Dawn… the board is clean, the chalk holds, coins have a place to land.
Canvas up, heat on.
Before first orders… the ledger reminds me:
> [Kitchen Ledger] Daily Dish Boon (Stall Arc, 1★ cap)
First new dish posted each morning carries a small, paid effect for the eater… 1 hour, quiet, lawful.
Paid bowls only… no stack with itself… breaks on shouting or a fight under the canvas.
Today's new dish: Fire Crisp Dumplings… pork, cabbage, ginger… golden skirt… Boon: Warm Fingers (1★ · 1 hr).
The five point seal wakes under the stove stone… one ring bright for the pan, one steady for the kettle.
The Moon Salt jar sits on the shelf… paid use only.
Flour with warm water… stir until it gathers… rest under cloth.
Pork chopped fine… cabbage salted and pressed… ginger, garlic, scallion… a breath of sesame, a touch of soy, white pepper.
Skins rolled thin with a cup rim… a spoon of filling… pinch and pleat… twelve to a plate.
Pan warm… oil in. Dumplings settle flat side down… close, not touching.
Sizzle begins… steady.
A lace of starch water around the edge… lid on for a small count… lid off… the skirt turns gold and crisp, a whisper like paper when I tilt the pan.
The engraver comes first… lamp sore eyes, careful hands.
He pays, eats three, lifts his burin… his thumb listens, steadier than yesterday.
"Good work food," he says.
"Paid boon," I answer, and nod at the board.
A dock girl buys vinegar noodles, mild… pays, eats standing… her face quiets.
Sela takes workman's congee for her boy, egg on ask… he breathes steam, slow in, slow out… color finds him, a small smile follows.
Another plate of dumplings… crisp lace, clean steam.
A calligrapher eats four, wipes his fingers, inks a permit… the first curve meets itself, no shake. He nods once and lets the ink dry without blowing.
The bell at the pass gives a small, clear note. It travels farther than talk.
Jaro slips a cold pail under the counter… night fish for later, eyes bright.
"Weigh in sight," I say. We do it together… honest weight, honest price.
The seam keeps its warm note for true money.
Arlo comes at first bell… reads the boon line, reads my chalk.
"One hour," he says.
"One hour," I say.
He pays, eats four dumplings, draws a circle on my scrap… it meets itself without wobble.
He writes observed, leaves the strip under my stone, then stands on a slick cobble for a slow count to time the boon.
Kade calls down the lane… free garnish… louder oil… the wind does not help him.
My oil sings on the pan… that song goes farther.
A tailor eats three dumplings, drinks mint tea, threads a needle on the first try… he laughs once, low, then tries again to be sure. The second thread goes through like it prefers him.
A lantern mender takes crown rice and tea… pays, eats, rests his hands on the counter… his shoulders forget to climb toward his ears.
Dumpling plate… skirt set, edges crisp.
A scribe with bad sleep buys, eats standing, wipes his fingers clean, writes a straight line on a form without a tremor. He watches the line dry the way a man watches a door close correctly.
A locksmith pays, eats slow, sets a stubborn pad by my side table… listens… pins take turns… the shackle lifts clean. He nods to the counter like he shook its hand.
Two river players arrive with cases wrapped in cloth. They pay, eat, wash at my jar, then test a quiet reel under the canvas edge… entrances land where they should. They share a small look that says the street gave them back a minute.
Counterfeit tries once… a thin coin with no face worth hearing. The seam stays quiet.
He sighs, finds a true copper, buys vinegar noodles, eats, and keeps his eyes on his own hands.
I keep pleats even… dough cool… oil fresh.
A small pot waits for dumpling soup for those who need warmth more than crisp… some work asks for steam, not lace.
Pera pauses to watch the skirt turn from pale to gold… the way the pan lets go if you ask with the right wrist.
"You watched it until it learned you," he says.
"I did," I say.
He pays for two plates without counting out loud, a sign that his numbers trust mine today.
A midwife in a dark shawl buys a plate and one to carry.
She eats three… ties a practice knot on her own wrist… checks it, nods… the lane breathes easier around her.
The dock runner who bought night fish yesterday returns for a bowl of workman's congee. He pays, eats, checks his boot laces like a man who has learned to trust small things.
A boy with chalk on his fingers stops at the line by the stools.
"Tomorrow?" he asks.
"When the chalk is straight at dawn," I say.
He keeps his hands behind his back and grins like a key just touched his palm.
A street violinist buys two dumpling plates for his hands, then a tea for his throat… he tries a line by the post… the entry lands where it should, not early, not late. He does not brag. He does not have to.
The crate pair step in one at a time. No talk today.
