A descendant of the Suzhou Imperial Silk Bureau. The eldest daughter of the Su Textile Mill.
Before she turned twenty-one, those two titles were her whole life. After twenty-one, they meant nothing.
Her father died, the mill was gone, and the family was ruined. The day the creditors showed up, she tucked a cleaver and a cookbook under her arm, put on a blue cotton outfit, and walked out through the sealed front gate. A distant relative tossed her two silver dollars. “Don’t starve to death on the street and come blaming our family.”
She tucked the money into her clothes and went to the docks to haul cargo. Her hands blistered and bled, but she didn’t utter a word.
Then she set up a food stall. As soon as the oil heated, everyone in the alley woke up.
When a local thug came to wreck the place, she handed him a freshly fried shengjian bun. “Big brother, try one before you smash anything.” He bit down, and hot broth burst all over his mouth. His eyes went wide, and from then on he joined the queue every day.
Some said it was shameful for a rich young lady to wield a wok. Others called her methods disreputable. She pointed her spatula at them and smiled.
“Are you nuts? As long as people get a full meal, what does it matter?”
Later, Shanghai’s toughest female chef was known as Su Xiaoman.
She didn’t believe in fate. She believed only in the fire beneath her stove.
