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The small restaurant, dirty and worn, always has a thick layer of grease on the table, and the air emits a muddy, strong, choking smell of oil smoke and the hot and spicy smell of chaotian peppers. But it can stretch out its intimate tentacles, like a pair of rough and powerful hands, rustling with you. There you are the king of lyricism; there, at once, your roots find water, air, and sunshine. You sit calmly, with a big golden knife, without scruples, grinning, shaking your head, kicking open the leather shoes of the feet, ripping off the solemn and dignified coat, revealing the real smell of sweat, not gentlemanly and not ladylike at all.
Photo by Huang Yu
It's a luxury. A bottle of star anise, three or five people, not why, or just for a poetic image, a girl circulating autumn waves, youth is drunk, hugging and crying or lying on the table unconscious. When did you put an old cotton jacket on your shoulder?
Since when, as the iconic service of the city, small restaurants have retreated to a corner, replaced by super restaurants, large hotels, and food cities, mocking the rickets of small restaurants with the majesty of the skyscraper? I think I'm starting to get old. Old, Yeats's old, "the head is white, drowsy, snoozing by the fire, please take this poem, read it slowly, and think back to the softness of your eyes in the past... Hide your face in the middle of a group of stars". I remember Haizi, a poet who used dreams as a horse, in Beijing, with happy and clear eyes, to say to the owner of the small restaurant: I read poetry in exchange for a meal. Whether the boss agrees or not, I can be sure that poetry is the essence of the tavern, it is poetic. When the poetry of this era needs to be expressed in terms of fast food and abalone, when the rhythm of the human heart is constantly interrupted by the roar of the machine, when the banner of friendship is frozen into ice by the cruelty of the business field, nostalgia is really very luxurious. Fortunately, in the 70s, there are still small restaurants to be cherished.
My friends in the '70s basically grew up in small restaurants. They are generally like Quasimodo, the bell ringer in Hugo's pen, under the ugly appearance, there is a clean heart, can not get love, but get the true meaning and secret of love, everything obeys the heart. This restrained beauty is also the weakness of the 70s.
Figure | Xie Yifei
1930, 32 Vitbeuil, Paris, owner Anthony. Home cooking: fatty foie gras, oil-soaked duck, roasted pheasant chicken, roasted quail with grapes. What I'm nagging about, of course, is not the novel, but the description of the Englishman Peter Mayer in "The Restaurant of Old Friend Louis". He wrote: "The great Anthony died a few years ago. I'll elaborate on that later. But 'Old Friend Louis', the restaurant he personally managed and operated for more than 50 years, still presents what he loved when he was alive: crowded and noisy, as shabby as ever, and decorated with beautiful women. These people don't care what weight loss or not, they are eating a special meal in front of their nostalgic meal. ”
Marty, the protagonist of "The Song of the Sad Cafe", once lived in a city that annoyed her. There, because of the crowding, everyone oppresses others as much as possible to get their own space, this life she feels meaningless, this life she feels unfree, so Marty flees, comes to Madagascar, trying to find another answer.
Yes, she wanted to find another answer that was no longer "crowded". The city, in a way, crowding always represents alienation; and crowded small restaurants, it represents the typical life of a generation. A poet once said that it takes a lifetime to look at the ground, and only when he dies can his heart truly look up to the sky.
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