Lao Ma felt he was getting a bit out of touch. Retired at home, brewing a pot of strong tea, flipping through the newspaper, taking a stroll – life was supposed to be quite pleasant. But he couldn't ignore his precious granddaughter, Xiao Hua'er, who just started primary school this year. This Xiao Hua'er, though small, had a lively mind, always muttering about something called "Labubu"—a foreign name that sounded like a tongue-twister to Lao Ma.
Now, what do you make of this?
The midday sun was vicious, baking the asphalt until it seemed to steam. Old Wang, Wang Dexing, was carrying his chipped enamel mug, ambling his way home. He'd just finished a bowl of Douzhi'er with a couple of Jiaoquan'r at "Old Zhang's" at the mouth of the hutong. This Douzhi'er, ah, it's like life itself. Smells foul, but once you get used to it, miss a day and your whole body feels out of sorts. He smacked his lips, the taste – sour with a hint of sweet, sweet with a hint of rancid – still lingered at the back of his tongue. Satisfying!
The old library in the east end of the city had seen some years. Its dusty grey brick walls and tall windows exuded a quietness, but also a stubborn sense of being out of step with the times. Most people who came here were familiar faces: retired old gentlemen and ladies seeking a quiet spot to read the newspaper; students preparing for exams, hunkered down all day; and idlers like me, with nowhere else to go, who came here pretending to still be seeking knowledge, but really just killing time, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window.
Spring in Beiping, the wind still so unruly, swirling willow catkins and dust, finding its way straight down your collar. The Ma family's old window, patched with layers of paper, still couldn't block that strange 'whuuu whuuu' moan. Inside, though, it was nothing like the weather outside – stiflingly hot, like freshly steamed buns.
In the Beijing summer, under the vicious sun, the asphalt roads softened, making you worry about peeling off a layer of tar with your soles. Even on a day like this, in a nook near Xizhimen, a small lunchbox stall always stood its ground, unwavering.
Old Ma lived under the southern city wall, in an area of gray, nondescript tenement buildings. Truth be told, Old Ma hadn't weathered any great storms in his life. He'd spent half his youth tightening screws in a factory. His pension wasn't much, but it wasn't too little either – enough to get by, he wouldn't starve. His only attachment, or rather, his only source of "face," was his Corgi.
Old Ma felt quite content. A man in his fifties, finding a gig at a respectable place like 'Sam's Club', handing out small pieces of freshly grilled steak or tiny cups of new-squeezed orange juice to the 'members' coming and going, wearing just the right amount of warmth on his face—this job, compared to pedaling a tricycle at the alley entrance or hauling sandbags at a construction site, was worlds apart. He mulled it over himself: 'food sampler', what a novel title!