They pay, eat, stand where shoulders do not bump. When their bowls come, they go. It is a good kind of quiet.
Near midmorning… two apprentices arrive hot with words. A clockmaker and a jeweler, both with fine wire in their pockets and pride in their mouths.
"Talk over steam," I say, and I set a small broth between them. I speak the recipe, simple and true. The pale ring shows inside my ladle. The steam curls once and holds.
"You first," I tell them.
"I will return the file at noon," the clockmaker says.
"I will bring the wire I borrowed," the jeweler says, hearing the hour in his own voice.
They both nod. No shouting, no fists. They eat. The knot in the steam holds through the last spoon.
> [Kitchen Ledger] Oath Bowl active… promises under steam bind for one day… breaks on shouting or smashed plate.
The bell gives its clean note. The line keeps its shape.
The ferrygirl who carried pot fish yesterday comes for vinegar noodles, mild.
"Sea was gentle," she says. She pays and eats sitting on her heels by the leg of the stool… the way people sit when their day did not throw them.
A carver with red dust in his nails orders workman's congee, pays, then looks once at the Moon Salt jar and looks away.
"Paid pinch?" I ask.
He nods, a little ashamed of asking.
"One pinch," I say. Moon Salt falls like a whisper… fine salt, lemon zest, a small breath of sugar.
He eats, holds his spoon without the shake a dull chisel gives a wrist. "I will sharpen before I cut," he says, as if he just remembered a rule he already knew.
The stew ring wakes near noon.
Onion, carrot, a scrape of garlic… stock to lift… salt steady.
The silver halo hums a patient note. Lid on. Hook set.
Arlo comes back at the slope of the second bell and checks the time without opening his book.
"Fifty five minutes," he says.
"Enough to finish what you started," I answer.
He nods and steps into the small gutter… tests a turn on wet stone… smiles at the way his shoes do not argue with the ground.
Noon… I lift the stew lid.
Beef yields, roots relax, broth turns deep without apology.
Bowls go out in the order paid… the bell keeps its clear note… the far end of the lane hears it and behaves.
Kade tries again… louder oil, louder word… free garnish… the wind does not carry it.
My counter sings a low line when true coins touch. It is the only music a stall needs.
A watch pair arrive in step. One pays for both. They share a dumpling plate, then take night fish for the ones on the far post… I knot the carry lid in two places so it will not slide. They turn on slick stones without swagger, pleased to learn without being told.
A woman in a red shawl from two days ago stands three back. She pays before her turn reaches the counter. The seam warms, not loud, just certain. She eats looking at the street, and the street remembers how to behave when watched by someone fair.
The boy with the red scarf returns to see the hot oil pour.
"Again?" he asks.
"Earn it," I say. "Two hours helping Jaro carry ice. Then you can watch twice."
He nods like he has been handed a map.
Afternoon leans on the lane.
I keep the pleats even. I change oil before it asks. I turn the dough to keep it kind.
I set aside dumpling soup for those who work in cold rooms. Some men need steam more than crisp to remember how to hold a tool.
The crate pair slip back to show a stamped paper… west bench fines paid… signatures in a hand that looks less tired.
"Good," I say.
"Good," they answer, and let the paper dry on my counter's warm wood for the length of two breaths.
The lane finds a better kind of noise.
Not less sound… just less waste.
Brushes stop stuttering… thread remembers the eye… screws turn true.
The bell keeps its rhythm.
Evening pulls at the canvas.
I put a hand on the chalk… add fire crisp dumplings at the bottom, beside the others… below rice and congee and noodles… beside tea… under the noon stew line… above the dusk line where night fish waits its turn.
Jaro arrives with a second pail… colder than the first. We weigh in sight… honest. He leaves a damp thumb on the board like an anchor, then goes with a step that says the river will be kind.
The stew gives the last of its patience. The last bowls go out.
The dumpling pan lifts a skirt whole, one more time, then rests.
Under the menu lines I write the words that pay the oil:
PAY FAIR.
I bank the heat… the seal keeps its ember, the seam holds the last warmth of true coin, the jar sits still.
The board will keep its promise through the night. The street breathes… so do I.
> [Kitchen Ledger] Dish Boon, today: Warm Fingers (1★ · 1 hr) — steadier grip, finer touch… paid dumpling plates only… breaks on shouting or a fight under the canvas.
Tools in use: Fire Start (1★), Coin Law (1★), Oath Bowl (1★), Time Kettle (1★), Moon Salt pinch (1★, paid).
Cap: 1★ only.
Next at L6: Door Line (2★) — threshold makes blades harmless inside; still cuts food and rope.
Service: rice, congee, noodles, tea, stew, night fish set for evening… coins true, line steady.