Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 7 Self-Heating Rice

Wu Ling sat in the Republic of China Tea House for a long time last night. Before leaving, he promised Old Zhou that he would bring some food next time. When he woke up, it was already afternoon.

He took a bus to the nearest supermarket and went straight to the fast food section.

What would be appropriate to bring to someone from the Republic of China era?

Instant noodles were too dry, and canned food was too heavy, so he ended up taking two boxes of self-heating rice, 12.5 yuan each, one box of braised beef and one box of Kung Pao chicken.

Feeling that the fruit was too light, Wu Ling picked out a bag of tangerines from the fruit section.

The first thing he did when he got back to the teahouse was to empty the things out of the plastic bag and stuff them into a cloth bag.

I always felt uneasy about bringing plastic items to Wuling.

The phone rang; it was Qin Xiaowan.

"Are you open today?"

"It's open. Nobody's here."

"So what are you doing?"

"Prepare things."

"Didn't your friend have the recipe for egg pancakes?"

"Not yet. I'll ask again today."

"Hurry up. Selling tea alone won't sustain us; we need food to make ends meet." She paused for a moment. "Oh, by the way, someone passed by today and asked if this shop was for sale. I said no."

"Who?"

"I don't know him. He's wearing a suit, looks like a real estate agent."

"I won't forward it."

"I know it won't be forwarded. I just wanted to let you know." She hung up.

Surprisingly, no customers came in the afternoon, but a real estate agent showed up instead.

Qin Xiaowan said she wouldn't turn back, but this kind of person will come back a second time.

The matter of the prescription could not be delayed any longer, so he picked up the cloth bag and headed for the back door.

Republic of China era.

It's still winter, but it's a little warmer than last time I came.

The charcoal brazier was filled with new charcoal, and the fire burned brighter. Someone added more charcoal, and there were two or three more people than last time.

Old Zhou was still in the same spot. When he saw him come in, his gaze fell on the cloth bag.

Wu Ling glanced at the curtain in the inner room; Xiao Cui wasn't there last time he came.

"Xiao Cui is back?"

"She's back. She stayed at her uncle's house for a while." Old Zhou scraped the surface of his bowl with the lid of his teacup. "She's lost weight and doesn't like to go out much."

Wu Ling did not ask any further questions.

"What did you bring?" Old Zhou asked, looking at the cloth bag.

"Oranges. There's something else you haven't seen before."

He first took the oranges out and put them on the table.

Master Liu didn't move from the corner, but he reached out his hand.

Wu Ling handed one over.

Master Liu pinched the skin with his fingernail, smelled it, then peeled it piece by piece. After eating, he folded the skin into a square and placed it on the handrail.

"acid."

The first character of today.

"And this too." Wu Ling took out the self-heating rice and put it on the table.

Old Zhou stared at the square white box.

"What is it?"

"Food. It can be heated without a fire."

"No fire needed?" Old Zhou tapped the surface. "Is it made of sheet metal?"

"Paper."

"Put the rice in a cardboard box. It'll heat up on its own without a fire." He put the teacup lid back on, leaned forward, and said, "Let me see."

Wu Ling unpacked the product, tore open the heating pack, poured it into the base, and added cold water.

Hiss, white mist emerges.

Old Zhou leaned back in his chair for a moment, then leaned back in.

The white mist grew thicker and thicker, and the box became scalding hot.

Master Liu crouched down from the corner and reached out his hand—

"Don't touch it!"

It was too late. Master Liu pulled his hand back and shook it twice.

Then he laughed.

This was the first time Wu Ling had ever seen him smile.

His teeth weren't straight, but he smiled like a child who had secretly started a fire.

"Did you add cold water?" Old Zhou was still confirming.

"It's cold."

"Then how does it heat up by itself?"

"There's something inside that heats up when it comes into contact with water, similar to how lime heats up when it comes into contact with water."

"Lime meets water." He thought for a moment, "I've seen it when building walls. But you can't eat lime."

"Don't eat the part that's causing the fever. Eat the food on top."

Ten minutes later, the lid was lifted, revealing braised beef rice bowl, a dark brown color, steaming hot.

