Chapter 1: The Sweet Syrup Storm

Page 1/3

Hong Kong Island, Sham Shui Po, Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop.

Seated quietly in a corner, Bingman Chan was lost in thought.

Just a week ago, he was still a business manager at a well-known investment firm, courted by countless entrepreneurs.

But in the blink of an eye, he had traveled back to January 1978 on Hong Kong Island, now the son of a humble sweet soup shop owner in Sham Shui Po.

These past few days, he had been gradually merging the memories of his predecessor with his own, adapting to his new identity and surroundings.

This young man, also named Bingman Chan, was born in 1960 and had just turned eighteen this year.

After finishing Form Six, he joined his parents in running the family’s sweet soup shop.

With this modest little shop, the three members of the Chan family were not wealthy, but they lived in relative peace and stability.

In 1978, Hong Kong stood at a historical crossroads. The mainland was on the verge of reform and opening up, and the city would soon enter a golden age of economic boom.

He gazed at the slightly worn tables and chairs in the shop, yet in his mind, he saw glimpses of the future: property tycoons, financial magnates, new tech elites...

In this era, opportunities abounded everywhere; seizing just one could utterly transform one’s fate.

“Bingman, stop daydreaming and go wipe the glass on the shopfront,” his father’s voice called from the kitchen, breaking his train of thought.

He answered with a nod, picked up a cloth, and walked to the entrance.

Outside, the streets of Sham Shui Po bustled in a shabby way. Low, crowded shophouses jostled for space, countless bamboo poles hung with laundry poked out from the windows, like an unruly forest.

Fashionably dressed youths, housewives with shopping baskets, and groups of workers all moved through the street.

As Bingman wiped the glass, his eyes couldn’t help but follow the passersby.

These people all walked past Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop, but not one stepped inside for a bowl.

Across the street, however, stood Sung’s Dessert Shop.

Its façade gleamed with bright new lights, two young attendants in uniform busily tending to customers, and every now and then someone would walk in to order a bowl of sweet soup.

Compared to Sung’s, the business at Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop was beyond dismal.

From the memories he’d inherited, Bingman knew that since Sung’s Dessert Shop had opened diagonally across the street, Chan’s revenue had plummeted.

Now, daily takings were less than a third of what they’d once been.

“Bingman, come in and help with the red bean soup when you finish,” his mother’s voice now called from inside the shop just as he finished wiping the glass.

“Coming,” he replied cheerfully, turning back inside.

In the kitchen, his father, Kwok-fu Chan, was simmering red bean soup, sweat trickling down his temples.

His mother was kneading glutinous rice dough for tangyuan at the side.

Bingman stood by the stove, watching his father tend to the red bean soup.

Page 2/3

Each bean was perfectly distinct, the syrup thick and glossy with a sheen of oil on the surface.

It was the quintessential style of 1970s Hong Kong sweet soup—sweet, rich, and filling.

But therein lay the problem: it was too traditional, lacking in differentiation and character.

It held little appeal for young people.

The reason Sung’s Dessert Shop had stolen their business was precisely because they had improved upon the classic sweet soups.

His predecessor had once secretly bought a bowl of Sung’s red bean soup behind his parents’ backs; it was sweet but not cloying, with a more pronounced bean aroma—much more suited to younger palates.

Taking the wooden spoon from his father, Bingman stirred the pot of red bean soup slowly.

His impressions of Hong Kong sweet soups had initially come from TVB dramas.

Nearly every series featured scenes of people enjoying sweet soup.

Back then, he had genuinely believed sweet soup was nothing more than hot water with sugar added.

It wasn’t until later, when he invested in a dessert project in Guangdong, that he realized these sweet soups were a world apart.

In Guangdong and Hong Kong, sweet soups were far more than just sugar dissolved in water. They involved simmering, boiling, and a variety of methods, with both liquid and solid desserts.

Red bean soup, mung bean soup, black sesame paste, ginger tangyuan—all fell under the sweet soup category.

Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop was best known for its red bean soup, mung bean soup, and ginger tangyuan.

Once the red bean soup was ready, Bingman helped his mother knead tangyuan dough.

They worked until late into the night, preparing all the ingredients needed for the next day, before the family of three finally closed up, washed, and rested.

To save on expenses, they lived right in the shop.

His parents slept in the attic above—a cramped space just big enough for a bed that barely fit two.

Bingman slept downstairs on a makeshift bed fashioned from a few wooden planks.

After a long day’s work, his body was weary, but lying in bed, he felt no urge to sleep.

Having shaken off his initial confusion since crossing over, Bingman felt deeply content with his current life.

In his previous life, his parents had both passed away before he reached adulthood, leaving him to grow up in loneliness.

Though he later managed to make something of himself through his efforts, there was always a void deep within that nothing could fill.

Now, in this parallel world, he had a complete family. Life was ordinary, but filled with warmth and affection—something he cherished dearly.

Besides, since fortune had granted him the chance to live in an era paved with gold, it would be a crime not to do something meaningful with it.

Yet the reality of Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop left him uneasy.

If things didn’t turn around, the family’s economic foundation would be shaken.

Flashes of past business experience and sweet soup market analysis ran through his mind, searching for ways to quickly change the shop’s fortunes.

Perhaps because of the time travel, his memory now seemed extraordinarily sharp.

Every detail of news, materials, reports, and more from his previous life could be recalled with perfect clarity.

Page 3/3

This extraordinary memory gave him extra confidence and direction as he pondered their future.

“…end of the month, landlord… rent for the shop, if we can’t pay… he’ll take back the shop…”

“If it comes to it, we’ll have to borrow from relatives…”

“But if this keeps up, we won’t last much longer…”

“….”

Snippets of his parents’ hushed conversation drifted down from the attic, tinged with helplessness and confusion.

Every year at the end of January, the landlord would come to collect the annual rent for the shop.

Even though Chan’s Sweet Soup Shop measured less than thirty square meters, the yearly rent was five thousand Hong Kong dollars.

Four hundred a month wasn’t high for Sham Shui Po, a district full of low-income families, but it was far from cheap.

With business so poor, even keeping the shop running was a stretch for the family.

Now they needed to come up with five thousand dollars for rent—an almost impossible burden.

Bingman knew that the urgent priority was to make money, and fast.

Otherwise, if they lost the shop for failing to pay rent, not only would the family lose their only source of income, but they’d be homeless as well.

He had no wish to end up sleeping rough mere days after arriving in this world.

The next morning, Bingman rose early to help his parents prepare the sweet soups.

Lingnan’s unique geography had given rise to equally unique food customs.

Meals began with nourishing soups and ended with sweet soups.

Sweet soup played an important role in Hong Kongers’ daily life.

Depending on the season, different sweet soups were served.

In summer, there were cooling and detoxifying varieties; in autumn, those that soothed coughs and dryness; and in winter, thick, warming sweet pastes.

Though sweet soup was an indispensable part of Hong Kong life, most people only had it after lunch or dinner.

Breakfast sweet soup was rare.

So, after helping his parents prepare the red bean soup, black sesame paste, ginger tangyuan, and other offerings, Bingman found himself with a few free hours.

“Dad, Mom, I’m heading out for a bit,” he called out, before stepping out of the shop.