Chapter 51: The Dinner of Old Men

Zhuang Chen felt a deep sense of respect, profoundly moved by Chen Xiaoqing’s sincerity and dedication as a documentary director. A thought flashed through his mind, growing ever stronger.

The room fell into silence. Chen Xiaoqing, realizing the atmosphere was too somber, tried to lighten the mood with a joke: “You mentioned earlier that when the third season of ‘A Bite of China’ aired, I was busy feasting at an unremarkable roadside stall in Meizhou. I wasn’t the least bit concerned about my ever-growing waistline. After finishing the meal, I patted my belly and couldn’t resist commenting, ‘I just love these little spots—no fuss, no frills. In the end, everything pales before good food.’”

He patted his prominent belly and quipped, “Even if I weren’t making food documentaries, I’d still be a hardcore foodie. If I’m not eating, I’m on my way to eat. Unlike Mr. Cai with his highbrow tastes, my friends tease me as the ‘street food sweeper.’”

“Five days after the Wenchuan earthquake, I was tasked with delivering supplies to Qingchuan. Since it was close to Jiangyou, the world’s hometown of pork intestines, I couldn’t resist stopping by a small eatery for a bowl. The first bite was so delicious, I had to close my eyes in delight.”

“As I was eating, an aftershock hit and everyone rushed outside. I followed, but I couldn’t leave that bowl of pork intestines behind. So I gritted my teeth, went back, and calmly finished my meal. By the time I looked for the owner to pay, he was nowhere to be found.”

Zhuang Chen raised his glass in admiration. “I know you’ve always been a serious documentary director, making films for over twenty years and winning awards, but unfortunately, you never really became famous.”

“I remember back in 2007, you shot ‘Song of the Forest.’ Back then, you were tall and thin, lugging a camera weighing dozens of pounds, trekking through mountains and deserts to film wild animals… The cinematography was beautiful—I really liked it.”

“Hahaha, thank you for remembering those old chestnuts,” Chen Xiaoqing replied with a hearty laugh. “It was because I lingered on shots and used soft lighting, and couldn’t help but wax poetic in the narration. When the film aired, suddenly pine nuts, mushrooms, and other mountain goods on Taobao saw a huge spike in sales. Thanks to that kind of ‘alternative’ success, I decided to make ‘A Bite of China.’”

“To be honest, everyone has two sides: Side A is the true self, eating what you want, whether standing or squatting, without a care; Side B is the self that behaves at banquets—let’s call it putting on airs.”

“Every time I return from acting all proper in some high-rise, I have to stop by my favorite shop near Jimen for a bowl of pungent, sour snail noodles, chat with the owner, and watch the passing traffic.”

“I love the relaxed, down-to-earth atmosphere of the city streets: tables set up in the alley, lamp posts covered with little ads, residents passing by—it feels so real, so connected to life.”

“So my conclusion is this: the tastiest thing is always people!”

“It’s the human connection that matters. What you eat and where is far less important than who you eat with. The ultimate flavor is found only between people. I just published a book that was originally going to be called ‘The Tastiest Thing is People,’ but the censors thought it sounded too shocking, so I changed it to ‘The Ultimate Flavor Among Us.’”

Zhuang Chen burst out laughing, recalling a segment from a talk show, and asked, “Is that the legendary Old Boys’ Dinner Table?”

“Those dinners had Lao Liu, Wang Xiaofeng, Luo Yonghao, Yang Kui, Quan Yongxian, Wang Xiaoshan… and occasionally Chai Jing, Chen Xiaonan, Feng Tang, and He Caitou as guests.”

“When I first joined, Lao Liu would take the menu and, without hesitation, order the sixth dish from every page—he always managed to find the worst thing on the menu, which is a talent in itself.”

“They said after I joined, the food quality improved dramatically, so I was made the group’s ‘culinary commissioner.’ Every time Lao Liu organized a dinner, I was responsible for picking the restaurant and ordering the dishes.”

“In the past, the Old Boys’ Dinner Table met at least once a week, sometimes four or five times, gathering to eat, drink, roast each other, and talk endlessly about life—anything but work.”

“We’d all sit together, enjoying hot food, sharing stories, listening, warming each other, and yes, teasing and ribbing each other. It was all genuine camaraderie.”

Chen Xiaoqing grew wistful, sighing, “Nothing lasts forever. Now, some of those dining companions have started companies, some have gotten married. I made ‘A Bite of China,’ which left people salivating. Now, I’m invited to more upscale gatherings, with big names and top chefs, the food is refined—but eating there…”

“It’s like sitting on pins and needles!”

