Chapter 81: A Country Bumpkin Merely Trying to Survive

Having someone with local influence to smooth the way was far more direct than handing out cigarettes or hosting banquets. Qin Jianjun, for his part, was diligent—he brought Wei Dong along to negotiate the price of the house down by over two thousand yuan on the spot. Wei Dong chuckled and suggested they split the savings, and Qin Jianjun was so fired up he nearly charged in shirtless, wielding a machete to clinch the deal. In the end, it was the new landlord who advised restraint. After all, these were public affairs—it wouldn’t do to go too far.

The house itself dated back to the Republican era, constructed in the city center as a commercial building for the nation’s prominent figures who had fled to the wartime capital. Three stories atop a ground floor, plus a sloped-roof attic thrown in. Each level measured about a hundred square meters, four hundred in total not including the attic, and whether it was used as a commercial storefront or for residential purposes, the price was set at three hundred yuan per square meter. Qin Jianjun, meticulous as ever, haggled over the decimals and managed to shave off more than two thousand yuan.

It was the finest craftsmanship and materials of its time, but decades of poor maintenance had taken their toll. The property, collectively owned by the neighborhood committee, had just become eligible for a title change this year, and they couldn’t wait to sell it off and buy something new. The wooden structure was so old and decrepit that no one wanted to bother with the hassle and expense of a full renovation—let alone use it as an office.

It was agreed: as soon as they cleared out the last of their inventory that week, the building would be handed over. With no networked registry or filing system, everything was straightforward—especially in Jiangzhou, a frontrunner in the nation’s housing reform. The housing authority had just completed several such transfers after the recent adjustments to Good Eats Street and the adjacent retail district. The process was so smooth it was finalized on the spot.

They signed the agreement, handed over the ten thousand yuan Wei Dong had stashed away in the city center, and would pay the remainder upon possession. Afterwards, Wei Dong treated Qin Jianjun, the manager from the clothing company, and the housing bureau section chief to hotpot at the restaurant next door.

Introducing himself as a sales manager for a provincial defense enterprise, Wei Dong claimed his company manufactured and sold cameras and tape recorders, and would soon branch out into TVs and other appliances. Business was brisk, he said, but the real issue was finding work for the children of rural workers. He’d open a specialty “mala tang” hotpot restaurant, drawing on the canteen recipes from the Third Front factories, so traveling staff from the sales company would always have a place to eat and stay.

This explanation immediately won over his three companions, who now regarded him as one of their own. Between bites and drinks, they mocked the fly-by-night companies squatting in local guesthouses, and looked down on the small-time entrepreneurs crammed into the new retail district.

They also gave Wei Dong some friendly advice: “Running a restaurant here on Good Eats Street isn’t easy. In Jiangzhou, only the truly delicious survive. The only real old-brand establishments here are the medicinal cuisine shop, the wonton house, and the sweet dumpling parlor. Even the Sichuan and official cuisine places don’t last long. Now, every hotpot joint wants to make a name for itself. What makes your ‘mala tang’ special?”

It was an ever-changing scene, like a trending topic online, with people coming and going. Wei Dong laughed, “In business, speed is king—keep prices low and you’ll never lack for customers.”

The others heartily agreed, the atmosphere growing even more congenial. Wei Dong handed out another round of cigarettes before asking about something he’d heard while out on sales runs: “I heard Jiangzhou just launched a minivan. Are they selling them yet?”

“Right now, every time I go to a factory or shop, I have to drive a five-ton truck. It’s slow, guzzles fuel, and goes against the spirit of thrift and revolution.”

As it happened, the clothing company manager attended district and city meetings regularly. “I know, I know! The neighboring district’s defense automobile plant made them. They have a few out for testing, but they aren’t for sale yet. At a meeting, I heard they’ll be priced over sixty thousand! Sixty thousand! Who would buy that?”

His amazement was plain to see. Wei Dong could only sigh in sympathy. “That thing barely carries a ton, but my five-ton Dongfeng truck only cost a bit over fifty thousand. What is this nonsense, selling for over sixty thousand? Forget it, forget it.”

Secretly, though, he thought it wasn’t so bad. He could afford to buy a car or a building every month.

Unexpectedly, the housing bureau section chief, exhaling a smoke ring, scoffed, “Sixty thousand is nothing. They’re just loud, clunky knock-offs of Japanese models. How good could the quality be? I heard Jiangzhou’s No.1 Factory just brought in a batch of Isuzu double-cab trucks. Supposedly, they say it’s for assembly, but really, they’re paying an extra hundred dollars per vehicle in technical fees, and the nation imported thirty thousand of them outright. Jiangzhou got them for assembly practice, but so far, they’re all fully imported—one hundred and twenty thousand each, with a 1.5-ton load. We got a quota for one, but we can’t afford it.”

Wei Dong’s interest was instantly piqued, almost like a scoundrel falling in love at first sight.

