I remember best the mornings, not because they were especially wonderful in manner of something serendipitous, but merely because they were always the same, and routines, like bad Thanksgiving entrees of your childhood, have a way of burrowing into the cradles of your memories.
I would awake each morning to the busy chatter of the neighborhood, pots and pans arguing with cracked tiled countertops, straw-bound brooms soothing and sweet talking the concrete floor of the alleyway, and the waste water from each unit running hurriedly along the gutters that flank it as if propelled by the fear of lagging behind progress.
The windows were never closed in my neighborhood. Many would take their meals outside. Leaning against a partially renovated brick wall or sitting on flimsy plastic stools, they exchanged stories with their neighbors, the lives of their children, the gossip du jour, the young Chinese-American boy that recently moved in next door and the laundry line of colorful boxers he places daily on display. Most of the residents have been here all their lives, and having witnessed the fall and subsequent rise of the city around them, they are prouder still of their own durability. My own neighborhood, in fact, was only a ten minute walk from here, but sadly, the only reminder of its former existence today is a public restroom on an island in the middle of street, one that my uncle used to frequent whenever my mother placed me in his charge. He'd walk out of our
long dang with a book and a pack of Double Happiness in one hand and me in tow in the other and we would cross the busy intersection swarmed with smokey-tailed diesel engines and frantic flocks of bicycles orchestrated with the grace of winged migrations. But as it is today, the intersection has become a negligible side street, overshadowed by the towering behemoths of economic prosperity that have taken root beside the communal establishment serving anchor to my childhood stories.
The weekday mornings were usually unhurried, as my job did not place upon me a great deal of stress to be punctual. Being management has its benefits. I would get out of bed and walk straight to the shower, stripping loose any clothes I had on along the way, and plant myself under a stream of piping hot water for ten minutes, savoring the dreams of the previous night. After the shower, I would walk to my closet and get dressed. Slacks, dress shirt, tie, a blazer if the weather brought a breeze through my windows, I've often felt that my dress was a perfect contradiction of the very neighborhood I lived in.
Four out of five days of the week I would have breakfast at the corner eatery on my way to work. I call it a eatery because I could not in good conscience refer to it as a restaurant. This culinary establishment is comprised of a kitchen and three tables set along an old tiled wall, each fitted with three stools of unequal height, and a menu consisting of some twenty ready-made items posted on a glass window facing the street. Nevertheless, its location is what draws in the business. Located on the corner of
Huai Hai Lu and
Yan Dang Lu, in one of the busiest districts of the city, mere convenience was enough to make this place more profitable than most KFCs that enjoyed notably greater commercial ubiquity.
Having sat down at one of the tables, I usually find myself dining with various strangers as they stop in for a quick bite. The place is small so the tables are naturally communal. But even with our close proximity, we never speak to each other. The silent staleness is broken only by the voice of the cashier relaying orders for take out.
My usual order is a bowl of noodles with an order of
xiao long bao, the traditional Shanghainese steamed dumplings renowned for its delicious soup sealed within a delicately thin skin
. I fill my dipping bowl with brown vinegar and wait as my food is prepared.
My breakfast arrives quickly and I make no hesitation as I slurp up the slippery noodles and suckle the dumplings of their scalding soup. With a greasy film of lard on my lips and a mouth smacking of meat and dough cut by the sharpness of brown vinegar, I look occasionally into the faces of the passersby as they journey to their daily destinations, be it work, school, or the marketplace. I view them with the eyes of a foreign observer, a tourist, here only so long as the pleasure holds. I swallow my food and take a big gulp of the watery soup to wash it down. And as I get up to leave, I find invariably that everyone else has already gone.
