too-swift left turn. Chen thought the chances of such a dramatic, disastrous turn of events were slim.
Once again, he walked past the Wenhui Office Building, this time catching sight of a makeshift noodle stall on the sidewalk. The stall consisted of two pots of boiling water and soup on portable propane gas heads, along with a variety of meat and vegetable toppings on display in a glass case. The chef-proprietor appeared to be a local resident, cooking and hawking his wares with a flourish as if he was in a Hong Kong gourmet documentary. He dipped a ladle of noodles into the water, took it out almost immediately, and added the topping.
Chen went over to the stall and sat at a rough wood table. He noticed there were two or three beers in an almost empty crate nearby.
“A bottle of beer, the roast duck as a cross-bridge dish first, and then the noodles.”
“We don’t serve beer at lunchtime. Those are for myself. But if you really want one, twenty yuan. It’s normally served Hong Kong style, but I’ll make an exception for you and serve the topping separately.”
“That’s great. That you serve cross-bridge, I mean,” Chen said.
“Do you know the story about it?” the proprietor asked good-naturedly and went on without waiting for an answer. “In the old days, a scholar was preparing for the civil service examination on a secluded island in Yunnan. His capable wife had to carry his meals across the bridge to him. Among his favorite foods was a bowl of rice noodle soup with assorted toppings. But because of the time it took to deliver them, the noodles lost their flavor, having sat too long in the soup. So she put the steaming hot chicken soup in a special container, the toppings and noodles in two others, and then mixed them after arriving at her husband’s place. That way, the noodles and the toppings still tasted fresh. Revitalized by the delicious noodles, the scholar threw himself back into his preparations and eventually passed the examination. So it’s called cross-bridge-”
“How interesting!” Chen nodded, though he already knew the story.
“And here is my modification. Instead of putting the toppings on the noodles, I serve them separately, so the customer can have the topping as a cross-bridge dish.”
“Good idea,” Chen said, producing a pack and handing the chef a cigarette.
“Wow-Panda.”
Chen wanted to talk with him or, failing that, to sit and observe from the stall. A bowl of noodles wouldn’t give him much time, but a bottle of beer could make the difference.
“So business is pretty good here,” Chen said, slowly pouring himself a cup from the beer bottle.
“Not at this time of day. But during lunchtime, quite a number of journalists come here from across the street. Or in a couple of hours, it’s kindergarten time. It’s not the rich parents who wait in the cars for their kids, but drivers and maids.”
“I see. The roast duck is really fresh and nice. I’d love to have another portion, but I’m full today.” The compliment was true. The duck tasted delectable, its succulent skin crisp, its meat juicy. It wasn’t placed on top of the noodles but in a separate white saucer, its scarlet color making a pleasant contrast to the green vegetable in the soup. “So, are you here all day?”
“Seven in the morning to eight or nine at night. I live in the lane just behind this street. My wife prepares all the toppings at home and delivers them here every two or three hours. They are guaranteed fresh. Those young journalist girls can be fastidious, and they won’t come back if they’re even slightly unsatisfied.”
Chen noticed that several people were now walking around the scene of the accident near that intersection, pointing, commenting, and shooting pictures. They could be journalists, or maybe cops in plainclothes. Chen turned to the proprietor.
“What are they doing over there?”
“There was a hit-and-run accident yesterday.”
“There?”
“Yes, I saw
Once again, he walked past the Wenhui Office Building, this time catching sight of a makeshift noodle stall on the sidewalk. The stall consisted of two pots of boiling water and soup on portable propane gas heads, along with a variety of meat and vegetable toppings on display in a glass case. The chef-proprietor appeared to be a local resident, cooking and hawking his wares with a flourish as if he was in a Hong Kong gourmet documentary. He dipped a ladle of noodles into the water, took it out almost immediately, and added the topping.
Chen went over to the stall and sat at a rough wood table. He noticed there were two or three beers in an almost empty crate nearby.
“A bottle of beer, the roast duck as a cross-bridge dish first, and then the noodles.”
“We don’t serve beer at lunchtime. Those are for myself. But if you really want one, twenty yuan. It’s normally served Hong Kong style, but I’ll make an exception for you and serve the topping separately.”
“That’s great. That you serve cross-bridge, I mean,” Chen said.
“Do you know the story about it?” the proprietor asked good-naturedly and went on without waiting for an answer. “In the old days, a scholar was preparing for the civil service examination on a secluded island in Yunnan. His capable wife had to carry his meals across the bridge to him. Among his favorite foods was a bowl of rice noodle soup with assorted toppings. But because of the time it took to deliver them, the noodles lost their flavor, having sat too long in the soup. So she put the steaming hot chicken soup in a special container, the toppings and noodles in two others, and then mixed them after arriving at her husband’s place. That way, the noodles and the toppings still tasted fresh. Revitalized by the delicious noodles, the scholar threw himself back into his preparations and eventually passed the examination. So it’s called cross-bridge-”
“How interesting!” Chen nodded, though he already knew the story.
“And here is my modification. Instead of putting the toppings on the noodles, I serve them separately, so the customer can have the topping as a cross-bridge dish.”
“Good idea,” Chen said, producing a pack and handing the chef a cigarette.
“Wow-Panda.”
Chen wanted to talk with him or, failing that, to sit and observe from the stall. A bowl of noodles wouldn’t give him much time, but a bottle of beer could make the difference.
“So business is pretty good here,” Chen said, slowly pouring himself a cup from the beer bottle.
“Not at this time of day. But during lunchtime, quite a number of journalists come here from across the street. Or in a couple of hours, it’s kindergarten time. It’s not the rich parents who wait in the cars for their kids, but drivers and maids.”
“I see. The roast duck is really fresh and nice. I’d love to have another portion, but I’m full today.” The compliment was true. The duck tasted delectable, its succulent skin crisp, its meat juicy. It wasn’t placed on top of the noodles but in a separate white saucer, its scarlet color making a pleasant contrast to the green vegetable in the soup. “So, are you here all day?”
“Seven in the morning to eight or nine at night. I live in the lane just behind this street. My wife prepares all the toppings at home and delivers them here every two or three hours. They are guaranteed fresh. Those young journalist girls can be fastidious, and they won’t come back if they’re even slightly unsatisfied.”
Chen noticed that several people were now walking around the scene of the accident near that intersection, pointing, commenting, and shooting pictures. They could be journalists, or maybe cops in plainclothes. Chen turned to the proprietor.
“What are they doing over there?”
“There was a hit-and-run accident yesterday.”
“There?”
“Yes, I saw
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