Transmigrated as the Villain Boss's Precious Darling Chapter 16: Big Slices of Fatty Meat

"I could sll the at from a mile away. And so much of it."

The speaker was a thin, elderly gentleman. His face was pale, his eyes sunken. His lips, and the corners of his mouth, were covered in bloody cracks. His sparse hair was more white than black, and he was so gaunt he was little more than skin and bones, like a skeleton.

He wore a faded, washed-out Mao suit, covered in patches. Yet, it was clean and neat, and you could even see faint creases in the fabric. The old gentleman sat ramrod straight, his eyes as bright as a beacon, and his entire being radiated an air of uncommon distinction.

"The Thorne family sent this over. It’s five or six pounds of at. Please, Mr. Tate, have so more."

Rosalind Green said cheerfully, using a pair of serving chopsticks to place a plump, thick slice of at on the old gentleman’s plate. Most people these days prefer lean at, but back then, it was the glistening, fatty cuts that were most prized.

After years of hardship, with so little oil and grain, anyone’s eyes would light up at the sight of a thick slice of fatty at. Rosalind herself used to hate fatty at, turning her nose up at even the smallest sliver of it.

Now—

"It slls so good! Farm-raised pork is so much better. Wild ga has such a strong, gamy taste."

Rosalind chewed the fatty morsel with relish. Oily juices burst in her mouth, so even trickling down her throat. The sensation was more satisfying than any abalone she had ever eaten.

She hadn’t eaten pork in four years. When her husband was still around, they could afford a al with at every now and then. But after he left, she hadn’t seen so much as a speck of it, save for the wild ga Adrian Hawthorne hunted on the mountain.

But the ga had a strong, unpleasant sll, and the at was tough. Without proper seasonings, it was impossible to make it taste good. Rosalind’s cooking skills were average at best; she could only stew the at with ginger and garlic. With no cooking wine, soy sauce, vinegar, or sugar, you can imagine how it tasted.

Still, it was thanks to that wild ga that they had survived the long four years without starving to death.

The old gentleman’s mouth was watering; he hadn’t eaten at in a long ti either. Yet, he ate slowly and thodically, his movents elegant and his table manners impeccable. Adrian Hawthorne was just as refined, eating with a quiet grace, but his movents were not slow. In just a short while, he had already finished three or four slices of at.

"The pork really is much better. There’s so much fat that even the sweet potatoes have beco delicious."

After just one slice of at, the color had already returned to the old gentleman’s face. He wasn’t seriously ill; he was just starving.

"The potatoes have soaked up the flavor, too! Please, Mr. Tate, eat more. We still have another two or three pounds of at left," Rosalind urged, treating the old gentleman with great respect.

The old gentleman’s surna was Tate. He had been transferred to the Millstone Peak brigade from another one three years ago. No one knew what specific cri he had committed. The brigade leader of Millstone Peak was also a Thorne; in fact, more than half the people in the brigade were Thornes, all belonging to the sa ancestral hall.

Captain Thorne had been the village head before becoming the production team leader. He held a great deal of authority in the brigade and was known to be a decent man. He took reasonably good care of Mr. Tate, giving him the lightest job available—herding the brigade’s cattle—and providing him with a small monthly ration from the collective.

But he didn’t dare give him too much, or the other brigade mbers would complain. The ration was only enough to keep Mr. Tate clinging to life, not quite dead but not truly living either. He lived next door to the Hawthorne family, and Adrian Hawthorne often helped him with his chores.

In return, Mr. Tate taught Adrian Hawthorne his lessons. Eventually, Mr. Tate simply handed over his rations, and the two households began pooling their food and cooking together. Between them, they could just about manage to keep their stomachs half-full.

"Adrian, you eat more. A growing boy needs his nutrition."

Mr. Tate ate only two or three pieces of at, then stuck to eating the potatoes, which were just as delicious after stewing with the pork. He was an old man, and he felt that eating too much at would be a waste. Adrian was a growing boy; he should be the one eating it.

Besides, the Thorne family sent at this ti, but there was no guarantee they would send any next ti. It was better to save the at for the child.