Chapter 35: The Taste of Home

Every flavor of home is a unique memory, embodying the nostalgia and longing one feels for their roots. In this land, every dish carries the warmth of family and the bonds of kinship.

— Excerpt from "A Bite of China," Episode 2: The Flavors of Home —

Hu Biao had chosen an alley in Majuqiao as the spot for his street stall. He had his reasons for selecting this specific location. About a hundred meters to his left was a medium-sized middle school where most students were day-boarders. The flow of students commuting to and from evening study sessions alone represented a steady and promising customer base. Furthermore, the area was surrounded by several old residential complexes home to a large number of young white-collar workers and day laborers. While the alley remained quiet during the day, it became incredibly vibrant once evening fell.

Sure enough, as Hu Biao arrived on his tricycle just as the sky began to dim, he found that many mobile stalls had already set up shop. There were vendors selling phone screen protectors, barbecue, fried rice, fried noodles, braised dishes, fruit juices, milk tea, ring-toss games, and socks three pairs for ten yuan—it was a spontaneously formed little night market.

Without delay, Hu Biao hurried to find a spot. Unfortunately, he had arrived a bit late; the prime locations were already taken. Even when he tried to pull over in a vacant space, nearby vendors would shout that it was already claimed. After being shooed away several times, Hu Biao felt a surge of irritation. He simply pushed further ahead, setting up his stall in a corner where the streetlights were broken, a good twenty or thirty meters away from the nearest vendor.

So what if there was no light? He had equipped his cart with several rechargeable LED lamps; once lit, they wouldn't hinder his business. As he busied himself placing his foldable table and plastic stools on the sidewalk behind the cart, a voice suddenly rang out:

"Hey! Isn't this Hu Biao? What made you decide to get into this business?"

Hu Biao turned to see three young men he knew from the day-labor circuit in Majuqiao. He didn't know their real names—many people drifting here didn't use their actual IDs—only their nicknames: Four-Eyes, Iron Rooster, and Monkey. Since they were all around the same age and shared a similar "lying flat" philosophy, they got along well enough, occasionally gathering for a meal or hitting an internet café together.

Faced with the questions of his former partners in apathy, Hu Biao offered a half-truth: "There are more and more people looking for day work in Majuqiao, and jobs are getting harder to find. My skills with oil-splashed noodles and meat burgers aren't bad, so I figured I’d give it a shot for a few days."

Though he spoke casually, a spark of light flickered in his eyes as he thought about the future. Seeing that light, the expressions of the three men shifted—a complex mix of annoyance, envy, and disbelief that they couldn't even name. Eventually, Four-Eyes blurted out:

"What's the point? How many people actually get rich off a tiny business like this? You’re just overexerting your body to make a few pennies, only to spend it all on medical bills when you're old. Living for the day and staying healthy is what matters. My luck is in today, I’ve got over eight hundred yuan. Why don't we go to Old Ma's place for some lamb spine hot pot, have a few drinks, and then head to the internet café? I'll cover the net fees, cigarettes, drinks, and snacks."

Had this been in the past, Hu Biao would have jumped at the chance for a free ride, but now, he had no interest. He didn't claim to understand the mindset of every laborer in Majuqiao, but he knew the mentality of many: though they spout all sorts of twisted logic, deep down, every one of them knows that continuing this way isn't good. They simply lack the courage and the means to pull themselves together. Seeing someone trying to crawl out of the mud, their instinct was to drag that person back down to wallow with them—just as Hu Biao used to eagerly offer cigarettes to anyone who mentioned trying to quit.

Hu Biao shook his head and smiled. "Not tonight. I have to wake up early tomorrow to buy ingredients and make dough, so I'll pass. You guys enjoy yourselves."

"Idiot, can't even take a freebie when it's offered," Iron Rooster cursed. He and the others walked off, grumbling. Hu Biao didn't bother to retort; he knew that with his own hands and his craft, he would climb out of this quagmire.

Just as he was feeling full of confidence, a voice spoke up: "You look new, kid. First time setting up here? You know the rules? Take your trash with you when you close up, and there's a ten-yuan cleaning fee every day."

He turned to see a middle-aged woman with a red armband eyeing him. Hu Biao slapped his forehead, a headache brewing. The ten-yuan fee wasn't expensive, and he was willing to pay it, but the problem was he hadn't made a single sale yet—where was he supposed to get the money? Three minutes later, after Hu Biao bowed and scraped and promised to pay later, the woman left, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Hu Biao took a deep breath and looked at the prices written on his cart's glass: 12 yuan for plain oil-splashed noodles, 18 yuan with meat, and 12 yuan for a meat burger. For a street stall, these were definitely on the high side. But he had no choice! To ensure the best flavor, he bought only the freshest, highest-quality ingredients. Furthermore, his braised meat was high-yield; he used at least two taels of meat per burger, making it an honest, substantial portion. If he sold them cheaper, he wouldn't make a profit. Most importantly, he believed the skills he learned from his old squad leader were worth every penny.

Confident in his product, he decided to use his secret weapon: he lifted the lid of the small pot on his gas stove where the braised meat had been simmering. Instantly, despite the alley already being filled with the scents of various foods, this aroma of braised meat became the most dominant force.

*******

"Huh! What is that smell? It's so familiar—it reminds me of the meat my mom used to stew when I was a kid."

Caught by the scent, Huang Weimin instinctively stopped in his tracks, abandoning his usual route to the fried noodle stall he frequented. Ignoring the vendor's eager smile, he followed the aroma deeper into the alley. After walking for several minutes and exiting the main night market, he finally spotted the stall he had never seen before. Seeing that it served oil-splashed noodles and meat burgers, his eyes filled with an indescribable surprise.

It was a surprise because 35-year-old Huang Weimin was still single. A true native of Chang'an, he had grown up eating these very dishes. But Beijing was a difficult city to live in; his salary of twenty thousand yuan sounded like a lot, but to save on rent, he lived in Majuqiao while working inside the Third Ring Road. Between the long daily commute and his expenses, he didn't have much left at the end of the month. To earn extra overtime pay, he hadn't been home in over two years and hadn't tasted a proper meal from his hometown in just as long.

After glancing at the prices, he felt the stall was surprisingly expensive, but he still told the young, sunny-faced owner, "One serving of plain oil-splashed noodles and a meat burger. Add chili when you chop the meat."

As he sat down, he was surprised to find that while the table and stools were the cheapest kind of secondhand goods, they were impeccably clean, without a trace of grease. The young owner didn't say a word, simply getting to work. His movements—rolling and cutting the dough—were clean and efficient, showing the poise of a seasoned master. When he pulled out a large chunk of meat and chopped it with a rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack*, it sounded like music.

Especially when the noodles were boiled, topped with vegetables and chili flakes, and the owner poured a ladle of sizzling hot oil over them three times with a loud *sizzle*, it gave Huang Weimin the illusion that he was sitting in a time-honored noodle shop back home.

When the noodles and the meat burger were served, he couldn't wait to take a bite. And then, a 35-year-old man working thousands of miles from home burst into tears. It wasn't because Hu Biao had added onions, nor was it because the noodles tasted better than the meat; it was the best bowl of oil-splashed noodles he had ever eaten in his life.

In that moment, Huang Weimin tasted the flavor of home. He felt as if he had returned to the Guanzhong Plain, to the yellow earth that had raised him. He missed home; he missed his parents.