Old Zhou picked up a piece of beef, chewed it, stopped, and then chewed it a couple more times.

"It doesn't taste good."

"What's wrong with the taste?"

"The meat is bland. It chews like leather. Feel this piece—it's rock hard, like chewing cotton." He put down his chopsticks. "The rice is wrong too. It's loose. The grains aren't clumped together. Rice should be clumped together to be fragrant."

He picked up the covered bowl and took a sip of tea, as if trying to suppress the taste in his mouth.

A thin old man on the other side of the chessboard stretched his neck.

"Brother Zhou, can I have a bite too?"

Old Zhou pushed the box over.

The skinny old man picked up a piece of diced chicken, chewed it twice, and smacked his lips.

"What does it taste like?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it. It's like it has a smell, but it's also like it doesn't."

"That's the idea." Old Zhou nodded. "It has a little bit of everything, but it's lacking in everything."

"Do people over there eat this every day?"

Eat it when you're busy.

"So busy you can't even light the stove?"

"Some people work two jobs a day. They leave in the morning and come back at night, eating this in between."

"Work two jobs?" Old Zhou frowned. "Can't one job support you?"

"I can support them. But I still have to pay the rent."

"Isn't the house yours?"

"Borrowed from the bank. To be repaid in thirty years."

Old Zhou remained silent for a while.

"Thirty years." He placed his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl. "If you're so busy that you can't even get a hot meal, then you're busy in the wrong way."

He stirred the surface of the bowl with the tea lid and paused for a moment.

"My wife makes egg pancakes. They're filled with brown sugar, and they're three for a copper coin. The dough has to be fully fermented, the eggs have to be beaten until they form threads, and the oil is rapeseed oil. With just one stove and one flat pan, she can't make much money even after standing there for half a day."

"But it's delicious."

"Of course it's delicious."

"They also have egg pancakes over there. They're everywhere. But they don't taste the same."

"Why not?"

"It's sickeningly sweet. The noodles are mushy, and the egg flavor is off. There's no fermented rice."

Old Zhou glanced at him, as if it were the first time he had seriously looked him over.

"Can you tell if it contains fermented rice wine?"

"I'm not that bad at talking."

Old Zhou didn't say anything, but held the bowl and thought for a while.

Suddenly, someone spoke up from the corner.

"Give it to him."

Wu Ling was taken aback.

Master Liu didn't look at Wu Ling, he looked at Old Zhou.

"They brought food."

Old Zhou glanced at Master Liu, then at Wu Ling.

"An orange is an orange. A recipe is a recipe."

He placed the teacup on the table and gestured with his chin toward the counter.

"If you want the recipe, go up and explain it to me first. If you do well, you can have it. If you don't, come back next time."

Master Liu muttered something, as if he wanted to plead for Wu Ling, but Old Zhou didn't give him the chance.

"Your grandfather always goes on stage whenever he comes. How many times have you come, and how many times have you gone on stage?"

"...Once. And it backfired."

"Then let's do it again."

"What are you going to say?"

"You decide for yourself." He paused for a moment. "There used to be a storyteller on Cotton Street named Zhang Xijiu. Have you heard of him?"

"no."

"When that man struck the gavel, even the flower vendor at the alley entrance stopped moving. The front row seats were reserved for a few old gentlemen—the Five Elders and Seven Sages. You wouldn't understand, Zhang Xijiu wouldn't open his mouth until they arrived."

"Such a grand display?"

"It's not about showing off. It's about following the rules." Old Zhou looked at him. "Your grandfather heard him tell stories. He came back and told me that a good storyteller isn't someone with a silver tongue, but someone who makes you forget you're listening while he's telling the story."

Zhang Xijiu was in front, his grandfather was behind, and Wu Ling glanced at the gavel on the stage.

"Okay. I'll go up."

Old Zhou picked up his bowl, while Master Liu tucked his copper clapper back behind his ear in the corner.

Wu Ling walked onto the stage and picked up the gavel.

There were about ten people sitting in the audience, not many, but better than the last time I came.

