After raining for half the night, it finally stopped. The east-facing window did not greet an early-rising sun. The air was clear and transparent. Along the horizon, thick cumulonimbus clouds curled, letting a faint morning glow seep through.
Room 7 on the sixth floor is being renovated. Debris from dismantled old cabinets litters the elevator. You have to watch your step coming in and out to avoid a nail. Just after 8:30 a.m., the impact drill started, sending vibrations through the entire building and giving me a headache. I had to hurry downstairs to get “guò zǎo” (the Wuhan term for the morning ritual of eating breakfast).
I was still thinking of getting breakfast at “Nanjing Soup Dumplings.” After being trapped in man-made coolness for ten days to a half month, I kind of missed the pickles and congee made by the people from Huai’an who run the place.
There was no sun and no rain, so I hadn’t brought an umbrella. But just as I walked out of the apartment complex, raindrops the size of mung beans began to fall sporadically. Going to “Dehua Lou” in the shopping mall became the only option for this rich breakfast configuration.
There was no member top-up promotion today, and the balance on my Dehua Lou membership card had run out some time ago. As a result, it seemed I hadn’t been to Dehua Lou for breakfast on a Thursday in a long time, and thus had never run into a top-up promotion again. How could that be? Don’t I stroll through the mall almost every day?
Today was the promotion day for shumai: buy one steamer, get one free. This was the first small bargain I could get today; how could I pass it up? Although two steamers of shumai were a bit much, I couldn’t possibly say I didn’t want the free one. Linsong had, in the past, proactively refused freebies from businesses, but every time he did something so out of the ordinary, he’d get scolded: “Did your head get caught in the door?”
After ordering the shumai and soup dumplings, you have to wait six minutes. The chefs only start putting the food in the steamers after the printer spits out the order ticket. Usually, the chef steaming the buns is also responsible for making some of them; not all items are delivered to the store via a cold chain. Customers have to go to the steaming station and call out loudly to the chef working behind the curtain. Today, a tall novice was standing behind the station. He told Linsong, “The shumai is steamed to order. You have to wait six minutes.” “Oh, I’ll come back for it later then.” “Listen for your number, we’ll call it out.” Linsong turned to get his cold noodles first, but an older, more experienced chef from behind the station called out to him, “Don’t go, it’ll be ready in a moment. Forty seconds left.” The old chef pointed to two rows of timers with constantly changing numbers and began to instruct the new guy, “This is the timer for the shumai. You need to look at the countdown first, and then tell the customer how many minutes are left.” Just as the old chef finished his instructions, the timer showed only three seconds remaining.
Linsong reminded himself to ask the noodle chef for extra sesame sauce, but he still forgot to ask for a spoonful of pickled long beans.
At the next table, two bowls of reganmian (hot-dry noodles) both had an extra spoonful of chili. The diners complained it was a bit spicy and would give them “heatiness.” The “youxiang” (a fried dough snack) they had with it looked too dry. Why not order a bowl of boiled dumplings in soup? How come they didn’t buy a “mianwo” (a savory fried doughnut)? Another neighbor had two phones placed next to his noodle bowl. He’d scroll through one, then the other, before finally eating his noodles. Near the mall entrance, a child in a high chair was letting out a sharp, piercing shriek.
The China Everbright Bank on the corner has given up its street-corner location. “Minsheng Eatery” is renovating the space. In a few days, there will be another good place for breakfast here.
It’s been a long time since I ran into Director Xu’s Chihuahua in the elevator. Director Xu originally had two Chihuahuas. They were about the same size, like twins, and Linsong could never tell them apart. In fact, Director Xu had told Linsong that the two were mother and son. Even so, Linsong still couldn’t figure out which was which. Just a few months ago, Director Xu would take both Chihuahuas down to the courtyard for a walk every day. He never used a leash, and the two dogs were extremely boisterous in the elevator. When a neighbor rode the elevator with them, Director Xu would symbolically scold the dogs, telling them to be quiet. However, the two Chihuahuas never paid any mind to his nagging.
Usually, whenever you saw Director Xu, you saw his two noisy Chihuahuas. If he didn’t have the dogs with him, it meant he was going to a meeting at his company. Once a month, Director Xu would swap his comfortable casual wear for a Polo shirt, a belt, and a clutch held under his arm. When he ran into Linsong in the elevator, he would proactively answer the question in Linsong’s eyes, “I’m going to the company for a board meeting. I have to go once a month.”
Later, the two Chihuahuas became one. Director Xu told Linsong in the elevator, “The big one died.” After that, Director Xu didn’t walk the remaining Chihuahua much himself. He now lets the dog go out on its own, take the elevator down to the courtyard for a stroll, and then take the elevator back home by itself. The neighbors all know it’s Director Xu’s dog. When they share the elevator, they’ll press the button for its floor. The dog knows its own way home.