After raining all day, the sky began to clear toward evening. The setting sun cast a brilliant golden glow on the glass curtain walls of the high-rise buildings.
It took Lin Song a full hour to inch his way from Yindun Street, west of Hankou Railway Station, to Jinsui Street on the east side. The square in front of the station was gridlocked with countless ride-share cars.
Lin Song parked in the underground garage and then went to the bus stop across the road. Several bus routes went directly to Qushuilou, and from there, it was just a few minutes’ walk to Liangliang Steamed Crayfish in the Wansongyuan district.
He had arranged to meet his old friend, Zhao, at six. Lao Zhao returned to Wuhan every few months to handle both public and private affairs. In the past, Lin Song was always the last to arrive, as he had to prepare dinner for his father before leaving home. Now that his father was gone, he no longer had a reason to be late.
The host at the entrance of Liangliang Steamed Crayfish asked Lin Song, who was peering around inquisitively, “Hello, sir, how many in your party?”
“Oh, I’m looking for someone.”
“Then please, go on in and have a look. There are still tables available inside.”
Lin Song walked through the restaurant but couldn’t find Lao Zhao. He went back outside and sat on a long bench by the door to send Lao Zhao a voice message on WeChat.
“Hey, Lao Zhao, I’m here, but I don’t see you guys.”
“Oh, we haven’t arrived yet. Couldn’t get a car. We just got out of the subway station now.”
“Okay, I’ll go in and grab a table first.”
“Sounds good. A table for four will do.”
Lin Song re-entered the restaurant. The host at the door didn’t greet him this time. He found a cool table, sat down, and sent a message to Lao Zhao: “B06,” the table number he had chosen.
Whenever Lao Zhao returned to Wuhan for a meal, he always brought his own drinks, and it was never the same bottle twice. He had a collection of various famous liquors. This was his passion. As he put it, “Collect slowly, drink slowly. Live to a ripe old age, and drink to a ripe old age.”
This time, Lao Zhao brought a bottle of Japanese whisky. Lin Song knew nothing about liquor and couldn’t identify the brand of the porcelain bottle covered in Japanese writing. Lao Zhao said to the waiter:
“Could you get us some ice, please?”
“One glass?”
Before Lao Zhao could reply, Lin Song quickly interjected, “Bring us a bowl of ice, thank you!”
Lin Song, a lightweight drinker, had Lao Zhao pour him a couple of fingers of whisky into a glass already half-full of ice. The first sip was incredibly harsh on his throat. He forced himself to finish the glass of whisky diluted with ice water, bit by bit.
Lao Zhao always craved Wuhan’s crayfish and barbecue. He had traveled all over the country but still felt that when it came to crayfish and barbecue, no one did it with more flavor than the people of Wuhan; it just suited his temperament.
Lao Zhao pulled a cigar from his pocket. Lin Song pointed to a sign on the wall behind him and said, “Look, no smoking in here.”
Lao Zhao turned to look. The sign read: “Smokers will be dragged to the back to shell crayfish.” He reluctantly stuffed the cigar from the table back into his pocket.
“Fine. We’ll find a place to smoke after we finish eating.”
A basin of steamed crayfish, a basin of spicy crayfish, grilled bream, grilled chicken feet, preserved eggs with crispy fried noodles, and a large bowl of cold noodles—all the essentials were ordered. Yet, as they ate, the fiery, boisterous energy of their younger days seemed to be missing.
Lao Zhao paid the bill by scanning a QR code. The area outside had grown lively. A crowd of young people was still waiting for a table at Xia’s Claypot. After all, claypot rice was much cheaper than crayfish. In Wuhan, a decent crayfish meal could cost as much as an affordable seafood dinner.
Along the street-facing side of the mall, three milk tea shops were lined up right next to a Chanel boutique. Lao Zhao carried a round table and four chairs out from one of them, then took out his metal cigar case and cutter and placed them on the table.
Lin Song proactively went to the milk tea shop to ask the clerk, “How do I order?”
“Scan the QR code with your phone to place an order.”
“There are several codes here. Which one should I scan?”
“Haven’t you already scanned it? Just tap the homepage.”
“What should I get?”
“Order whatever you like.”
“I don’t know what to get. Could you recommend something?”
“Just look for yourself.”
“I’ve never ordered this before; I don’t know how.”
“Just open the menu and browse through it.”
Lin Song spotted a discarded order slip on the counter. He picked it up and saw it was for something called “Orchid Latte”—an order of three cups.
So, he found that item and ordered four. Lao Zhao’s friend, Mr. Guo, was fascinated by the dollop of cream on top of the milk tea. He scooped up a large piece with the stir stick, saying it felt like eating a birthday cake. It was, he declared, his first time drinking milk tea.
Lao Zhao had already cut the tips off the cigars. The ones he brought this time were a type Lin Song had never seen before—neither thick like a robusto nor thin like a cigarette. He had brought them back from a recent trip to Japan.
A cigar needs a bit of roughness; if it’s too smooth, it feels bland. That advertising slogan, “A gift of subtle fragrance,” is just another way of saying “bland.” How could freewheeling uncles like them ever experience the joy of blandness? They actively rejected every uninteresting night.
After finishing the cigar, Lin Song felt a bit of a buzz. Walking down the steps, he felt unsteady, as if he were treading on a thick carpet.