Jenny moved with the gentle care of a wife eagerly awaiting her husband's return, her every gesture filled with concern.
She took a soup bowl sealed with plastic wrap from a thermal container and carefully placed it on the tavern table.
Steam was still faintly rising from the soup bowl.
The faint wisps of steam drifted up, hazy in the tavern's dim yellow light, seeming to add a touch of cozy, domestic warmth to the corner.
Then, Jenny gently peeled the plastic wrap off the bowl.
Instantly, the rich aroma of beef broth filled the air.
The broth was bright and clear.
It glistened enticingly under the light, a mouthwatering sight.
Mmm!
Feng Mountain glanced at it, and one sniff was all it took to know this was a stock made from beef bones—and an authentic Chinese one, at that.
Western-style stocks weren't like this. They were either pale and pasty or thick and cloudy, and the spices were always the same few: thyme, bay leaves, black pepper, and the like.
