Where the shopkeeper came from, no one knows. No one cares where he's going. Perhaps those locals who get up more than half an hour early every day, staggering and sleepy-eyed, have never thought about it or asked about it.

The shopkeeper never cares about these trivial things, it is nothing more than the deliberate compliments of the diners, the hand-rolled dough strength, trying to make the shopkeeper add more oil beads, and the "frozen top sour radish" that will never be passed on.

Looking at the entire capital, and even the entire Later Tang Dynasty, there is only one one, and there is no semicolon.

Someone once spent a lot of money to ask for the recipe of "frozen top sour radish", but the shopkeeper just smiled and waved his hand and did not answer. Some good people want to get some benefits from it, so they volunteer to be a lobbyist, and they also touched the ashes.

For so long, the shopkeeper's "frozen top sour radish" has become more and more famous, and his most praised hand-rolled dough has become ordinary. It's not that diners like the new and hate the old, or that they don't have so much new ideas when they get used to eating, but they feel that it has become a habit when they eat every day.

Some things, once they become habits, can never be shaken off or thrown away. Perhaps, one day, the shopkeeper will stop selling hand-rolled noodles and sell pancakes instead, and those diners will remember that they once couldn't live without the taste of the land.

The shopkeeper's noodle stall is spread out at the West City Gate, no one knows why, this lot is expensive, if only this "half-section stall" is fed, no one can believe it. But the shopkeeper is happy every day, rain or shine.

If it weren't for today, the young man would have returned, followed by two women and a man, if it weren't for the masked man's cold eyes and inadvertently glanced at the shopkeeper. Then this "half-section stall" may have to continue.

But after all, there are not so many ifs, just like there are always so many helplessness in life. The shopkeeper leaned against the broken door, which seemed to fall down at any moment, and erected a mink hat that was leaking on all sides, and stood with his hands around his chest and his feet slanted, and looked back.

The masked man was stunned, but he didn't make too many movements. On the contrary, it was the young man who was leading the horse, consciously or unintentionally, turning his head to look, wondering if it was because he was hungry. If it weren't for the two of them urging all the way, would he come to me to eat a bowl of "hand-rolled raw pepper beef noodles" and then say "authentic" with the "frozen sour radish"

The shopkeeper was a little stunned, and when he heard someone greeting him, he walked over with a smile on his face, uncovered the steaming cauldron, picked up the noodles that had already been rolled out from the chopping board covered with raw flour, shook it, and threw it into the pot.

The hand-rolled noodles seemed to be unwilling, but helpless, so they could only tumble up and down with the boiling water in the pot, floating and sinking. The shopkeeper held a long wooden chopsticks of about 123 inches, stirred them from time to time, and felt that the time was ripe, so he put them down, and then put them into the bowl that had already made the condiments.

The shouting diner was already a little impatient, urging the shopkeeper to hurry up. Holding chopsticks and pounding vigorously on the shabby low table. The shopkeeper had already picked up a piece of "frozen top sour radish", but at this time he unconsciously put it back.

When he turned around, he resumed that "professional smirk", and he didn't. No one knew that this was the last bowl of noodles he had cooked in this life, and perhaps even he didn't know that after this bowl of noodles, he finally didn't have to give people any more.

When he put down the bowl of noodles, his eyes were full of compassion, perhaps he was pitying the young man who was leading the horse, or he was pitying the people who were greedy for the few silver ingots. It's just that no one cares, just like no one cares if you're well fed and clothed.

The shopkeeper got up and stretched, picked up the earthen bowl full of broken dough foam from another table of diners, and casually looked at the alleys and alleys and pavilions.

The shopkeeper unconsciously twitched the corners of his mouth, just like back then. This is a habit left for many years, and he has also asked the famous doctors in the capital who are numbered, but they are all powerless. Over time, the shopkeeper also accepted his fate. It's just that this convulsion is good and bad, and I don't know when it's a head.

The shopkeeper knew that he was going to make this mistake again. Every time I commit an illness, there is always a special point, when I kill someone.

He was originally a shopkeeper who sold hand-rolled noodles, opened a shop called "half-section stall", and soaked the "frozen top sour radish" that would not be exchanged. If the shopkeeper has any achievements in this life, it may be that he has never married a wife.

When asked, he always said that he didn't want to worry too much, and just wanted to open a noodle stall quietly. But those diners ate the hand-rolled noodles he made, but they often poked him in the back behind his back, saying that the shopkeeper loves to convuls, so he couldn't get a daughter-in-law.

He didn't defend himself either, because he was just a shopkeeper who sold noodles. He only likes to sell hand-rolled dough.

But today, he didn't want to sell his hand to roll the dough, he wanted to do something else, this thing was actually very common, but it was just to find a few people and kill a few people, as simple as he rolled the dough.

The diners were still desperately picking up a large sandwich of noodles, blowing hard, and sending it to their mouths. was accidentally burned, and scolded his mother coldly. The shopkeeper didn't care a word, he looked at the inconspicuous alley with a smile, wiped his hand stained with raw flour on the cloth in front of him, stroked his turban, and walked slowly towards the alley.

