BANG!
The heavy red-wood door of the Dry-Well Cluster Municipal Office flew open so hard that the brass doorknob left a dent in the plaster wall.
“Young Master! The pots are dry! The steamers are empty! Even the bottom of the soup barrel has been scraped so thin you can see your own reflection in the iron!”
Old Guo came barreling into the office like a runaway meatball. Even though the fat kitchen cook had reached the early Galactic Realm by swinging moon-sized iron woks for the past hundred years, he was still wearing his favorite grease-stained white cotton apron and a tall chef’s hat that was currently crooked over his left ear. In his right hand, he waved a ten-foot-long ladle forged from black-hole iron, droplets of spicy beef broth flying off the tip and sizzling onto the carpet.
Behind his desk, Pei Xuan looked up from a stack of wormhole paving permits and caught a stray drop of beef broth on the tip of his finger. He tasted it and nodded approvingly.
“Plenty of star-anise, and the marrow bone was simmered for at least six hours,” Pei Xuan said calmly. “Your broth is getting better every week, Old Guo. Why are you running around like someone stole your salt jar?”
