Chapter Sixty-Three: Tea Brews on Crow Mountain, Snow Fills the Cup

Zhou Zhi had long heard from the old master Wang Ding about a man named Fan Jin in Gaochang Town, who had only passed the scholar’s exam after the age of fifty. At that time, Zhou Zhi had resolved to visit this person someday to see if this Fan Jin was the same as the one portrayed by Wu Jingzi in his novel.

He vividly remembered how the character was described in the future’s middle school language textbooks: impoverished to the point of misery, wearing only a thin garment in the depths of December, shivering from the cold, with disheveled hair and covered in yellow mud.

Yet, the Fan Jin before him presented an entirely different image. Though advanced in years, he was spirited and sharp, clearly a shrewd and seasoned individual, a far cry from Wu Jingzi's depiction.

For a moment, Zhou Zhi could not help but stare in astonishment.

Lu Xingchuan smiled and said to him, “Brother Zhou Zhi, our friend Fan Jin here passed the scholar’s exam at fifty, yet his resolve never wavered and he continues to pursue the imperial examinations. Truly, he is a model for us all.”

Zhou Zhi finally recovered himself, hurriedly cupped his hands and bowed, saying, “Your humble servant greets Master Fan.”

“No need for such formality,” Fan Jin replied, returning the gesture. “Brother Xingchuan has spoken of you many times. Though your family is poor, your resolve in study never falters. I greatly admire you.”

Fan Jin, a scholar, had actually bowed to Zhou Zhi, a penniless youth of no name, which left Zhou Zhi feeling flattered and overwhelmed.

In the center of the study stood a large square table lacquered in black, piled high with books and two sets of writing implements. Four high-backed wooden chairs surrounded the table. Lu Xingchuan laughed heartily, inviting Zhou Zhi to take a seat.

Lu Xingchuan was exceedingly hospitable, so Zhou Zhi no longer stood on ceremony and sat down.

The three settled around the table, and an old servant surnamed Ding soon brought in tea, already brewed. Lu Xingchuan poured the tea himself and said, “Brother Zhou Zhi, now that you are in my home, treat it as your own. There’s no need for any formality here! Look at our Grand Scholar Fan—whenever he comes, he stays a day or two, as if my home were his own! You should learn from him, ha ha!”

Though his words poked fun at Fan Jin, there was no hint of reproach—if anything, it was affection.

Fan Jin’s face fell in mock indignation. “Brother Xingchuan, what are you saying? I am a proper scholar, and my presence surely brings honor to your household! If you find me burdensome, I’ll be on my way at once.”

He spoke of leaving, but made no move to rise; in the end, he broke into laughter with Lu Xingchuan and Zhou Zhi.

This Fan Jin proved to be humorous and engaging, and Zhou Zhi quickly grew fond of him.

The fragrance of tea filled the air. Fan Jin eagerly raised his bowl, inhaled deeply, and then, savoring the moment, declared, “Excellent tea, truly excellent! ‘The hills of Eastern Wu are famed, the tea is called Rui Grass Prime. Though the record is mundane, the tribute is worthy of immortals.’ Ha ha!”

Lu Xingchuan was taken aback, then smiled, “Brother Fan, you have keen eyes indeed. You recognized Rui Grass Prime at a glance! This is a superior tea, not found in my home, but brought from my aunt in Xin County. I am deeply impressed.”

Zhou Zhi, though not versed in tea or fond of drinking it, knew much about classical poetry. He glanced at the tea bowl, unable to discern the type, but the lines recited by Fan Jin were quite familiar.

Those four-character verses were from Du Mu’s “Inscription on Tea Mountain,” in which the tea is named Rui Grass Prime. Zhou Zhi lifted his bowl and took a gentle sip.

Fresh and mellow, with a lingering finish—it was indeed fine tea.

Seeing Zhou Zhi drink, Fan Jin fixed his eyes on him and asked, “Brother Zhou Zhi, how do you find this tea?”

He had barely finished asking when he caught Lu Xingchuan glancing his way, realizing his words might be inappropriate. Zhou Zhi was the son of a poor farmer and had likely never tasted tea before, but Fan Jin, caught up in his enthusiasm, had forgotten Zhou Zhi’s humble background.

Zhou Zhi was momentarily stunned, but then inspiration struck. He nodded lightly and replied, “I rarely drink tea, but this, once swallowed, leaves endless flavor. Truly, ‘Tea brewed from Yashan’s snow fills the bowl.’”

“A splendid line—‘Tea brewed from Yashan’s snow fills the bowl.’ Brother Zhou Zhi, you are indeed talented! Ha ha!” Fan Jin looked at him with admiration.

Even Lu Xingchuan was surprised. He knew Zhou Zhi was just starting out in his studies, having only begun reading the Analects. Both he and Fan Jin respected Zhou Zhi’s dedication to learning despite his poverty, but had not anticipated his literary prowess.

Rui Grass Prime was produced in Yashan in the southern provinces, also known as Yashan Tea, a historic variety. Zhou Zhi’s quote was from Mei Xun’s poem celebrating Yashan Tea. For a poor youth to recite such a line spontaneously was astonishing, causing both Lu Xingchuan and Fan Jin to view him in a new light.

That single line, “Tea brewed from Yashan’s snow fills the bowl,” instantly bridged the gap between Zhou Zhi and the other two. As the saying goes, “A thousand cups for a kindred spirit, yet half a sentence is too much for those who disagree.” Finding themselves in harmony, the three launched into lively conversation.

It was then Zhou Zhi learned that Fan Jin had befriended Lu Xingchuan several years earlier, before passing the scholar’s exam. Lu Xingchuan, though taciturn and not fond of socializing, was a good match for Fan Jin, who loved to jest but was also wise. Despite their differing temperaments and the age gap—Fan Jin was ten years older—he never acted the elder, keeping their friendship strong.

Both being men of letters, pursuing the imperial examinations, Fan Jin would visit the Lu household every few days to discuss their studies.

Fan Jin lived in Gaochang Town, and contrary to Wu Jingzi’s portrayal, was not destitute. Though not wealthy, his family ranked in the upper middle in Gaochang. He had married an older woman, just over thirty, only two years prior. As in Wu Jingzi’s story, Fan Jin’s father-in-law was indeed surnamed Hu, and worked as a butcher.

The three conversed happily, and before they knew it, noon had arrived.

Though the Lu family was among the wealthiest in Shulu Village, theirs was a frugal household, with old Ding seemingly the only servant. Lunch was brought to the study on a tray by the old man.

A small basin of stewed pork, a steamed carp, stir-fried radish and bean sprouts, mixed cabbage and tofu, scrambled eggs, and a plate of braised pig’s feet.

Ten or so white steamed buns and a jar of Taoyuan wine, still sealed.

Northern cuisine centered on stews, less refined than in the south. In a Ming dynasty village, such a spread of six dishes was a rare treat.

Fan Jin had already seized his chopsticks, smacking his lips. “Different, truly different! Ever since Brother Zhou Zhi arrived, the fare has improved greatly! Favoritism, your Lu family is showing favoritism.”

Lu Xingchuan was not annoyed, only smiling at Fan Jin. Indeed, today’s lunch had been specially arranged by him and his father to properly honor Zhou Zhi, their savior.

Fan Jin, unfazed, reached into the stewed pork, grabbed a piece, and popped it into his mouth—rich but not greasy, tender and delicious.

“Excellent! Come, Brother Zhou Zhi, today I am enjoying your good fortune. And there’s fine Taoyuan wine to boot! Let us three drink and not rest until we’re drunk!” He grabbed the wine jar and filled each bowl to the brim.