150: I Can Wear It When I Learn How To Cook From Father

I Can Wear It When I Learn How To Cook From Father

The six restaurateurs were taken by surprise. They had not expected to hear this question from the owner's daughter; for a moment, they didn't know how to answer.2

More people recognized them now that Amy had pointed them out. Are they really here to make trouble? they wondered

Krassu and Urien turned to look. They'd better not try and do anything stupid here.

Brandli was also looking at them with surprise. They must be insane if they think they can make waves here.

"I used to visit your restaurants. The pork steak must be very tasty, and the green onion bing smells good too!" Amy continued. Then, her face changed. "But what're you doing in our restaurant? You're welcome to eat here. Father's rainbow fried rice and roujiamo are really delicious.

"You don't want to look for trouble here. You don't want to make me angry," Amy said solemnly, shaking her little fists in anger.

"She looks so adorable!" Bernice said, smiling. She had an adolescent son and daughter, who preferred hanging out with friends to staying at home. It had been a long time since she last saw such a cute girl. Her heart was overflowing with motherly love.

"We're not here to look for trouble," Andrew said, clumsily waving his hands as he looked at the cute little girl. She likes my pork steak. The nickname she gave me sounds a little odd, but I kind of like it. How can I explain to her why we're here?

"We're here for food, little girl, not for trouble," Miles said calmly with a smile, shaking his head.

"Really?" Amy said dubiously. Then she put down her hands, and nodded. "Okay."

The six restaurateurs let out a sigh of relief; the little girl's stare had given them a lot of pressure.

"Sorry. Please forgive my daughter. She's a little rude," Mag said with a smile, putting down a plate of Yangzhou fried rice on the table beside them. He touched Amy's head, but there was no blame in his eyes.

I don't think they come here with good intentions. Amy's words will serve as a warning, Mag thought.

Mag was as pleasant to those who ate here as he was unpleasant towards those who made waves.

Amy rubbed her head against Mag's hand.

"There's nothing to forgive. She's such a cute girl," Bernice said, looking at Mag up and down. Plainly, she liked what she was seeing. He looks so neat and handsome.

"We each own a restaurant in this square," Miles admitted with a smile. "It seems your business is very good these days, so we've come here to try the food."

Miles was around 40, of medium stature, with a black short coat and well-groomed hair. Mag nodded and smiled at him. "Welcome! Please sit down and wait for a second," he said, beckoning them to the two tables which had just become vacant. Then he turned around, and walked into the kitchen.

Other customers got back to their food, disappointed. They had expected a conflict, but not even sharp words had been exchanged.

"He seems like a nice guy," Bernice said as she took a seat, smoothing her hair. She was pushing 40, but her skin was still rather soft. Only her hands were a little rough from all the washing and chopping.

Bishop nodded. "Yes. I was very grumpy when I was his age," he said, ashamed as he remembered his little outburst before.

"You're still very grumpy," the balding man said, smiling. They all shared a laugh.

Bishop was known for his short temper, and because of that, his three sons were well disciplined growing up; each of them was more than capable of running his restaurant now.

"The years have made me kinder," Bishop said, blushing.

Bernice turned to look at Amy and smiled. "You must be Amy."

Amy nodded. "Yes. But Mrs. Flower Apron, where is your flower apron?"

"I left it in my restaurant," Bernice answered with a smile. "Do you like it? I can give you one if you like."

"Yes! Thank you! I can wear it when I learn how to cook from Father," Amy said merrily, clapping her hands.

"Your roujiamos, please enjoy," Yabemiya said with a smile as she put the plate down on their table.

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