When winter turns, it does so slowly in Shanghai, apparently reluctant to loosen its chilly grip too quickly.  Just when you think it is finally warming up, with a sunny afternoon perhaps even deceiving you into putting away the gloves and heavy clothing, the temperatures dip again.  It can be quite depressing.

It was lunchtime on a cold day following one of those deceitful warm periods, the sort that almost makes you believe winter is turning to spring.  Walking out from my flat, the wind was bitingly cold, made more miserable because of the recent hints that something more pleasant is out there waiting for us.

I walked through the gloomy atmosphere, sheltering as best I could against the cold.  Company was coming to my cramped quarters later in the afternoon.  I was out of coffee, and knew we would need it on such a cold afternoon.  Before stopping in the supermarket, I decided to have a bite to eat, preferably something hot and soupy.

At the entrance of a little hole in the wall lunch spot on the bustling road behind my flat, the smells were enticing, as was the warm steam rising from the huge pots outside the door.  I looked inside and noticed the crowd, wondering whether there was a seat for me.  I decided to brave it, and ordered a bowl of shui jiao.  Costing me less than 5RMB, at least I knew it wouldn’t put any strain on the pocket.

I elbowed my way in.  The guy cooking the noodles at the door pointed his steaming, dripping ladle to a spot at the table nearest the door.  There was a stool inside, next to the wall, if I wanted to squeeze through.

I traversed the course into the one empty stool available to me and plopped into the empty seat, hugging my backpack close to me.  The table was filthy with oil and soup, but at least there was a pack of tissue next to the holder of disposable chopsticks.  I used several of the thin shreds of paper to clean up the oily puddle and waited for my shui jiao.

It was a long wait.  Several bowls of noodles were served.  Everyone at my table finished eating, leaving me in some solitude to wait.  A hot bowl of shui jiao emerged from the smoking pot.  It went straight to the table behind me, no soup.   I watched the cook turn on an exposed tap extending over the pot as I waited for my shui jiao, a ready supply of water to dilute the soup.  I hardly noticed his actions then, being absorbed in my pondering of the soup or no soup question as concerned my own lunch.

New neighbors joined me at my table just as my piping hot bowl of shui jiao (with soup) arrived.  A bowl of noodles was delivered to the neighbor on my left, while the older man opposite, not realizing how long I had waited for my shui jiao, ordered what I was having.  

I dug into the little dumplings, taking bites as large as I could hold without scalding my mouth too badly.  There were two flavors of shui jiao in one bowl, one filled with a bitter, almost acidic green-leafed spinach, the other with a sweeter white-leafed cabbage.  I regretted the addition of the soup, then decided my regret was misplaced, considering the heat generated by the oily liquid.  And the way it soaked the celery leaves into a texture more digestible.

I noted each bite my neighbor took.  It was hard to miss, considering the way his elbow jabbed me in the ribs as he wielded his chopsticks.  I stole glances his way to see if he really was crammed into as small a space as that.  I noted that his stool was jutting out into the aisle, creating a blockage for the cook and busboy, along with any other potential clientele.  His elbow was only close enough for those quick jabs to my side because of the awkward way he leaned over to the right, bringing his head down level with his bowl.  It seemed he had more space to himself than anyone else in either room of the little shop.

“Where’s my shui jiao?”  shouted the old man.

“Not so fast.  Takes time,” the cook shouted over the boiling pot.  

The girl behind me finished her bowl of soupless shui jiao and got up to leave.  I noted a small smile on her face as the exchange between customer and cook took place.

My neighbor, finishing his noodles and reaching for his bowl of soup, seemed to suddenly notice I was a foreigner.  He glanced, took a second look after slurping the soup, then began to stare as he ate.  He watched for any mistakes with my chopsticks, seemingly trying to determine what type of white girl it must be who would eat in a place like this.

I put the last of the acidic green shui jiao in my mouth, left with one more of the perfectly formed skins encasing the sweeter white vegetable.  I quickly downed it all, and stood up.  My neighbor just continued to stare.

“Let me by please.”

“Mm.”  And he moved just enough for me to squeeze past.

Paying the meagre bill, I walked out into the wind, a belly full of hot shui jiao, both the bitter and the sweet.

A perfect lunch.