"Today we won't talk about the past. We'll talk about a person. A living one. Sitting right here among you."

He nodded toward Old Zhou, and Old Zhou paused for half a second with the lid of his teacup open.

Wu Ling didn't wait for his reaction and went straight downstairs.

"This man arrives at this teahouse before dawn every morning. He's there before the waiter even gets up. He lifts the curtain himself, boils the water, and brews the tea himself. When the waiter arrives, he sees—the old man is here before me again."

Someone chuckled over the chessboard, but Old Zhou didn't move.

"More than thirty years. Think about it, how long is more than thirty years? The outer city gate has changed its name, the vehicles on the street have changed from sedan chairs to rickshaws, and the wonton vendor across the alley has changed three times. But he hasn't moved. Just this chair. Just this bowl of Sanhua."

"You ask him what he's doing sitting here. He won't say. You ask him who he's waiting for. He still won't say. The teacup lid tilts—he'll refill the water. The teacup lid straightens—he won't move. He sits there all day."

Wu Ling slowed down.

"Don't think he's daydreaming. This guy has sharper eyes than anyone else. When someone comes in, before their shadow even crosses the threshold, he knows whether it's a new customer or a regular. He doesn't move when it's a regular. But when it's a new customer, he'll give them a second look. Not because he's wary of anyone, but because he's watching over this teahouse."

"He looked after this teahouse for most of his life... Some people say he was the accountant for a Manchu family—"

"wrong."

Old Zhou spoke, his voice not loud, but the teahouse was already quiet.

Wu Ling stopped to look at him.

"I'm not from a Manchu family," Old Zhou said, holding his bowl. "I am a Manchu. Plain White Banner. Manchu."

The two players on the chessboard stopped playing, and the waiter leaned against the counter without moving.

"My great-great-grandfather's generation came to Sichuan and were assigned to garrison Chengdu. They were stationed in Shaocheng. The banner salary was paid for generations, but it stopped when it came to me. It wasn't that they didn't pay, but it wasn't enough to make a living."

He took a sip of tea.

"The accounting job came later. If you don't do accounting, you won't eat. Manchus can't go out to work if they starve; that's the rule. Doing accounting isn't considered working; it's considered helping out."

"What about your family?"

"His wife is still here. She's the one who makes the egg pancakes. His son—" He paused, "...is gone."

"They've left..."

"They just left. The young people couldn't stay, so they went to Chongqing. They haven't been back for over ten years."

Old Zhou's hands were steady as he held the bowl, and his tone was steady as well.

The only unusual thing was that he said "left" twice, with different tones each time.

"I've been sitting in this teahouse for over thirty years. When I first came here..." He glanced towards the entrance, "...your grandfather hadn't arrived yet."

"Then someone came, his hair wasn't white. He was a few years younger than you are now. The first day he sat there all afternoon, drinking three bowls of tea. He didn't say a word. On the fourth day he brought a bag of candy. Round and hard."

Master Liu chuckled quietly in the corner.

"I bit down and almost broke my tooth. After that, he came often, and he would go on stage to tell stories. He was good at it, and at the busiest times, the theater was packed. There was even a group of people standing at the door."

Old Zhou paused for a moment.

"The last time he came, he sat on the stage for a long time. He didn't tell any stories. He just sat there. When he left, he told me to watch the teahouse for him while he was away."

"What did you say?"

I said okay.

Wu Ling stood on the stage, holding the gavel in his hand, looking at the old man below the stage.

He suddenly didn't want to talk about what he had prepared.

Old Zhou himself just told a story a hundred times better than anything he could have made up.

"He only said the first half; I'll finish the second half for him."

No one in the audience said a word.

"Speaking of this old tea drinker, he was a descendant of a Manchu, destined to be an accountant, and spent half his life tending the teahouse. The world outside changed beyond recognition; he was oblivious to it all. He just stayed here, tending to this chair and this bowl of tea. If you asked him what he was after, he wouldn't say."

"Later, someone came to the teahouse. After he arrived, the place was full."

He didn't elaborate here; the audience had just heard it.

"Later, that person stopped coming."

