I’m not sure what hits you first. Is it the multi-coloured LED lights or is it the waft of something being grilled over hot coals?
Whatever it is, it’s welcoming. Open arms welcoming. All I did was turn down a side street to get away from the hustle and bustle of Zhongshan Nan Lu and my senses guided me the rest of the way.
Nestled away somewhere, squeezed between the veins and arteries of metro Lines 1 and 3 in Qinhuai District are the capillaries of the city itself. The maze-like “xiangzi” (巷子).
These small alleys of goodness and mystery await. Specific name? It doesn’t matter. Something or other xiang, just follow your nose. Listen closely as the sounds of the encompassing city itself seems to dissipate.
Is it the smell or is the gut instinct that you just seem to know that it isn’t a left turn, but a right, as you meander your way down the xiangzi looking for that specific tiny tucked away restaurant from a memorable Saturday night a few month ago. These xiangzi seemingly blend into one yet at the same time quite distinct from one another. Good luck trying to find the same one again next weekend though!
烧烤 (BBQ); check. Some sort of 饼 (pancake); check, check. Pick your poision, the xiangzi have it all. Milk tea? I saw a place nearby; order yourself something. Hot Pot? 麻辣烫 (hot spicy soup)? Just around the corner. Mandatory folding wooden table, bingo. Plastic green stools; oxymoronic in their ever-fragile yet sturdy nature, unstacked as you and your friends wander over; you know it’s going to be a good one.
For a brief period, from the time you first walk down the xiangzi, sit down on those plastic green stools, until you navigate your way out to the nearest metro station or convenient place to call a taxi, you are part of something larger. This is my community. The community of the downtown city. The community of the xiangzi.
What was it Bourdain (R.I.P.) said; “This is the China you first fell in love with. Walk down the street and look in any direction, and there’s something to eat. I may not know what it is immediately, but the chances are it’s good”.
Something to drink? It has to be 冰的 (cold) for me. The clinking sound of the bottle being 打开 (opened) alongside the sizzling of whatever skewer of meat and vegetables are being barbecued close by, I equate that sound to the ding dong of my parents’ doorbell. This is a safe space. This is one of my homes and away from home.
I raise a glass (they’re always small aren’t they?) to the table of chain-smoking and 瓜子(sunflower seeds) munching uncles across from me. The usual question follow; “Where are you from?”, “Do you like China?”, “你习惯了吗?” (are you used to it?). There’s only one question that matters tonight; chilli, and lots of it please my friend.
I wash down the 烧烤料 (BBQ condiments) infused 牛肉串 (beef skewers) and enoki (“see you tomorrow mushrooms, a personal favourite of mine) and it’s on to the next. Another xiangzi? Let’s wander. The lights are getting dimmer, the shadows are closing in, not to worry.
Whatever background, colour of skin or creed, the xiangzi welcomes you. All members of the echelons of society are here. iPhone 15 Pro Max, Prada bag, beer belly hanging out, everyone is welcome.
Whatever the weather, the xiangzi await. Hot, humid and sweaty summer? They’re open, the ever-so slightly summer evening will cool you off. Freezing cold winter night, they’re still open. Just make sure to wrap that scarf around your neck and sip on this bowl of brothy soup while we wait for our skewers.
Don’t fancy barbecue? I spy a noodle stall! Wantons? Try next door. Want something a little bit more local? 鸭血粉丝汤 (duck-blood vermicelli soup) is just opposite. These capillaries, these xiangzi, the lifeblood of that small part of Qianhuai District in Nanjing, or in any major city in fact, are packed to the brim, but not uncomfortably so. This isn’t 玄武门 (Xuanwu Men) during Golden Week.
Let’s float down the length of each one, maze-like, like we’re in a Wong Kar-wai film; with the eerie-paced synth music echoing around inside our heads. The LED signs of the 兰州拉面 (Lanzhou noodles) restaurant on my left and the duck-blood soup restaurant on my right permeate through the smoke and stream of the nearby stuffed oysters being grilled over charcoal.
Paraphrasing the American author James A. Michener, “If you reject the food, ignore the customs and avoid the people, you might better stay at home”. This is my mantra, these are the words I live by.
Now everyone, scoot your plastic green stools in a little, a car is squeezing perilously past.
