"What kind of cows do you raise?"
Hearing that Jiang Hai knew about dairy cows, Ai Xiaoxi's father couldn't help but ask with keen interest.
"Oh, I raise beef cattle," Jiang Hai replied after a brief pause. "I do have a few dairy cows too, but they only supply milk for the manor. I don't sell any of it."
"Beef cattle, huh? That's still worth a decent amount. How many do you have?"
In China, the value of beef cattle differs significantly from that of dairy cows. A mature dairy cow can sell for 30,000 to 50,000 RMB, while a young beef calf is usually worth only 5,000 to 8,000 RMB. Beef cattle simply don't fetch high prices in the domestic market.
Take, for example, the Luxi Yellow Cattle—the top beef breed in China and a nationally protected livestock genetic resource. A full-grown bull can weigh up to 700 kilograms, and with a slaughter yield rate of 50%, that gives about 350 kilograms of beef. At an average wholesale price of 20 RMB per kilogram (roughly 30 RMB in retail), a mature Luxi Yellow Cattle sells for about 14,000 RMB. Subtract the costs for calves, labor, feed, slaughter, taxes, and other expenses, and you're left with only a few thousand yuan in profit per head.
Given this, Ai Xiaoxi's father naturally thought beef cattle were far less profitable than dairy cows.
"More than twenty thousand," Jiang Hai said casually, not bothering to elaborate on the breed or quality of his cattle. It would've sounded like bragging, and Jiang Hai didn't care to show off.
"Twenty... thousand?"
Ai Xiaoxi's father's eyes widened. Even if he thought beef cattle weren't worth much, an adult animal still sold for around 10,000 RMB. Multiply that by 20,000, and you're talking about over 200 million RMB.
In that moment, Jiang Hai transformed from someone with "a little money" to a full-blown billionaire in his eyes. Any concerns about his daughter's future financial security instantly disappeared.
"You're really young and capable," he said with genuine admiration. "Raising that many cows must be exhausting!"
"It's not too bad," Jiang Hai smiled. "I've hired professional ranch hands. I mainly handle the business decisions—like when to sell the cattle."
The two chatted for another half an hour before Ai Xiaoxi's mother finally called them to dinner. Her younger brother, Ai Xiaohui, was already setting the table, while Jiang Hai and Ai Xiaoxi's father took their seats.
Soon, everyone began bringing the dishes out from the kitchen. Though they hadn't prepared anything special today—since Jiang Hai's visit was unplanned—tomorrow was the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the family had already stocked up on food for the occasion. They simply cooked what they had ready. In no time, the meal was served.
In Northeast China, people care about the number of dishes on the table. Even numbers are preferred over odd ones—six dishes symbolize smooth progress, eight signify prosperity, and ten represent completeness. This tradition actually originated from Shandong Province.
Historically, despite the Qing Dynasty's Manchu origins, they regarded the Northeast as harsh and barren. The Treaty of Nerchinsk with Russia is a testament to how little value they placed on its development. The province of Heilongjiang, for instance, was once a place where criminals were exiled. "Ningguta exile," often mentioned in old films and dramas, wasn't a specific place—it was a transliteration from Manchu referring to exile in the Northeast.
To populate the region, the government once organized large-scale migrations from provinces like Shandong. These migrants brought their customs with them—including the tradition of even-numbered dishes at meals.
Even though this was Jiang Hai's first visit and the Ai family hadn't prepared in advance, Ai Xiaoxi's mother still served eight dishes:
A large plate of stewed pork ribs with potatoes, made quickly using a pressure cooker
A plate of jellyfish salad with vinegar
Braised pork with string beans
Braised Spanish mackerel
Scrambled eggs with shrimp and spinach
Stir-fried kohlrabi
Spicy stir-fried clams
And a big bowl of tofu meatball soup
Looking at the feast, Jiang Hai couldn't help but salivate. Back in the U.S., Xiaoya cooked well, but he hadn't had such authentic home-style Chinese food in a long time.
People grow accustomed to luxury. Jiang Hai, who once wouldn't have given abalone, sea cucumber, or lobster a second glance, had grown tired of those rich foods. Now, he craved something simple and comforting.
"Come on, dig in. Staring at it won't make it jump into your mouth!"
Seeing how eager Jiang Hai was, Ai Xiaoxi's mother smiled warmly. "Xiao Jiang, don't be shy—treat this like your own home."
Ai Xiaoxi's brother fetched a few bottles of local beer from the fridge. People in Shandong, like those in Harbin, enjoy their beer. The family was drinking Qingshi, a popular local brand. Jiang Hai had tried it before and found it decent.
Once the beer was poured, everyone toasted with their first glass. Jiang Hai then picked up his chopsticks and eagerly reached for a flower clam.
Clams—technically shellfish—might not be familiar to people inland, but seafood lovers know them well. Among the three main types—yellow clams (the largest and priciest), flower clams, and white clams—flower clams are mid-tier. Though inexpensive (sometimes as low as 1 RMB per jin at Lian City restaurants), they're flavorful.
These clams also exist in the Atlantic, but Jiang Hai and his friends rarely ate them. Now that he had one, he found the taste quite enjoyable—though a bit salty.
Shandong cuisine tends to be saltier, especially in suburban areas. The reason is practical: salt preserves food longer and provides strength for physical labor. Health concerns often take a back seat. So to Jiang Hai's palate, the seasoning was a bit overwhelming.
Noticing Jiang Hai slowing down, Ai Xiaoxi smiled knowingly. She'd forgotten to tell her mom to tone down the salt. Clearly, Jiang Hai wasn't used to it.
"Here, have some soup," she said, handing him a bowl.
After a sip, Jiang Hai gave her a grateful look—the soup was, thankfully, not salty.
After eating just enough to feel full, Jiang Hai turned to drinking with Ai Xiaoxi's father. Though he wasn't thrilled with the food, he could still enjoy the alcohol. And Ai Xiaoxi's father clearly had some decent wine on hand. It wasn't strong liquor, but sharing drinks with good company made for a pleasant time. The atmosphere at the table grew warm and cheerful.
But harmonious moments don't last forever—someone always shows up to stir the pot.
"Brother, sister-in-law, I heard Xiaoxi brought her boyfriend home?"
Just as everyone was enjoying themselves, a shrill and slightly sour voice echoed from outside. Four people entered the courtyard—two men and two women, all around Ai Xiaoxi's parents' age. The woman leading the group shouted loudly as they approached.
The family dog, lying lazily in the yard, immediately perked up and began barking. But the newcomers didn't flinch—they were clearly used to the dog and walked straight in.
In rural areas, there are generally two types of dogs: barkers and guard dogs. The barking kind, like the one in Ai Xiaoxi's home, makes a lot of noise but lacks the strength to fight—even mice might intimidate it. Its only job is to alert the household to visitors.
The more aggressive guard dogs don't bark—they bite. But they're rare these days.
Judging by their behavior, these four weren't strangers. Ignoring the dog entirely, they walked straight into the house, their eyes sweeping across Jiang Hai and the others with thinly veiled contempt.