Three ladies who are probably my age are sitting off to my right. They seem old. But I suppose I seem old. A young guy to whom I certainly seem old, has just walked in front of me. He looks at me again and again and smiles. There are bao jian private rooms off to the right. A guy just popped out of one and ordered some more soup. The lady is now standing immediately to my right, yelling something in Shanghaihua and ladling up a bowl of soup for these guys. Now that I look, it isn’t soup. It is some kind of alcohol in an old earthenware jug.
The scene was abruptly interrupted by two guys who, might appear to be cops from the badges on their arms. They walked right up to my waitress and started yelling at her aggressively in a thick Shanghainese accent. She was utterly unfazed and discoursed with them calmly. From what I could discern with the accents this was something to do with parking. Someone had parked in the wrong place. Soon the table across from mine was notified. A couple in their forties had their dinner interrupted. The woman stood, and smiled and causally made her way out, presumably to move her car. This, out of all proportion to the inflammable yelling that preceded it from the man with the official badge on his coat. This was, simply the manner in which expressed himself in all situations: forcefully.
I asked the lady scooping up the booze what it was in the jugs. She confirmed that there was a sweet wine and a dry wine. Would you like a taste? She asked. Yes, I would. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for Chinese liquor just now, but if it was the consistency of wine, I could take a swig. “You want the sweet or the dry?” I’ll take the dry,. It’s not unpleasant, and tastes like what I always remember Shanghai rice wine to taste like. Apparently a small vessel of this hooch is only twenty-five kuai. Really? Well in that case, scoop me up an amphora full. She checks with her much younger colleague and is disabused of the pricing she’d assumed. “Oh. Sorry. It’s eighty-five kuai per bottle.” Right. In that case, I’ll pass.
I speak to her in Shanghainese and she doesn’t pick up on it. “Where are you from?” I ask. She is also my age, I suspect, but she looks rather older. “Me?” “Yes. Where are you from?” “Gansu.” “Oh. So you’re a northerner?” “Yes. I am from up the northwest.” My whole filter alters in real time. “Well, me too. I live in Beijing. Though I’m from the U.S.” ‘Right. Well you see, I had no idea how much this wine cost.” “Don’t worry. We'll try it next time.”
As usually happens this self-billed Shangahainese food place, doesn’t seem to have any of the classic dishes. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve just met the boss, Li Tong. We’ve chatted. He’s taken an interest. Sensibly, he’s suggested I order half portions next time. Presumably at half price. Like everyone, he seems to be my age. And, very swiftly now, I am the only patron left in the place.
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