Chapter Twenty-Five: Fiery Spirits

Zhen Qian fell speechless for a moment. There was only one person in the entire household who dared speak to him in such a manner—none other than Chrysanthemum, the girl who had grown up at his side, bullying him since childhood. In a flash, Chrysanthemum appeared before him, slapped him hard on the shoulder, and exclaimed, “Finding something good and not inviting me—are you looking for a contest?”

If there was anyone you couldn’t afford to provoke and couldn’t even avoid, it was someone like Chrysanthemum. Zhen Qian had no choice; after all, he had long grown accustomed to her bullying, and even now he found himself instinctively wanting to escape her presence.

“Heh.” Zhen Qian forced a dry laugh and raised a bowl of wine. “Chrysanthemum, you are a heroine among women, a true gentleman in spirit. I offer you this cup in respect!”

“Hmm! At least you have some conscience. Ever since you fell ill, I’ve hardly stopped praying at temples for you. I’ve run so much this past month that my legs are thin—only to come back and hear you’re here fiddling with strange concoctions. This wine smells wonderful!” Chrysanthemum declared boisterously.

After Zhen Qian fell ill, Madam Wang and Chrysanthemum had gone to the temples to burn incense and pray for his recovery. Whether or not it worked, Chrysanthemum took pride in her efforts and expected gratitude.

Free-spirited and several years Zhen Qian’s senior, Chrysanthemum always assumed the role of elder sister before him, even calling herself a silly goose in front of Little Bamboo and Little Plum.

Such slights—an uncle could endure them, but an aunt could not!

In ancient times, people drank from large bowls, draining them in one gulp, but the alcohol content was so low that, much like modern beer, it was easy to do so. Without a second thought, Chrysanthemum downed the bowl in one go. “Excellent wine… so strong!” A flush crept up her cheeks with visible speed. Her eyes widened in surprise. “What kind of wine is this? I feel a bit dizzy—” Before she finished, her body began to sway. She pointed a trembling finger at Zhen Qian, but her last words never emerged, and she collapsed in a heap.

Zhen Qian caught her, turning to Wang Qun and the others with a smile. “She’s had too much to drink.”

Wang Qun and his companions knew Chrysanthemum’s capacity; she might not be a drunkard, but she could easily hold a pound or two. Yet now she’d collapsed after a single bowl—naturally, they were puzzled. “Da Lang, what kind of wine did you give her?”

Zhen Qian helped Chrysanthemum to a seat, drew a fresh bowl of wine from the wooden cask, and replied, “This is my new brew—its aftereffect is powerful, and it burns like fire on the way down. It must be sipped slowly, never gulped. Please, try it this way.”

Wang Qun eyed Zhen Qian suspiciously, then glanced at the unconscious Chrysanthemum, his curiosity only deepening. “So, Da Lang, you’ve been hiding here brewing this these past days?”

“That’s right.”

As they looked at the clear, transparent wine in their bowls, a heady aroma assaulted their senses. Though not connoisseurs, they’d had the chance to sample fine wines from time to time. Yet this was unlike anything they’d ever encountered.

“Does this wine have a name or story?”

“It’s colloquially called ‘Burning Blade,’ though I haven’t settled on an official name. Its kick is powerful, and it burns like fire upon entry, leaving the body flushed and hot. Most people can only manage three or four ounces at a time. Drink more, and you’re left weak and limp. So, moderation is key.”

“I see,” Wang Qun replied, though he remained skeptical. Was it truly as fiery as Zhen Qian claimed? Was such a wine even possible?

They each took a cautious sip—and their faces changed instantly. Wang Sheng, whose tolerance was poor, couldn’t help but sputter it out. “Indeed! What a fiery wine!”

“It really is quite different, but it’s far too strong. Ordinary folk could never handle it. Da Lang, why make such a potent wine?”

Though he admitted it was unique, Wang Qun frowned, unable to fathom Zhen Qian’s purpose in brewing something so undrinkable.

“Don’t worry. This is just the first distillation—the head spirit. Once I’ve completed the second and third runs, the flavor will mellow considerably.”

Zhen Qian knew the head spirit was the strongest, likely around sixty or seventy percent alcohol, judging by his memories of drinking in the modern era. The second and third distillations would bring it down to thirty to fifty percent, and the fourth run would be practically tasteless.

He still had no idea how Tang dynasty people would receive such spirits. Unbeknownst to Wang Qun and the others, they had become his guinea pigs—and were enjoying every moment.

With Wang Qun’s help, Zhen Qian successfully produced the second and third distillations, and the group sampled each. “Now this is good—much milder, smooth and lingering, without the muddy aftertaste we’re used to.”

