her "caliber" should enter through the back gate.

But where was the back gate!

Bao Mianmian circled around twice but couldn't find it to save her life.

One could only blame the Cheng Prince's Mansion for being too large, with an area comparable to a public park.

Who could guarantee they wouldn't get lost in a park?

Finally, Bao Mianmian heard a very familiar sound.

It was the sound of an iron pot heating up, followed by the *sizzle* of cold oil being poured in. Bao Mianmian's ears practically perked up.

Smelling the thick aroma of soybean oil, she could find her way even with her eyes closed.

A turn here, and another turn there.

Gasp! There was a long line of over a dozen people; she had to stand on her tiptoes to see ahead.

"Stop looking, they're cooking."

Someone nearby, sounding impatient, told her directly since she looked like just a little girl.

"Cooking? They're cooking at the back gate of the Prince's Mansion!"

Bao Mianmian clearly remembered seeing Prince Cheng at that restaurant, looking so grand and throwing money around like it was nothing.

Why did they bring chefs back here? Is the mansion short-handed?

They should have said so sooner; she might not know much else, but she certainly knew how to cook.

Bao Mianmian used the shortest amount of time to find out the truth: Prince Cheng's younger brother refused to eat, which had driven the Prince to distraction.

He was searching everywhere for a chef who could make food that suited the boy's palate. Forget Fuyang City—chefs within a hundred miles were all salivating over this lucrative job.

Ten taels of silver a month!

Bao Mianmian's mouth practically watered.

Ten taels of silver, with room and board included—it was a dream.

And so, Bao Mianmian held her head high and joined the very end of the line.

Her eyes never rested. She watched those master chefs enter the mansion full of confidence, only to come back out dejectedly after the time it took to burn an incense stick.

Is making food for a child really that hard?

Bao Mianmian counted them in her head: three, five, nine.

Almost there; there were only three people ahead of her before it was her turn.

She wondered just how difficult this little ancestor of the Prince's family was to serve.

With so many chefs, it was unlikely that every single one of them made terrible food.

"You, register your name."

Finally, a manager came over, gauging her height with his hand.

Bao Mianmian felt a surge of indignation. So what if she was a bit short? She could just use a small stool and still stir-fry.

"You want to earn silver before you're even taller than the stove?"

*Is your stove 1.58 meters tall? That's quite an insult,* she thought.

But Bao Mianmian didn't say it out loud; instead, she kept a beaming smile.

She had willow-leaf eyebrows and crescent-shaped eyes; when she smiled, she looked very auspicious.

Since it's hard to strike someone who is smiling, the manager smiled back.

"The name?"

"Bao Mianmian. Bao as in steamed bun, Mianmian as in little sheep."

She wasn't sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her, but the corner of the manager's mouth seemed to twitch.

"How about I write my own name?"

The manager glared at her. "You can write?"

"Simple characters won't trouble me."

The group of men nearby all turned to look at her in unison.

In this day and age, you even need to know how to write to compete as a chef? Little sister, you really are quite determined.

The manager didn't believe her at first, but as soon as he saw her grip on the brush, he knew it was wrong.

However, the three characters she wrote were actually quite standard.

The manager then had her write "Chinese cabbage," "pork," and "vermicelli."

Bao Mianmian obediently wrote them all down and then blurted out, "Are you from Northeast China?"

The manager was even more amused, nearly delaying her entry to cook.

"It's your turn. Go, go!"

Bao Mianmian was given a shove and, with the momentum of a flying tackle, entered the back gate of the Cheng Prince's Mansion.

*White silver, here I come!*

After transmigrating, Bao Mianmian had studied the local stoves.

Generally, every household went to the mountains to gather firewood and branches, and most families only had a single pot.

Ironware was precious and expensive; only well-off families had two pots, large and small.

The moment she entered the mansion's kitchen, Bao Mianmian's eyes went wide.

The Prince's Mansion was grand; the kitchen was a hive of activity with at least seven or eight pots sitting on various stoves.

Just one whiff, and it smelled delicious.

Another whiff, and she realized she was hungry.

She had walked over two hundred miles on foot, living frugally, and all the fats in her stomach had long since been digested.

Now, smelling the aroma of hot food, it would be strange if she weren't hungry.

"Bao Mianmian."

Someone was calling her name.

She immediately responded with the booming voice of someone being called on during morning roll call: "Present!"

The head manager, standing right behind her, was startled.

*Is that necessary? What did this girl eat to get into the mansion? Her voice is so loud.*

"You're next."

Bao Mianmian finally remembered her business. She needed a job, she needed to earn silver, she needed to survive!

"What do you need me to do?"

Seeing the other party's air of authority, Bao Mianmian showed some tact.

The person outside the gate couldn't compare to this man at all.

To succeed, one had to find the right boss and find a backer; it was much easier to get things done with someone covering you.

She immediately flashed a sweet, soft smile.

"Head Manager, what kind of dishes do you need me to make?"

"How did you know I am the Head Manager?"

Bao Mianmian pointed seriously to her own eyes. "By looking. This air of authority, this presence, and..."

"Don't, don't say too many nice things, I can't take it."

The Head Manager wasn't exaggerating. The young master hadn't eaten for two days, the Prince was worried sick, and he was exhausted from running back and forth, practically ready to prostrate himself.

He wished he could bow three times to the heavens and tell him the reason why the young master wouldn't eat.

"How many candidates are left? Hurry up, everyone."

The door on the other side of the kitchen was pushed open, and Bao Mianmian saw a familiar face.

That man who had been throwing money around like dirt at the restaurant had appeared again.

She could afford to be foolish when she didn't know the truth.

But!

A fool cannot trip over the same threshold forever.

She had to get up; she had to create her own opportunity.

As soon as the Head Manager saw the Prince appear, he hurried to get back to business.

"It doesn't matter what food you make, as long as the young master is willing to eat it."

"How old is the young master? What does he usually like to eat? What are his flavor preferences..."

Before she could finish asking, Prince Cheng had already walked out.

He didn't spare her a single glance.

Among the sea of burly chefs, she might not be as beautiful as a flower, but she at least had a "fresh and clean" style.

Nevertheless, Prince Cheng ignored her completely.

Bao Mianmian suddenly realized a very important problem.

The stoves in the Cheng Prince's Mansion were indeed a head taller than those elsewhere.

With her flat shoes, she feared she would have some difficulty reaching the stove.

"What are you standing there for? Get to work! Everyone only has the time it takes to burn one incense stick."

Bao Mianmian quickly scanned her competitors to the left, right, above, and below to see what they were making.

The big man above was deboning a steamed chicken; the one on the left was making braised pig's trotters; the one on the right was making steamed fish.

She turned around again; the person behind her was blanching Chinese cabbage.

There was absolutely no creativity.

Not a shred of creativity!

If it were her, she wouldn't want to eat any of those dishes either.