Dreams and Awakenings at the Braised Delicacies Stall

The autumn wind in Beiping was chilly, carrying a hint of heartlessness. Dusk had just fallen. The streetlights were beginning to flicker on, not yet fully lit, casting sparse halos of light onto the damp, glistening flagstone path. Old Li's braised delicacies stall stood right there at the mouth of the hutong. A single, dim, yellow incandescent bulb barely illuminated his small patch of the world. Beneath the bulb was his face, etched with deep lines like ravines, and a pot of old braising liquid bubbling away.

The aroma, it was still the same aroma. Star anise, cinnamon bark, bay leaves, fennel seeds... The decades-old broth was Old Li's lifeline, and also a nostalgic memory for generations in this hutong. Pig's head meat, braised chicken feet, five-spice dried tofu, and those golden braised eggs were neatly arranged on enamel plates, glistening with oil, radiating a sense of solid, honest goodness.

"Uncle Li, how's business today?" The young man from the repair shop next door strolled over, sucking on a cigarette.

Old Li lifted his eyelids, his chapped lips moved, revealing a bitter smile: "Getting by, I suppose. What else can I do?" His voice was a bit hoarse, like a worn-out gong that had been blown by the autumn wind for too long. He used tongs to turn the braised items in the pot. Steam carrying the rich scent of meat rushed towards his face, but this fragrance couldn't seem to dispel the worry etched between his brows.

In previous years, by this time, a crowd would have already gathered around the stall. Workers getting off shifts, children out of school, women craving a snack – who wouldn't stop by to buy a little something? A couple of liang of pig's head meat, a cup of Erguotou liquor, and the day's fatigue would be eased. But this year, something was off. The people were the same, passing by as they always did, but fewer reached out to buy. More often, they'd peek, smack their lips, then shake their heads and walk away.

"Half a jin of chicken feet," a middle-aged man in a jacket stopped, his voice quiet. "Not too much sauce."

"You got it!" Old Li's spirits lifted slightly. He deftly scooped out the chicken feet, weighed them, drizzled a little sauce, sprinkled chopped scallions and cilantro. "Here you go!"

The man paid, clutching the greaseproof paper bag, and sighed, "Uncle Li, your prices... gone up again?"

The faint light in Old Li's face dimmed again. He rubbed his hands, his calloused fingers looking somewhat helpless. "Ai, Brother Zhang, it's not that I'm greedy. Look at the price of meat now, the gas for the stove, what hasn't gone up? I... I have no choice."

"I know, I know," Brother Zhang waved his hand, said no more, and turned back into the flow of people, his figure looking a bit desolate. "These days, everything's expensive, only money isn't worth much. Even a little treat like this... is becoming unaffordable."

Those words stung Old Li like a needle. Unaffordable. Two heavy words. He remembered the news talking about the "Big Three Luwei Giants," big shops, chain stores, starting to close down. If those large businesses couldn't hold on, what hope was there for his small stall?

It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it. Maybe switch to cheaper frozen goods? Or perhaps, use fewer authentic ingredients in the old broth? But the thought barely formed before he pushed it down. No! He couldn't do anything that would ruin his reputation! The craft passed down from his father emphasized authenticity and substance. He couldn't earn, nor did he want to earn, money that went against his conscience.

But this very substance had now become his own tightening headband. Holding onto this substance, holding onto this old flavor, was like guarding a slowly leaking old boat, unsure of when it might sink.

Night deepened, the wind grew colder. The hutong became quieter, with only the occasional distant car horn accentuating the silence. No customers had approached the stall for a long while. The braised goods in the pot were still kept warm over a low flame, the aroma lingering, but now tinged with a certain desolation.

Old Li sat hunched on a small stool, his gaze wandering blankly towards the streetlights. He saw the newly opened milk tea shop opposite, with its gaudy lights, young men and women coming and going, holding cups of drinks costing dozens of yuan, laughing happily. He didn't understand why so many people bought those colorful, sickly sweet waters, while his substantial, satisfying braised delicacies that could fill a stomach and satisfy a craving attracted so few.

Was he old? Unable to keep up with the times? Or had the world truly changed? Changed so much that people found even a simple, honest taste a luxury?

He suddenly remembered decades ago, when he was a young man learning to braise meat from his father. Times were tight then too, but every evening, this little stall at the hutong entrance was always bustling. Neighbors gathered around, chatting, buying some braised goods, having a little drink. Those days had flavor, had something to look forward to.

And now? Where was there anything to look forward to? He didn't know. He just felt cold all over, not just from the autumn wind, but a chill seeping out from his heart. How much longer could this old broth keep bubbling? How much longer could his old bones keep tending this stall?

From afar, came the sound of a clapper. Was it the night watchman? No, who used those anymore? Perhaps it was just his imagination. Like the aroma of the braised meat, perhaps it too was just a dream lingering from a bygone era.

He stood up and began to pack up the stall. There were quite a few unsold items left. Tomorrow... would they sell tomorrow? He turned the flame under the pot to its lowest setting, wrapped the pot tightly in a thick quilt, hoping it might stay warm until morning, saving some fuel. Every movement was slow, as if draining all his strength.

The light bulb stretched his shadow long across the cold ground, solitary. He locked up his small pushcart, took one last look at the quilt-wrapped pot of braising liquid, as if looking at a dying ember of hope. Then, he turned, dragging his heavy feet, and slowly disappeared into the darkness deep within the hutong.

The wind seemed to carry a faint, elusive aroma of braised meat, or perhaps, nothing at all. Only the dim yellow bulb remained, like a tired but stubborn eye, blinking blankly in the cold night. It had witnessed Old Li's persistence, and perhaps, was about to witness the quiet end of an era. That's likely how things are in this world – flourishing and declining, rising and falling. The joys and sorrows of little people are like fallen leaves in the autumn wind; they swirl up, they fall down, and ultimately, remain silent and unnoticed.