tai hu hua yuan market tribute

Loose cement sidewalk tiles rocked under a foot, suddenly squishing down and squirting out squalid rain water—and who knows what else—onto the unsuspecting bare leg.  Down the street, laundry hung on strings between telephone poles; women in mismatched pattern clothes sat on plastic stools rinsing whole dead chickens in front of restaurants.  The key man stood by his rusting metal cart, blank keys of all shapes and sizes hanging from nails, ready to be made into a copy of any key you could bring to him.  The bike man on the corner flipped over a rusted old bike, seat covered by a plastic bag, adjusting its chain—considered by any foreigner to be beyond repair—but not to this optimist, this worker of miracles.

The baozi shop exuded steam.  Layers of circular wooden brown steaming containers in front opened to display perfectly round white springy steamed identically shaped breads, the same ridges on the top of each one, but containing various delectable insides—sweet juicy pork, green vegetables, spicy vermicelli—all for six mao each.  The long narrow stall next to them, stretching back to the cement house behind, sold round savory fried flat breads, the size of pizza—cut up into strips, however much you wanted, put into a paper envelope, to be stabbed up and eaten with a pointed wooden stick.  The bing man, always greeted me happily whenever I came by, his large body from shaved head to apron-tied waist below a limp loose white tank top, sweating endlessly under the huge rainbow umbrella-shaped shade, never stopped flipping the bings on the huge round black griddle, spreading sauce on them, placing them in little see-through plastic bags with handles, giving them to customers, taking a fresh newly rolled out piece of dough, deftly slicing it open and splitting open an egg into its middle and frying it all up together—two kuai each.  Next to him, her own freestanding stall on wheels, she deftly scooped long thin pre-cut chicken strips rolled in seasoned batter, however much money you wanted to spend, dumping it all into her hemispherical metal bowl of boiling oil, tiny floury bubbles rising, bits of chicken dancing, then strained out and placed into a paper envelope, with another long skinny pointed wooden stick to eat them with—a packet of greasy goodness.

 

Across the street, the fruit lady emerged from behind plastic fruit crates, wiping her hands on her apron, her smiling face framed by straight black bangs, hair smoothly drawn back in a ponytail.  After stripping a pineapple of its scaly outsides, she drew the curved knife with a pointed end all round and round the pineapple from top to bottom, then cutting out the remaining spiky outer pieces out in perfect ridges falling to the pavement.  Watching her cut her spiral pineapple artwork, carrying its fragrant juiciness home in a clear handled plastic bag, green pointed leaves poking my hands the whole way, its juice dripping on my bare toes, tongue anticipating—that was joy.

Her neighbor with a wheeled freestanding cart containing rows of bulging elliptical melons, cut a melon in half to show us its perfect sherbet-colored insides.  Scooping out the seeds, long thin strips of melon-half fell from her knife to her cutting board, bereft of their rind before they knew it, each strip became generous-sized frustum-shaped crunchy juicy melon pieces—just eat those directly with the fingers.  Inside the market itself, paper strips swirled on fans above raw meat to keep the flies away, tailors sewed at the oldest foot-propelled sewing machines you’d ever seen, able to fix any piece of clothing brought to them.  The vegetable lady handing me bags one at a time as I chose each vegetable she knew I was going to choose, complimenting me on my Chinese. 

Outside, steam billowed from the noodle shop, the man with the white cylindrical cap on his head stirred the giant silvery noodle pot.  Inside, the woman with the black lace scarf covered head took our uncouth point-at-the-picture style ordering demurely.  The young white capped, white aproned boy pulled and pulled, stretched and stretched fresh noodle dough the whole width of both of his arms, over and over, long thick noodles appearing—flap flap against the shiny dented metal surface—stretch and stretch some more, thinner and thinner noodles appearing, just the right shape, just the right amount, small piece of extra dough trimmed off, all the noodles handed through the window into the boiling noodle pot, instantly covered again, only to appear later on a large plate, heat rising from vegetables and sauce among them.  Such noodles were never tasted anywhere else, with the grey contented kitten curled under the orange plastic stools at our feet, gracing us with her presence as we ate.

Down the street, snag a perfectly frozen Magnum bar on the way home, staving off the need to feel air-conditioned air.  Trash covered ground notwithstanding, bustling with activity, recognizing every vendor, every vendor recognizing and greeting me—my favorite place to amble on a school day evening.