During the Cultural Revolution, Beijingers liked to eat fried cakes, and this kind of food with rice and vegetables was very cheap

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Volume 1 "White Land" Part III Chapter 8 Tears Sprinkle the Temple of Heaven Park

One

The next morning, the sky fell snow, first small snowflakes like cotton wool, then turned into goose feathers of snow flakes, buildings, bungalows, streets densely paved with a layer of silver blanket.

The sugar mill still had no one coming.

What awaits us in front of us is still unknown.

In the evening, my stomach twitched so badly that I curled up with stomach pain and couldn't stand it. People's instinct to survive hunger is so strong, I got up, went to the toilet for convenience, and unconsciously walked out of the hotel. The cold became more severe, the blizzard was blowing, and people could hardly open their eyes. Large swaths of snow fell from the gray sky and fell to the ground so thickly that they creaked under their feet, and the sparse pedestrians on the street looked down to avoid the snowflakes. I didn't know what I was going to do, I just wanted to walk to keep warm, but subconsciously I followed the aroma wafting from the restaurant (my mother led me to the snack bar at the mouth of the hutong to eat fried cakes), and I couldn't stop myself from entering the door of the restaurant.

The restaurant was hot and baked, with the heat of the white mist coming in, several guests sitting at the table eating fried cakes, and two waitresses chatting at the counter with their elbows. I pretended to be warm and warm, not to attract the attention of others, and did not dare to go inside, lest people think that they wanted to throw me out. I rubbed my hands and stomped my feet lightly, condemning myself in my heart that I should not come, but my feet refused to move. I watched others eat in large mouthfuls, my teeth unconsciously biting my fingertips, as if I were also chewing on the fragrant fried cake, forgetting the existence around me. Even though people are hungry and crazy, and still maintain a little self-esteem and don't reach for food, I want to wait for customers to eat the leftovers and pick up some bottom plates, even if it is to suppress hunger with a bite.

One of the lads who had eaten almost the same, with two or three bites left, pushed the plate aside, pulled out a match and called the waiter to check out. I took a step forward, hating not being able to swallow it in one gulp, and glanced around hesitantly, no one paid attention to the movements of a child, and there was no need to worry about who snatched the food that was about to arrive. But I was wrong, a waiter wearing a red armband was very diligent and took away the chopsticks. I felt a heart-wrenching discomfort and swallowed and turned away, because of my shame, my embarrassment, to the mouth of food lost! But I stared again at an old lady's plate, and she had more left, a third of it, and half a bowl of egg soup next to it. The old lady got up and went to the service desk to check out, and I was overjoyed, and I walked over to sit in front of the plate before the waiter, and my heart pounded and I picked up the chopsticks. There was a tall, middle-aged man in a navy coat sitting across the table, looking at me with inquiring eyes. I was afraid that the waiter would clean up the table and pick up the plate and greedily pull the fried cake. This moment is very happy, and the food swallowed into the stomach is incomparably delicious, better than the taste of mountains and treasures. Unfortunately, too little, did not eat a few bites to expose the bottom of the plate, but the stomach was even more hungry, eating the last trace of meat chips still feel unfinished.

I didn't dare to look up at the inquiring gaze on the other side, and I took the half bowl of egg soup and drank it to the sky.

Since then, I have truly learned what hunger is, learned the art of picking up plates in restaurants, and maintained the "glorious tradition" to this day, even though I now have the full financial means to invite friends to the restaurant, and I am still accustomed to performing this reserved program. I hated those who squandered in my heart, asked for a table of delicious food, and walked away without moving a few chopsticks. Whenever you encounter such an occasion, you must pick up the plate and enjoy it. Friends know that I have this "glorious tradition", is a poor acid literati, encountered someone on the other side of the leftovers, did not wait for me to move with the plate buckle pushed open, so that I can not hope, the name is beautiful: "afraid of infection with disease." I immediately ridiculed my friends for "the hungry man does not know that the hungry man is hungry" and scorned their "hygiene habits".

Sure my gobble-up got noticed, the middle-aged man took the initiative to the southern accent:

"Little fellow, hungry, huh?"

I didn't look up, I was nervous, I didn't know how to say it, and I couldn't stand such a look, for fear that he would see "black eyes" and think that I was a second-rate person who did not do the right thing.

"What about your dad?"

Sad to say, like re-igniting the cooling ashes, I don't want to mention the past, staring at a trace of egg green in the bowl, pondering to stick out my tongue and lick it.

"I'm asking you, little fellow." He repeated in an aggravated tone, "What about your father?" ”

There are indeed such sensitive and enthusiastic people in the world, who can see at a glance that others have something sad and need help, because of an instinctive trust, I can not help but answer:

"Dead."

"What about Mom?"

"Lying in the inn."

"I hear your accent is out of town, why are you here?"

"See a doctor."

"How long have you not eaten?"

"Two days."

The middle-aged man sighed, pressed his hands on the chair to stand up, his eyes softened, turned to the waiter to ask for three shredded meat fried cakes, pushed two parts in front of me, patted my head: "Eat, little one, I have a child of your age!" ”

A warm current surged all over my body, and I slowly raised my head, unable to open my mouth, unable to say a word, unable to express gratitude. Tears had already filled the eyes, blurred them, and surged silently like mountain springs, flowing into two thin streams. I wanted to collect the tears and wipe them dry, and new tears came out of my eyes, down my cheeks, wet my cheeks and into my mouth, soaking the placket on my chest. Decades have passed, and I still can't forget that snowy night, that little restaurant, and those two fried cakes. My mother said that there are still many good people in the world, and this is the first strange kind person I have met. I will never forget him—an uncle who looked like a buyer, who taught me to be kind and compassionate!

I didn't want to eat, I still had my mother lying in the inn, I hadn't eaten for several days, I didn't even have time to say thank you to my uncle, folded the two plates together, lowered my eyes and picked up the plates and ran back. The street lights were dimly lit, the streets were empty, and I braved the goose feather snow to run through the alley, feeling neither the wind nor the snow, and holding the plate tightly in front of my chest with a pair of hands, afraid that the cold wind would cool the fried cakes. "Mom, eat quickly." I ran into the room and shook my mother awake and put the fried cake on the bedside table. She sat up and looked at the fried cake and asked:

"Where did it come from?"

"Just eat it while it's hot." I urged indifferently.

"Where did you get the money, I asked?" Mother snapped.

"I don't have any money."

"You stole it?"

"No."

"Want?"

I lowered my head, knowing that it was wrong to do this, feeling ashamed, how could I do this even I didn't know myself, and went to pick up the plate myself, which was worse than asking for food.

"Send it back," the mother turned her face and almost fell on the bed. "How did my mother educate you, you can't take other people's things when you starve to death, it really shames me!"

"I'm so hungry I want to pick up some leftovers." I kept my head down, my throat was blocked, and tears swirled in my eyes. "An uncle said, he also has a child of my age, give."

"Really?"

"I'm going to lie, you've done it."

My mother was shocked, turned around, picked up the plate, and put the fried cake in my mouth.

"You eat too, Mom."

"So, Mom has wronged you, my good boy!"

My head shook like a rattle and I didn't say anything more.

My mother forced a smile, tears in her eyes, looked at me with a begging look for forgiveness, and ate her first hot meal in days. I took two bites of my mother's bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed slowly. While eating, we both tasted the bitterness of life, as if we swallowed something very hard and couldn't swallow it, and let the tears fall down our cheeks...