Chapter 411: Tempted by Hunger

“This isn’t even a poem… the old man next door could write better than the top scholar!”

One of the Hanlin officials, after reading the second poem by Zhu Ping’an, visibly sagged in disappointment. He shook his head, a deep, weary sigh escaping him, as if the very quality of the Hanlin Academy had been dragged down by Zhu Ping’an’s work.

Other officials cast sideways glances, some openly unable to appreciate Zhu Ping’an’s so-called “culinary masterpieces.”

Amidst the ripple of disapproval, an unexpected sound broke through—a loud, incongruous growl from someone’s stomach.

Grr…rumble…

Heads turned in unison, tracing the source of the sound, until they spotted a slightly embarrassed man in his thirties, a Hanlin official, cheeks tinged with red as he sheepishly met their eyes.

“Ah, um… pardon me, everyone. I, uh… forgot to eat lunch while compiling the history… and, well… reading Master Zhu’s two poems just made me a bit hungry,” the official explained, one hand clutching his stomach while the other gestured toward Zhu Ping’an’s work, a touch of awkwardness in his tone.

Hungry?!

The statement was true. Lately, the official had been engrossed in compiling the History of the Song Dynasty. That morning, when he reached the chapter on the Jingkang Humiliation, his mind had sunk into the despair of the narrative, witnessing the vast and glorious Han lands trampled under foreign rule. He had lost all appetite, sitting in stunned silence for what felt like an eternity.

But now, upon reading Zhu Ping’an’s first poem, his appetite returned. By the time he reached the second, he found his body uncontrollably yearning for dishes like braised pork with bamboo shoots, fish heads with crabs, and stewed chicken. That final grr…rumble… was the result of long suppression finally giving way.

Even with this little interruption, the Hanlin officials’ opinions of Zhu Ping’an’s poetry remained largely unchanged.

Zhu Ping’an, of course, had anticipated their reactions. But he did not care. Poetry and prose were meant to entertain, after all. And the imperial edict from Emperor Jiajing had specifically called for poems that stimulated appetite. Just these few words—poems that inspire hunger—already carried a sense of playful irreverence. Traditional poetry aimed to express feelings through imagery or allegory; who ever thought to make someone hungry with a poem?

So, making the reader hungry was enough. The form, style, and literary merit were irrelevant.

“In fact, I’ve written other playful pieces before—though not in verse—simply to bring a smile to His Majesty. And yes, they were quite appetizing as well,” Zhu Ping’an remarked calmly amidst the murmurs of disbelief, unaffected, smiling as he dipped his brush in ink once more. One stroke after another, his calligraphy—worthy of admiration on its own—appeared on the paper. Yet the content was… questionable.

“I, roaming freely in the sea as a sweet and sour fish, you, soaring through the sky as a spicy chicken wing, one afternoon, you alighted upon the water and asked me: ‘Between you and me, which one is more appetizing?’”

What was this? His eyes nearly ached. This was more than a playful jest—it felt like it transcended the bounds of any conventional joke. Even their own humorous writings seemed tame by comparison.

Yet… strangely, undeniably, reading it did spark a desire to grab a sweet and sour fish and a spicy wing.

Grr…rumble…

No surprise—someone’s stomach growled again. The Hanlin official who had skipped lunch, now staring at the poem, was clearly salivating at the imagery of fish and wings.

Indeed, Zhu Ping’an’s poetry might lack traditional elegance, but it was overflowing with appetite.

This “culinary poetry” was adapted from a poem by a high-school foodie from Henan that Zhu Ping’an had found online: “I am the sweet and sour fish freely roaming the sea; you are the spicy wing soaring the sky. One afternoon, you flew to the water and asked me: ‘Between you and me, who is more appetizing?’”

Of course, Zhu Ping’an had rendered it in classical Chinese, as vernacular language, so fashionable in modern times, would not suit the Ming dynasty court. When in Rome…

Huang Jin gathered all the officials’ works, placing Zhu Ping’an’s at the end. Without pausing, he led the collection westward to the Western Garden, eager to present them to Emperor Jiajing, confident that the poems would whet the Emperor’s appetite.

Once Huang Jin departed, Zhu Ping’an returned to his work in the library, treating the poems as if they had never existed. While they had made him hungry in the modern era, there was no guarantee the Emperor would appreciate them.

He returned to organizing books—a task at which he excelled thanks to his extraordinary memory. Zhu Ping’an was not quite photographic, but he could recall almost everything he read. He emptied the first bookshelf and left a carefully written label.

He had prepared many such labels, akin to modern library tags, though instead of numbers or letters, they bore the classifications of the Classics, Histories, Philosophical and Literary Works, arranged according to the Hongwu imperial rhyme system.

Zhu Ping’an intended to reorganize the books across the first and second floors in a modern library-style system. It was a daunting task, but with his memory, it would be manageable—not too quick, but not interminably slow either.

Emptying the first shelf, he began scanning the library, moving each book to a central space in accordance with its classification.

He read quickly—so fast that Old Li, sweeping the floors nearby, remarked that Zhu Ping’an seemed to be moving books rather than reading them.

From Old Li’s perspective, Zhu Ping’an’s method was precise yet fluid: standing at the shelf, flipping through each book in seconds, then carrying it out and placing it meticulously. Every book had its own spot, and in no time, a shelf was emptied.

All but five books went to the empty space; the rest went to the first shelf.

He repeated the process with the second shelf, attaching its label and placing seven books there.

At the third shelf, Old Li watched in astonishment as Zhu Ping’an finished reading the entire shelf in under ten minutes, then moved each book according to the new system, distributing several to the first and second shelves as needed.

After five shelves, Zhu Ping’an stretched his sore hands, rolled his neck, poured himself a cup of hot tea, and settled with a book that had caught his interest—reading while sipping, letting the moment serve as a well-earned rest.