He didn't go fast, the diner ate a little dry, clamoring for noodle soup, and the shopkeeper waved his hand and motioned for him to fight himself. Another swear word popped out of the man's mouth, and the next moment the diner with the bowl quietly poured next to the boiling soup pot, with a chopstick stuck in his forehead.

Perhaps, the shopkeeper didn't want to endure it anymore, but at this time, he couldn't bear it.

The front foot just walked into the alley, and a bright steel knife went straight to the door, and the shopkeeper didn't have time to ask, have you also eaten my noodles, and the man was already fierce and killed.

The diner with chopsticks in his forehead fell on the soup pot, and fell to the ground with a bowl covered with broken flour foam in his hand, and the rest of the diners immediately fried the pot like noodles in the pot. Blood dripped down the chopsticks into the soup pot, staining the soup pot red.

And before the diners dispersed, they kept shouting, making a wave of free publicity for the inconspicuous "noodle stall" of the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper was quick-eyed, and a pair of chopsticks fell into his hand and then lifted, clamping the steel knife.

The spies in the alley obviously didn't expect this stall shopkeeper to be so skilled, and it was too late to withdraw his knife. Just as he was about to throw the knife and run away, another chopstick appeared at his throat out of thin air.

The shopkeeper smiled shyly, as attentively as he did when he was cooking. It's just that the corners of his mouth twitched unconsciously, which seemed a little funny.

After cleaning up the spies in the alley, the shopkeeper walked out slowly. Obviously, the two people on the floor of the pavilion did not mean to go, but covered the window and observed, and the shopkeeper of the noodle stall killed people.

This is a strange news, the shopkeeper who has sold hand-rolled noodles for decades has actually done a murderous and over-selling business, which is to say that it will not become another explosive "shock" in the capital.

Unfortunately, they didn't have a chance to get the word out. Just as the two of them turned around and wanted to retreat, the corner of his mouth twitched unconsciously, and the shopkeeper with raw flour mixed with blood spots on his hand had appeared beside the two of them at some point. Only this time, the shopkeeper didn't ask them if they wanted to eat hand-rolled noodles or taste "frozen top sour radish", but wanted their lives.

The shopkeeper raised and fell with chopsticks, clean and neat, without a little mud and water. Just like the heat he mastered when cooking noodles, he only cooked for one or three moments, and never exceeded a little time. He is as demanding about cooking noodles as he is for murder.

When the two men fell, the shopkeeper had already pulled out the chopsticks that were inserted in the left and right ears of the two men. It's just that these two people don't want to experience the pain of being stuck to death with chopsticks until they die. It was a pain that was different from ear picking.

I remember that in a distant place, there was such a long-lost skill. A craftsman was carrying rags, propping up a chaise longue, shouting around. If anyone listens, he will let people lie down, and he will conjure a small bench out of thin air, and take out a long bamboo dig in the sunlight, and slowly put it into people's ears.

Again, one turn. A soft snort, indescribably comfortable.

It's still a pair of ears, and one person contributed one, but I met a shopkeeper who sells noodles. I still love chopsticks so much, and I always like to go straight. It was slammed into the ear, and then so much, and then turned. Oh, my life is gone.

The shopkeeper looked at these pair of chopsticks with pity that I don't know how many people had eaten, put them in front of him and looked at them, and finally reluctantly stuck on those two people. Xu is not dead yet, and the two of them twitched unconsciously, as if they were catering to the special habits of the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper shook his head helplessly, and sighed secretly: "It's a pity that I lost a pair of old chopsticks." ”

When the shopkeeper finished sweeping away the troubles and walked slowly back to the "half-section stall", it was surrounded by a group of soldiers. The shopkeeper mingled in the crowd, smiling and looking at everything familiar in front of him. One of the soldiers noticed that the boiling soup pot was a bit of an eyesore, so he raised his hand and smashed it.

The shopkeeper stood on tiptoe to see this scene, and felt a little regretful. It was an old object that had been burned for decades and had never been broken, and it was so easily shattered, how could young people nowadays not know how to cherish it After the soup in the hot pot flowed to the ground, the scene that appeared made everyone take a step back sharply.

Especially the soldier who raised his hand to smash the soup pot was even more frightened. I kept crying and calling my mother. There were always a few brave soldiers, and a few of them pulled the soldier away, and gave him a few mouthfuls, and the soldier was in pain again, covering his swollen cheeks, and no longer making a sound.

The shopkeeper of the noodle stall saw that his secret had been discovered, so he quietly left. It's just that the noodle stall that was surrounded by a group of soldiers and people watching the excitement was surrounded by three layers inside and three layers outside, and it was already "fragrant" at this time.

If you say what is boiling in the soup pot, everyone present at this time is desperately vomiting. Some of them couldn't vomit anymore, and they put their hands into their throats, scratching desperately, hoping to deduct the "delicious taste of the world".

The smell of the soup was covered by the smell of meat, and the round things that rolled out of the soup pot exuded a hot steam, but no one cared about it anymore. Perhaps it will not be long before the people will forget about it. But this scene is bound to appear in the mouth of the storyteller and become a "famous article" that has been handed down to the world.

At this time, Gu Xingzheng was angry that he couldn't eat the hot bowl of "hand-rolled raw pepper beef noodles". Holding the door of the outer courtyard of the main altar of Mingyue Tower, his stomach was at this knot again, and he growled angrily.