The Fire in the Stove Is Booming and the World Is Warm

On the last day of business for Xuweiju, my grandpa cooked a pot of 36-year-old stew until dawn. Everyone said the smell should go away. Wen Zhixia took over. She can recite more than a hundred ancient Sichuan-style cooking procedures, and can tell at a glance which pot of soup is 20% hotter, but she can't make a qualified pot of broth with her own hands. Investor Lu Yu flipped through the books: "The floor space of traditional old stores is less than one-third of Internet celebrity stores, and the stores will inevitably close within six months." Internet celebrity anti-counterfeiting bloggers blocked the door with their cameras, Kuaiwei Group offered sky-high acquisition terms, half a volume of the lost ancient recipe was missing, and Grandpa's younger brother guarded the last step in a mountain village in western Sichuan. She wants to use the stupidest way to bring back a pot of soup, bring back a street, and bring back the broken inheritance. The bet is not only the survival of the old shop, but also whether the thousand-year-old Sichuan flavor can still cook a bowl of human fireworks in this era. A stove carries fireworks, and it lasts for thousands of years.