Few born in the nineties could appreciate the value of an Isuzu double-cab back then. For example, the tax bureau in a prefecture-level city would later have a dozen official cars, but for a long time, even senior officials preferred the Isuzu over the assigned Santana sedans. These reliable imported trucks, with their flat, SUV-style cabins that seated five comfortably, were prized for their cooling air conditioning and smooth suspension—perfect for rough roads in smaller towns. They were durable, too—the tax bureau’s Isuzu ran for four hundred thousand kilometers without a single breakdown or even a transmission repair, a world apart from the domestically made cars that broke down constantly.

Wei Dong remained silent at the table, but as they parted, he quietly handed over a cigarette and whispered, “Our company can buy one. If you can get me the quota, you’ll be rewarded.”

The section chief could only marvel, “You sales guys really do well. Maybe someday you can get my kid a job at your place?”

Such deals were commonplace at the time. Wei Dong readily agreed.

The next day, cash in hand, Wei Dong and several companions—including Goudan and the housing bureau’s driver—went to pick up the truck. Even the uneducated Goudan was awestruck, “There’s really such a good vehicle?”

The gleaming white Isuzu, with its orange trim, stood out for its craftsmanship. Climbing in, they were surprised to find a cassette player—Wei Dong immediately thought of pulling it out to have the post and telecommunications equipment factory copy it.

He had no qualms about the high price of imports. After a quick inspection, he bought the 123,000-yuan Isuzu double-cab under the name of Dongsheng Trading. He tipped the driver with two packs of cigarettes, had Goudan and the others drive the truck home, and upgraded himself from rags to riches.

Driving through the city center, he felt almost as if he were behind the wheel of a luxury Mercedes or BMW—he truly stood out among the crowd.

After all, the Dongfeng truck was all rough Soviet design, completely different from the fine, comfortable Japanese style. Everything about the Isuzu was a pleasure to operate; Wei Dong could barely resist the urge to take it on a long trip right away. But for now, he had to focus on getting the new hotpot restaurant up and running.

He left the restaurant paperwork to Qin Jianjun and immediately set about preparations. The two vehicles quickly proved their worth—Wei Dong took the Isuzu out on errands, while Goudan and the other experienced drivers, who had each logged over a thousand kilometers, handled deliveries and purchases around the storefront.

As soon as the clothing company vacated the building, a dozen young men and women arrived by nightfall with all their belongings. Wei Dong’s parents sat in their son’s new vehicle, convinced it was a company car. “The factory treats you well—work hard, son. This car feels great to ride in.”

Wei Dong encouraged his father, “Learn to drive with Goudan and the others. When you get your licenses, you can keep the truck at home for yourself. Once the market improves, I’ll get you a car to enjoy.”

His father was as shocked as if Wei Dong had just dug up their ancestors. “How could that be? That’s only for the higher-ups. The truck is great—learning to drive can’t be that hard, right?”

But you could see in his face how he was already imagining the pride of driving it home for New Year’s.

Wei Dong didn’t explain how unimaginable the future would be; instead, he teased, “You might not learn as fast as Mom. Look, she’s been quiet, just watching how I drive!”

His mother, who’d spent her life cooking on construction sites, still had dreams from her youth. “Hmph, before I met your father, the first time I went to the county seat, I saw a lady driving a tractor. I couldn’t sleep for days afterwards.”

Wei Dong gently patted her hand. “You’ll have a chance, definitely.”

She just giggled, still not quite believing it—neither she nor his father had realized they were now business owners.

The young people worked with fierce determination. As soon as Wei Dong handed over the keys, they surged in like a battering ram. Anything left inside was theirs.

The boys immediately grabbed buckets of premixed white plaster and began painting walls and ceilings. Two with some electrical know-how climbed wooden ladders to install extra lighting throughout the shop.

The water pipe racks, welded by the factory recently, were topped with planks as tables and draped with printed cloth. The stove and food display racks were lined up, and the place began to take on the look and feel of a real restaurant.

Even the girls bustled up and down, cleaning and organizing every floor. Upstairs, they spread bedding on the floor for now, with plans to install bed frames bit by bit.

The second floor, once a single storeroom, became the prep area for skewering ingredients. The third and fourth floors, partitioned into offices and a finance room, were now men’s and women’s dormitories. Having a bathroom upstairs was a rare luxury—most old buildings like this required trips to the public toilet outside.

All in all, the atmosphere was one of feverish teamwork: the mala tang shop had to open the very next day.

The signboard, prepared in advance, was unloaded from the Isuzu and hoisted up with ropes from the upper floor to be mounted and fixed in place.

“Baifeng Mountain Mala Tang.”

The name alone showed Wei Dong’s casual approach—named, like the Xishan Factory, after his hometown, and passed off as a country specialty, just hoping to earn a living in the city.