20. Kitchen Waste Disposal Company

“Two hundred taels is too expensive; I’ll only pay one hundred,” Yang Fan said with an expression that clearly meant, “If you won’t sell it, then forget it.”

“Sir, this heap of waste soil has been accumulating since the Mongol Yuan era. No one knows how much there is. If you consider the iron content inside, two hundred taels is not expensive.”

“There are only a few iron nuggets worth picking out. I plan to hire some refugees fleeing famine to sift through it. It’s a small-scale operation—just one hundred taels, not a copper more.” Yang Fan stood firm.

So that was his plan. This guy was crafty enough. Refugees wouldn’t need wages, just food.

If you can think of it, others won’t. Someone had already tried before. Now with three years of drought, a mu of land yields less than three dou of rice, grain prices are soaring, and refugees will drain you dry.

Hmph, the more refugees you hire, the more you lose. You’ll still go bankrupt.

“All right, one hundred taels it is.” The plump shopkeeper rummaged under the counter a moment, then pulled out a set of documents.

“Sign here and pay up, and the soil heap is yours.”

Yang Fan glanced at the fat shopkeeper; it seemed many had their eyes on this heap of soil, as the contract was already prepared.

Without hesitation, Yang Fan handed over the money and signed the papers.

On the way back, Zhao Fu held in his thoughts for a long while, his face looking constipated.

“If you want to say something, just say it. You look like you’re about to burst.”

“Master, you really shouldn’t have bought that soil heap. Although many people pick ore from it, it’s really not worth the labor. Think about how long that heap has been there—if it were profitable, someone would have bought it already.”

“I understand what you mean. They don’t make money because they lack a good way to separate the fine iron sand. If we can figure out a method, that would be a very high-quality ore sand.”

“Think about it: mining tunnels require massive manpower. Even the blasting method demands cutting down lots of trees and hauling cold water.”

“Then the ore has to be carried out manually, crushed repeatedly, and hand-picked. All that is cost. That soil heap is already processed; it’s discarded only because the ore sand and sand particles are too fine and mixed together, making it impossible to separate. If we can separate it, how much cost will we save? It’s practically free.”

Zhao Fu urged, “Even if it’s free, labor is still a cost. Ore picking is hard work. You can’t work on an empty stomach. Food is so expensive now, even if you hire refugees, just feeding them will cost a fortune.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I already have a plan,” Yang Fan said, already thinking ahead.

He had been to Yanjing University’s cafeteria before, when he went to give Qin Xiaoyu money. The university’s cafeterias wasted a lot of food.

Usually, kitchens had large barrels for discarded leftovers. A university had many cafeterias, after all, feeding tens of thousands of people three meals a day.

These leftovers were called kitchen waste, a notorious headache for garbage disposal.

Page 2

Many restaurants and inns also produced massive daily waste. This trash had to be hauled away; with nowhere to dump it, it needed to be cleared every day.

In the 1980s, farmers would come into the city to collect this waste to feed pigs, which could still make some money and generate income for the restaurants.

After the 1990s, pig farms switched to commercial feed, and this waste became pure garbage. Now, restaurants had to pay hefty fees for removal and municipal disposal.

This waste contained large amounts of fat, salt, seasonings, even scraps of muscle, bones, and meat. In this late Ming era, these were precious.

People were barely full on their rice and steamed buns, yet they desired fats, salts, seasonings, and meat.

Even staple grains like rice and wheat flour were considered fine food reserved for the wealthy in this era.

In recent years, continuous drought had forced waves of refugees to flood into Zunhua seeking survival. In winter, half of them would freeze or starve to death. Having kitchen waste to eat was not an insult to them.

As for whether the food would spoil and cause diarrhea or death, that was easy to manage. In spring, autumn, and winter, clearing it twice a day would prevent decay.

In summer, adding edible preservatives to the barrels would keep it from spoiling.

Yang Fan had made up his mind. He would set up a kitchen waste processing technology company. Yes, a technology company—maybe he could even get some tech subsidies.

Garbage collection and disposal itself could be profitable; besides, since the waste would be fed to refugees in the late Ming, there was hardly any disposal cost—just collection and transportation.

Apparently, the government even subsidized garbage processing. Another source of income.

Thinking of this, Yang Fan laughed triumphantly. As Zhang Gada said, this master was truly brilliant.

“Master, do you have a way to separate the ore from that waste soil?” Fu Lao Liu asked, seeing his master so pleased.

“What do you think are the properties of iron?” Yang Fan asked.

“Iron? Hard, sharp, and heavy,” Zhao Fu blurted.

“Fool! None of that. Iron is magnetic. Just use a magnet,” Yang Fan said, frustrated. “With a magnet, you can attract all the iron sand dust from the soil—magnetic separation. Understand?”

“Master is brilliant!”

“Master is too clever!”

The two suddenly saw the light and showered him with compliments, though inwardly they wondered where to find so many magnets.

Yang Fan paid them no mind and fell back into deep thought.

Page 3

The next day, Yang Fan once again traveled back to the present, headed straight to an accounting firm, and bought an existing shell company. He instructed them to add garbage disposal to the company’s business scope.

Then he rushed to Yanjing University’s cafeteria. The last time he had come to give Qin Xiaoyu money, he had waited for her there. The cafeteria was contracted by Wu Pangzi, a fellow villager whom he knew.

At noon, he took Wu Pangzi to a private room in a restaurant, opened two bottles of Maotai, and got him tipsy. Wu Pangzi slapped his chest and promised that all fifteen cafeterias at Yanjing University would entrust their waste to Yang Fan.

Wu Pangzi was a good man, also from a rural background, who had struggled in the imperial capital for twenty years to achieve his current status.

As someone experienced, Wu Pangzi could see through Yang Fan’s relationship with Qin Xiaoyu.

With his tongue loosened by drink, Wu Pangzi said, “Brother, bro, I have something to say but don’t know if I should…”

“Brother Wu, tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Brother, being a sycophant, a lickspittle—you lick and lick and end up with nothing at all.”

Yang Fan’s eyes reddened at this. A man’s tears don’t fall easily; only when the heart breaks.

“Old saying goes,” Wu Pangzi hiccupped, “a man without a wife is just poor.”

“Enough, enough, you’ve drunk too much. Let’s go.” Wu Pangzi staggered out of the restaurant.

He looked back, patted Yang Fan’s shoulder, and said, “We’re all from the same hometown. Work hard. I’m off.”

Watching Wu Pangzi leave, Yang Fan sighed deeply.

He hoped Qin Xiaoyu would take care of herself.

At Yanjing University’s Chinese Department female dormitory, a group of freshmen were playing noisily in their room.

A girl with ear-length hair and a plain face opened the door and walked in.

“You all just know how to make noise. Didn’t we agree to find part-time jobs together? Everyone talks but no one acts.”