Above the front counter, the variety of noodles listed on the blackboard menu was impressive. Yu hardly had time to choose. People standing behind them were growing impatient. They must be regular customers, familiar with their favorite noodles, capable of telling the round-faced cashier their choices without having to consult the menu.
Yu ordered noodles with pickled green cabbage and winter bamboo shoots, plus a small dish of xiao pork-a must at this restaurant, according to Mr. Ren. Peiqin had noodles with fried rice paddy eels and shrimp, and xiao pork too. Qinqin chose noodles with a smoked carp head, in addition to a Coca-Cola.
The service was far less impressive. The oil-and-soup-smeared round tables were large enough for ten or twelve people, so the Yu’s could not have a table for themselves. The first floor of the restaurant was large, but there were only two middle-aged waitresses who bustled around, carrying plates and bowls overlapped along their outstretched arms. They were unable to clean up the tables in a timely way, especially since other customers were still eating. That might be one of the reasons the restaurant was able to keep prices low.
Two other noodle-eaters shared their table. One looked as thin as a bamboo stick. The other appeared as round as a winter melon. They seemed to know each other well.
“Eat and drink while you can. Life is short.” The thin one raised his teacup, took a sip, and buried a piece of chicken deep under his noodles.
“This bowl of plain noodles has the same delicious soup,” the round one said, smacking his lips. “Besides, I need to keep to my diet.”
“Come on.” The thin one sounded sarcastic. “It’s a miracle that you look so prosperous and can come here every day-on your waiting-for-retirement pay.”
Plain noodles must be the cheapest in the restaurant, but for someone in the waiting-for-retirement program, with a monthly paycheck of around 200 Yuan, a bowl of plain noodles for 3 Yuan might be all he could afford.
From a bamboo container, Peiqin picked out chopsticks which were still wet, dried them with her handkerchief, and gave a pair to each member of the family. Qinqin took the old-fashioned black pepper bottle and studied it like a math problem. As they waited for their orders, Yu noticed some less patient customers going to the kitchen counter and bringing back their orders with their own hands.
Finally, their noodles arrived. Following Mr. Ren’s advice, Yu immersed slices of xiao pork in the soup, waited for a minute or two until the warmed pork grew nearly transparent, and then let it melt on his tongue. The noodles’ texture was indescribable, resilient but not too hard, seasoned by the tasty soup.
To impress Qinqin, Yu tried to analyze the special ingredients of the noodle soup, but he ended up remembering only that some tiny nameless fish were boiled in a cloth bag in its preparation. Qinqin appeared to be quite interested.
Yu was pondering whether to order a portion of xiao pork for his son when an old man took a seat at a table next to them. The newcomer wore a long purple down-padded jacket and a cotton-padded hat with two long earflaps, which nearly masked his face. He kept rubbing his hands which seemed to be stiff from the cold morning air outside. He also ordered a bowl of plain noodles, over which he breathed a long sigh with an air of utter satisfaction.
“Look,” Qinqin whispered to Yu. “He took pork out of his pocket.”
It was true. The old man actually produced plastic-wrapped slices of pork from his jacket pocket, put them into the soup, and waited for the celebrated soaking effect.
“Is that pork really so special?” Qinqin asked in amusement.
Yu did not know how to answer. For regular customers here, he supposed, it could be a ritual to place a piece of xiao pork on top of the noodles. But he did not know what kind of pork the old fellow had brought with him. Perhaps it was ham, processed in a very special way.
But there was another mystery: xiao pork was prepared only at Old Half Place. What the old man brought must have been home-cooked pork. If so, why had he bothered?
Then, when he took off his hat and turned toward them, Yu recognized the old customer to be none other than Mr. Ren.
“Ah, Mr. Ren!”
“Comrade Detective Yu, I’m so glad to see you here in Old Half Place!” Mr. Ren said with a genial smile. “You have taken my advice, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have brought my wife and son as well. Peiqin and Qinqin.”
“Great. A wonderful family dining out together. That’s the spirit,” Mr. Ren said with an energetic gesture. “Please go ahead and enjoy your noodles or they will get cold.”
Turning back, Yu whispered in Peiqin’s ear, “He is someone I met at Yin’s building.”
“I should have known better,” she whispered back. “Imagine you having the leisure to take us out for breakfast in the midst of your investigation.”
“No, our breakfast has nothing to do with the case.”
But that was not exactly true. Yu might have intended, subconsciously, to check the accuracy of Mr. Ren’s statement.
“He told me a lot about Old Half Place when I interviewed him. Does that count as something related to the case?”
“He’s one of the suspects on your list, I remember,” she said with a smile of subtle sarcasm. “And are you satisfied now?”
“Well, he’s not on my list any longer, but I’m satisfied with breakfast.”
That was true. The breakfast, at a total of sixteen Yuan for the three of them, was inexpensive yet delightful. It was also good for the whole family to go out occasionally, like this.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mr. Ren turned around to their table. His noodles were finished. “You may be surprised that I took some pork out of my pocket. That’s a trick only an old gourmet knows how to play.” He grinned at Qinqin.
“Yes, please tell me why you did that,” Qinqin said.
“After lunchtime, the restaurant sells xiao pork by the kilo. Fifty Yuan for one kilo. It sounds expensive, but it is not really. If you slice the pork at home, one kilo will make about seventy-five or eighty portions. How much do you pay for a side dish here? Two Yuan. So I buy half a kilo, put it in the refrigerator-you must have a refrigerator at home-and take out a few slices before I come here.”
“You surely don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Mr. Ren, with all-” Yu did not say “all your compensation money.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Detective Yu. An old gourmet will do anything but let his stomach down. I’m too old to care for what’s called-oh, conspicuous consumption. The xiao pork I bring with me tastes the same in my mouth. Old Half Place is a good place. I hope I’ll see you here again.”
“We will certainly come back,” Yu said. “When the investigation is over, you will have to tell me more about your gourmet tricks.”
“Come to my restaurant some day, Mr. Ren,” Peiqin said. “Ours is not well-known-it is called Four Seas -but we have some quite good specialties, and they are inexpensive too.”
“Four Seas? I think I’ve heard of it. I will be there. You may count on that. Thank you, Peiqin.”
They rose from their tables, ready to leave.
Near the entrance, Qinqin stopped to look over the counter into a window, behind which two white-clad, white-capped chefs were slicing the chunks of xiao pork deftly on huge stumps. There were rows of chickens, dripping oil, hung on the shining steel hooks overhead.
“It’s like in Zhaungzi,” Qinqin said.
“Really!” Yu said vaguely, without catching the reference. Perhaps Peiqin had.
Then he saw Mr. Ren, who had walked out ahead of them, walking back toward the restaurant.
“Did you forget something, Mr. Ren?”
“No-that is, I forgot to tell you something.”