Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 225

The next day, I woke up to the pungent odor of stinky tofu as the streets filled up with noisy tourists and workers.
Suddenly, uncle Li ’s penetrating voice pierced through the cacophony of the busy street. He wore simple clothes and a
short white apron with the words “The Best Chou Doufu in Shanghai!” proudly enblazoned with rich Chinese
characters. His wooden four-wheeled cart, creaked every few steps under the staggering weight of the stinky tofu, as he
pushed his way through the molasses of people.
“Get your chou doufu here! Only five yuan for a plate!” he screamed passionately as he drove his cart through the
cobblestone street. The food in the cart jumped up and down like children enjoying a trampoline. As predictably as the
afternoon tides, huge flocks of people started to pile around uncle Li , asking for heaps of cheap stinky tofu.
Coughing a little, I see father stand up from the chair and itch his eyes, trying to rub away his sliver of envy for the
successful neighbor. Adjusting his small metal glasses and regaining focus, I see father quickly take a kettle of water and a
huge translucent pork skin blocks, his arms trembling under the weight.
“Father, I think you need some help!” I hastily cry out in alarm.
“Don’t worry son,” father replies “I’ve got this.” And just like that, father started to cook.
Like the hands of a potter, father slowly churns the flour, dripping water in circles, and sprinkling small flakes of salt,
the tasteful rain of the gourmet world. Nimble hands gently jab the dough, squeezing it and turning it like a typhoon.
Father slowly spins the filling, a concoction of pork and vegetables, with long, thick chopsticks, worn away by continual
use. With a small, ivory spoon, father slowly scoops the filling from its cozy bowl, and places it delicately on the
outstretched dough. Like a lotus that closes its petals to the dark curtain of night, father gently seals the dough and
creates a perfectly round xiao long bao . Yet, the delicate tranquility only lasts a moment, suddenly shattered by the
high-pitched voice coming from the now empty stinky tofu cart.
“For the very last time, I don’t want to help you! I just want to hang around with my friends!”
“ Wei Zhang ,” sadly pleads uncle Li , “be a good son and please help me with our tofu business! I’m getting older, and
I really need your help. I know that you want to hang out with friends, but I really...”
“Is this what you called me for? Do you really think I care about your useless food stall? Well I don’t! Now, if you
don’t mind, I’m going to hang out my new friends, who know a thing or two about the good life. Unlike you, I want to
live near the Waitan , not in this ugly street.” As the people on the street curiously watched the drama, a sleek black car
recklessly drives into the over-crowded street, knocking over the small table where the two old men played chess.
“Hey dude! Come on inside the car.”
It has been a long time since I paid attention to what uncle Li ’s son looked like. He appeared short and fat, with small,
beady eyes that always squinted, as if unsatisfied with everything. The black shirt he wore was tightly stretched, barely
able to cope with his great belly. As he clambered into the black car, the car honked loudly and raced out of the small
street, leaving a small trail of rubber behind.