Bites of Beijing

“Have you eaten?” asks old Mr. Xu, as I step out into the cold, grey courtyard we share.
“Not yet,” I reply, and Mr. Xu smiles, revealing a single yellowed tooth. His dark eyes shine beneath the brim of his leather hat as he waves me off: he’s heading inside for his own dinner, pork dumplings dipped in vinegar. In this winding Beijing alley, by the Ming Dynasty bell tower, you can still overhear that old-fashioned saying: “There’s nothing as delicious as dumplings.”
On the lane, dark tiles mark the line between grey wall and grey sky. Faded crimson doors are garnished with twisting, green vines, and children big and small flash by on their bicycles.
Mr. Xu's family, which once waited on the Emperor, has lived here for four generations.
However, this labyrinth of a neighbourhood is humming with change. Each year, millions of people from China’s countryside come to the city to find work; the lane is filling with accents, stories and foods from far away. Beijing’s people may look alike - but at the dinner table, their diversity is on full display.
At the restaurant a few steps down, the chefs are migrants from Sichuan - China’s far southwest. I enter, and the sounds rush up around me: clacking chopsticks, the gas stove roaring. Men, faces flushed, dare each other to drink another cup of beer as the waitresses, always serene, look on with wry smiles.
Here, dishes are fiery and uncompromising. Green beans are fried with chilies and lemony Sichuan peppercorns until their skins are ready to crackle under your teeth. Fish comes to the table swimming in vermilion chili oil, sprinkled with garlic. As I eat, my mouth burns and the winter chill slinks away.
I realize the dishes here, like the dumplings Mr. Xu eats every night, are foods that the cooks grew up with, meals that speak of family.
In a country reinventing itself, amongst hardship, hope and a hundred million people on the move, I nurse my cup of tea and see that dinner is a chance to pause and feel at home.