Qiaotou Gao (Bridgehead Cake)

At the end of the old street, there is a stone bridge. At the head of the bridge, there is a pastry shop that sells Qiaotou Gao, a cake famous far and wide.

When I was a child, my biggest craving was for this Qiaotou Gao. White glutinous rice flour, kneaded with lard and brown sugar, sprinkled with osmanthus flowers, and then steamed. It came out hot and fragrant. One bite, and the soft, glutinous, sweet taste would reach deep into your heart.

At that time, the cake maker was an old man surnamed Li, and everyone called him Old Man Li. Old Man Li had been making cakes for decades, always consistent, never cutting corners. He often said that when making food, you must be true to your conscience. Children eat it to grow, so you can't be careless.

Every time my mother took me to buy cakes, she would always chat with Old Man Li about everyday life. Old Man Li would always smile, and he would cut an extra piece for me, wrap it in oiled paper, and stuff it into my hand. That oiled paper always carried a warm fragrance.

Later, I grew up and left the old street for the city. Qiaotou Gao gradually faded from my life.

A few days ago, I returned to my hometown and passed by the old street. I remembered Qiaotou Gao and wanted to go take a look.

The old street had changed. The stone bridge was still there, and the pastry shop at the bridgehead was also still there, but the signboard had been changed. It was bright and shiny, and it read "Century-Old Shop, Qiaotou Gao."

The cake maker was no longer Old Man Li, but a young man wearing a mask, so you couldn't see his face clearly.

I bought a piece of cake and took a bite. The taste seemed…off.

The glutinous rice flour was still glutinous rice flour, the lard, brown sugar, and osmanthus flowers seemed to be there, but something was missing.

What was missing?

I thought for a long time, but I couldn't figure it out.

I asked the young man, "What's your relationship to Old Man Li?"

The young man didn't even raise his head and said coldly, "What Old Man Li? I don't know him."

I was stunned.

I asked again, "Did you make this cake?"

The young man said, "So what if I did? So what if I didn't?"

I didn't say anything more. I took the cake and left.

Walking on the old street, I felt empty inside.

I thought, what I was eating was not Qiaotou Gao, but Old Man Li's human touch, the taste that hadn't changed in decades, the adherence to conscience.

Now, all of that was gone.

I threw the remaining cake into the trash can.

That night, I told my mother about this.

My mother sighed and said, "People today are different from before. In the past, people doing business valued honesty and human connection. Now, people only think about making money, and they don't care what you eat."

My mother said that a few days ago, she also went to buy Qiaotou Gao from that shop and felt that the taste was wrong. She asked the young man if he was Old Man Li's apprentice, and the young man said no. She asked again if the cake was made the same way as before, and the young man became impatient and said, "What era is this? Why would it be the same as before?"

My mother said that when she heard this, her heart sank.

I said, "Mom, do you think we can ever taste the old flavor of Qiaotou Gao again?"

My mother shook her head and said, "It's difficult. People's hearts have changed, and the taste has changed too."

I looked out the window at the dark night, feeling a blockage in my heart.

I remembered when I was a child, the scene of Old Man Li cutting the cake for me. What was wrapped in that oiled paper was not just a piece of cake, but also warmth and trust.

Now, where did this warmth and trust go?

Was it, like the taste of Qiaotou Gao, lost forever?

I don't know.

I only know that I feel empty inside, like something is missing.

What's missing?

Perhaps, it's the most simple, the most sincere, the most basic connection between people.

The world has changed. The taste of Qiaotou Gao has also changed. It's changed to the point of making one feel anxious, blocked, and bitter. Like that uneaten piece of cake, stuck in your throat, you can't swallow it, and you can't spit it out.