A Nomadic Foodie's Journal

Xuanchéng was long behind us. Night fell, and the air in the dining car was thick with smoke and sounds of people smacking and slurping their food. Nestled in a corner in the dining car with my Mandarin phrase book, I sat in front of two men from Hángzhou, a plethora of food, and two bottles of Shàoxing rice wine, looking at me menacingly. It was going to be a long 17 hours train ride to Xi’an.

One of them offered me Shàoxing wine. Just a little, he said. They drank. They toast their paper cups at each other every single time they drank. “Gan bei! Gan bei!” they exclaimed. “Please! Please!” they gestured towards their fish, vegetable dishes and soup. I offered them my chicken, ridiculously covered in too much green peppers. We ate, conversed between broken English and random phrases in my phrase book. I felt my eyelids going heavy and watery.

The friendly older man with pronounced crow’s feet around his eyes, fumbled in his plastic bag that looked like a kiddie bag. He gave me a round, green sticky flour cake, wrapped in clingy wrap. I could not possibly refuse. “Xiè xie!” I said. Opening the cling wrap gingerly, feigning interest, knowing that I will be soon too bloated with food. I took a small bite. They look expectantly. I feign a mock-surprise. “Oooh, red bean!” “Duì, duì!” they said.

They continued to drink. “Gan bei!” Feeling rather happy that I have finished the cake, the old man fumbled once again in his plastic bag. I dreaded the moment. He produced another plastic-covered goodie. Candies, I thought. “Dak!” the younger man said, while pointing to his stomach. “Dak!” “Xiè xie!” I said again, producing my biggest smile. I opened the package, and staring back at me was not a purple colored candy but duck gizzard. Salty, chewy, dark pink duck gizzard. I drank a lot of green tea to counter the saltiness. I could feel the green tea swirling in my stomach.

The beverage cart whizzed by. Seeing that their two Shaoxing wine bottle was empty, they stopped the cart. “Biyaa! Biyaa!” “Beer?” I said helpfully. “Duì, duì!” They bought one can. Then another. Then another again. Their faces become red. Their broken English became more obscure. They laughed more loudly. They taught me some local words. I now know the local Zhèjiang words for ‘chopsticks’ and ‘knees’, words I’m sure would be useful someday.

Around midnight, I fumbled to my compartment in the darkness, feeling dizzy, weary, and sluggish. Reaching the top bunk, I prayed that I would not fall. As the train crossed the dark plains of Hénán and into Shaanxi, I still heard hoards of laughter from the dining car. The Shàoxing wines are working overtime.

Finally, the first signs of morning arrived. The men were gone. The dining car were empty save for a few cleaning men in blue uniforms. I finally arrived in Xi’an.