Zhen Qian discovered that Tang folk preferred the third distillation, perhaps out of habit from years of drinking weaker brews, while he himself favored the second for its warmth and smoothness. Clearly, he couldn’t judge ancient tastes by modern standards.

After several more experiments, Zhen Qian refined the brewing process and matched it to Tang preferences. As for the head spirit, he realized it could be further distilled or blended to create new flavors—or simply set aside, since he was eager to make his first profit from these batches.

“Uncle Wang, how much do you think this wine could fetch?” Zhen Qian asked hopefully.

Wang Qun smacked his lips, still savoring the taste. “Ordinary crude wine sells for thirty to fifty coins a dou. Yours could go for a hundred coins.”

“What? Only a hundred per dou?” Zhen Qian could hardly believe his ears. Not that it was too high, but that it was so low. Ordinary muddy wine could be drunk by the gallon with no ill effect, yet his would leave even the hardiest red-faced and boisterous after just half a dou. And for all that, only a hundred coins a dou? Where was the profit in that?

He ventured, “What if we set the price at two hundred a dou?”

“It’s hard to say. The wine is good, but it’s so different from what people are used to. Too high a price, and it won’t sell.”

Zhen Qian knew Wang Qun was right—the gap between this fiery spirit and the usual Tang wines was vast. Drinking habits here could be summed up in one word: exuberance. His wine was out of step with that, like hanging a Western oil painting beside a Chinese ink scroll—two entirely different worlds.

A bucket of cold water dashed his dreams of sudden riches, and Zhen Qian felt deflated. He had been a bit too much of a dreamer.

Seeing his mood, Wang Peng added, “If we go by clarity and purity alone, three hundred coins a dou wouldn’t be too much. But it’s just too strong for most people. Lower the strength a bit, and it could sell for two hundred.”

“Wait a moment!” Zhen Qian’s eyes lit up as he caught onto Wang Peng’s point. “So if the strength were lower, it could fetch two hundred a dou?”

“That’s right.”

Zhen Qian slapped his forehead. “That’s easy enough!”

He couldn’t easily change the flavor, but lowering the strength was a trivial matter. The simplest method was to dilute with water—but that left a watery taste, easily spotted by seasoned drinkers and damaging to his brand. Still, for Zhen Qian, it was no real obstacle.

With that in mind, he poured the second distillation back into the ferment, continuing to distill and purify while lowering the alcohol content. Soon, a new batch was ready for Wang Qun and the others.

“Try this one,” he said, anticipation in his voice.

“Not bad—this is much milder, almost like Ba Shu’s Spring Burn,” Wang Qun remarked after a sip.

Zhen Qian asked nervously, “How much does Spring Burn sell for in Ba Shu?”

“There are grades—the lowest sells for a hundred and fifty coins a dou. The finest, I’ve heard, fetches over a thousand, though I’ve never tasted it myself,” Wang Qun replied with a hint of longing.

Zhen Qian had heard of Ba Shu’s Spring Burn in later eras, even read a poem praising it: “Its fragrance draws butterflies to the depths; plucked, it burns with the fire of spring.” Unfortunately, the process was lost to history, and he wondered if he’d ever have the chance to taste it himself.

“Let’s try this batch.” Before long, Zhen Qian had blended the third distillation and produced another batch. This time, the flavor was much milder, but it lacked the fiery kick and the mellow, rich notes that came only with cellaring. It felt as if he were brewing inferior, counterfeit wine.

Wang Qun took a sip, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “It’s much milder, but compared to the earlier batches, it’s lost some of its spirit—something’s missing.”

Zhen Qian had anticipated this result and wasn’t discouraged. He blended the second distillation with the new batch, though the proportions were tricky to perfect. Still, now was not the time for such details; truly fine wines required years of aging to reach their full potential. What he had now was still young and hot, not yet worthy of the highest praise.

But there was no time to wait—if he delayed for years, An Lushan might be at his doorstep before he ever tasted his own brew.

“The taste is much improved—perhaps not equal to the finest vintages, but certainly better than most. And it’s crystal clear, with excellent appearance. The only question is cost—will it be profitable?”

By his calculations, a standard batch of mash yielded eight dou of muddy wine; his new method produced about six dou, but sold for four or five times the price. All in all, a handsome profit.

“Uncle Wang, pick a few young people from the household—diligent ones, boys or girls—and in the coming days, have them learn the craft from me. Let’s build up our stock. When Drunken Immortal Tavern opens, we’ll host a grand tasting—every dish and every drink at a twenty percent discount!”