That sentiment struck a chord with Zhuang Chen. Better to dine simply and alone than endure tedious social obligations.

“That’s why I believe every person’s stomach has a door, and the key is the food code given to us by our parents and elders in childhood.”

Chen Xiaoqing laughed at himself, “Ten years ago, I was unknown, but I never forgot to eat and drink; ten years later, I’m famous, but it’s still the same. I eat the Yanji cold noodles I’ve had a thousand times, attend those old boys’ dinners where time slips away, and drift among people, searching for home on the tip of my tongue…”

“How’s the conversation going?” Hao Baoli entered, asking Aunt Mei to bring out a few hot dishes. He sat down, saying, “Ah, finally done. Now I can relax here.”

Pointing to bowls of congee, he said to Zhuang Chen, “This is one of our Mei family’s specialties—Mandarin Duck Chicken Congee. Try it.”

Zhuang Chen took the blue-and-white porcelain bowl. The chicken congee inside resembled a Taiji diagram: one side as white as snow, the other green as jade, perfectly balanced.

He tasted it and commented, “This so-called chicken congee doesn’t have a single grain of rice in it. The chicken is simmered for at least a full day and night until it becomes a velvety paste, then seasonal vegetables are juiced and swirled in to create the Taiji pattern. The flavor is light, yet all the color and aroma are there.”

“You can’t fool your tongue!” Hao Baoli laughed. “Before every performance, Mr. Mei liked to have congee two hours ahead. As the show drew near, he’d stop eating, perfectly following the tradition of singing on an empty stomach.”

“Yuan Mei’s ‘Suiyuan Recipes’ also has a chicken congee. You take a fat hen, remove and skin the breast, then finely scrape or shave the meat—never chop it, or it loses its delicacy. The chicken fibers remain intact, then it’s simmered with the rest of the bird, adding fine rice flour and ham to make the congee.”

“Over time, they developed three habits and three things to avoid: no alcohol, no offal, no overly greasy things like braised pork; avoid foods that create phlegm, avoid cold drinks before or after singing, and avoid scalding the throat to keep it from becoming hoarse.”

“Throughout his life, he was meticulous about protecting his lungs and voice. It’s said that even when sleeping, he’d keep a slice of pear in his mouth to nourish the throat and lungs, drawing out any heat, and would toss it out in the morning—never careless.”

Looking at Zhuang Chen and Chen Xiaoqing, he teased, “Well? You two foodies could never manage that, could you?”

Everyone burst out laughing. The next dish was Mutton in Huadiao Wine. Hao Baoli picked up a piece, savoring it. “Though Mr. Mei avoided spicy food and wine to protect his throat, he was still enchanted by the aroma of yellow wine. During breaks, he’d pour a cup, breathe in the fragrance, but never drank a drop.”

“Chef Wang remembered this well. For winter nourishment, after much experimentation, he eventually found a way to infuse the mutton with the fragrance of Huadiao wine without compromising flavor. The result was this dish.”

“It combines the savor of lamb with the bouquet of yellow wine. After tasting it, Mr. Mei praised it: ‘One may only smell the rich aroma of wine, yet enjoy the delicious meat—having it both ways.’”

Dish after dish appeared, and as they ate and talked, it was clear that Mei Lanfang was a true scholar and gentleman. The cuisine of the Mei household was exquisite in both form and spirit—there was the auspicious, sumptuous Peony Prawn in rich broth; the sweet, nourishing Walnut Cream; the deboned, tender Dragon Beard Fish; and the clear, flavorful Peanut and Beef Soup.

Compared to the sometimes greasy banquets of indulgence, the fare here was refined and distinctive. At any moment, the faint sound of Mei Lanfang’s singing could be heard drifting in from outside, gentle and relaxing.

Hao Baoli left again to attend to other guests. After a bottle of wine, Zhuang Chen saw the moment was right and probed, “Mr. Chen, are you starting your own studio now?”

“What else can I do? A man’s got to eat,” Chen Xiaoqing wiped his mouth and explained. “It’s not just me—I have a team of more than ten. We can’t survive on a dead salary.”

“I don’t know much about other fields, so I just keep doing what I’m good at: shooting documentaries, selling them to websites and TV stations. It’s enough to get by.”

That was exactly what Zhuang Chen was waiting for. He pressed on, “I remember you made quite a few documentaries early on—not just ‘Song of the Forest’ about environmental issues, but also ‘A Distant Home in Beijing’ about migrant workers, and something on the military, right?”