"The old tea drinker waited for two years. More than seven hundred days. He came every day and sat until closing time. He drank bowl after bowl of tea. As soon as the door opened, he would look up... No."

"Until one day, the door rang again."

"The person who came in wasn't the one he was waiting for. It was that person's grandson."

He looked down at his hands; the hand gripping the gavel was trembling.

"His grandson is terrible at making tea. He's even worse at storytelling. His hand trembles when he holds the gavel."

He raised his hand for the audience to see, and it was really shaking.

But he came.

The old tea drinker picked up his bowl, took a sip of tea, and uttered four words—

He looked at Old Zhou.

"It's good that you're here."

The teahouse fell silent.

It wasn't the kind of quiet that's awkward and silent; it was the kind of quiet where everyone stopped what they were doing.

The chess pieces were not placed, the pot was not lifted, and the bronze gong was not turned.

Three seconds, maybe four seconds.

Then Old Zhou picked up the covered bowl and took a sip.

"Better than last time."

He put the bowl down.

"This time it's about people."

Wu Ling's legs felt a little weak when he came down from the stage.

He sat back down next to Old Zhou, and neither of them spoke.

After a while, Old Zhou stood up, walked behind the inner counter, rummaged around for a while, and took out a piece of oiled paper that had been folded twice from the innermost drawer.

It was placed in front of Wu Ling.

"She wrote it. I'm not very literate, but your grandfather read it and said it was correct."

Wu Ling unfolded the paper; the oil paper was yellowed, and the corners were frayed.

The handwriting is fine, and each stroke is carefully executed.

Two ounces of flour, one egg, one and a half mace of brown sugar, a little bit of fermented rice, and a small half spoonful of rapeseed oil.

The portion size is specified in the price, and the cooking time is described as "simmer over low heat for several breaths, then flip and cook until both sides are golden brown and slightly charred."

"Your wife has beautiful handwriting."

"She attended a private school for a few years," Old Zhou smiled, a rare occurrence. "She's better than me."

Wu Ling folded the oil paper and put it in his pocket.

The curtain in the inner room moved.

Xiao Cui stood behind the curtain, wearing an old gray-blue cotton-padded jacket, her hair neatly tied up, and her face looking thinner.

She looked at the empty self-heating rice box on the table.

"Shopkeeper." The voice was softer than before.

"You're back?"

"Um."

She walked to the table, turned the empty box over, and saw the remnants of the heating pack at the bottom.

"Did you bring this food from over there?"

"Hmm. It doesn't taste good."

She put the box back and stood there for a while.

"If my mom were here, she'd say it doesn't taste good either. Her cooking is the best."

The sound was very flat.

Old Zhou tapped the rim of his teacup with the lid. "Xiao Cui, make the shopkeeper a bowl of tea."

"I'll do it myself."

"Let her soak."

Xiao Cui went to the counter, scooped tea, poured water, and put the lid on.

The gestures were practiced and executed smoothly in one go.

He brought it over and placed it in front of Wu Ling.

Wu Ling took a sip.

The floral fragrance and tea flavor are separate; you smell the jasmine first, then taste the tea base. It's better than what he brewed.

"Did your mother teach you that?"

"Yes. She said brewing tea is like life. You can't rush it."

Old Zhou chimed in from the side, "Even your grandfather said her mother's tea was good."

"My grandfather said the same thing. We can't rush things."

Xiao Cui stood there for a while, then said softly, "Shopkeeper, next time you come... could you bring some flower seeds? The flowers over there are different from those here, aren't they?"

"no the same."

"Then bring some. The backyard is empty."

When Wu Ling returned to the modern world, it was almost dawn.

He unfolded the oil paper under the counter lamp and found that the last line of the recipe was written incorrectly; it wasn't Old Zhou's wife's handwriting.

Thinner, faster, and with cursive writing.

"Don't rush things."

It's my grandfather's handwriting.

He looked up at the mural and noticed that the lower right corner of the Republican-era section was noticeably brighter than it had been yesterday.

Wu Ling opened his phone and sent a message to Qin Xiaowan.

"Got it, the old recipe for egg pancakes."