Falling in Love - Touching China's Famous Essays

Author: Yi Lei
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: The Tea and Wine Chapter by Li Guowen
Friends of mine who drink tea live in Beijing, but the chances of us getting together are not very frequent. There was always an idea to find a place where we could sit and chat. First, Deng Youmei discovered this Cantonese restaurant. He said, "It's quite good, especially the morning tea session, which is very authentic." Upon hearing this, he and I went to try it, and it turned out to be quite enjoyable. Later, Ye Nan joined us, followed by Liu Meng, and finally, Zhang Jie also joined in. We took turns hosting each other, a practice said to originate from Zhang Xueliang. When he gathered with his old friends like Zhang Daqian and Zhang Qun, the turn came to someone to pay for the meal, avoiding the awkwardness of everyone scrambling to pay. We thought this was a great idea, so we arranged it by age, going around in a circle, and then starting over again. Whoever wanted to eat could have the food brought around, and whoever wanted to drink could simply ask the waiter.
Deng Youmei is a tea enthusiast. Ye Nan appreciates the subtleties of tea. Zhang Jie prefers sweet and savory snacks, while Liu Meng and I are particularly fond of the soy milk and fried dough sticks there. These five friends, braving the cold winds or the scorching sun, maintained this tradition through the changing seasons. From all corners of the city, we gathered here. After drinking our fill, eating our hearts out, and chatting endlessly until our mouths grew tired, we would make plans for the next meeting and then part ways, melting into the bustling crowd.
At our age, with just a few friends, though we don’t feel like we’re draining each other dry, we share a bond of mutual support. Rare meetings are precious, with endless chatter, laughter, and discussions about everything under the sun. It’s not about spending much, but about gaining joy. Having such a carefree and harmonious tea gathering is truly blissful.
Looking back, when I first read Mao Zedong’s poem in response to Liu Yazi, which included the line "Unable to forget tea in Guangdong’s seas," I probably dismissed the idea of daily morning tea sessions as unnecessary. Perhaps it was because I was young and impulsive, unaccustomed to the ways of the world, or because I was too busy with revolutionary activities to have time for such things. I didn’t appreciate the ritual of the elderly Guangdong people starting their day with a cup of tea.
But as the years passed and I gained more experience, both joys and hardships, I came to understand the flavors of life—sweet, sour, bitter, and spicy. I realized that the desire for more or less was like tea—becoming increasingly (dàn, meaning "muted" or "subtle") with time. I began to yearn for a quiet place in the morning where I could sit and enjoy a leisurely cup of tea. How delightful that would be!
I don’t know if there were ever Cantonese-style tea houses in old Beijing, but the tea houses I knew there were never particularly uplifting. They lacked the braised silk beans of Nanjing tea houses, the assorted fruit platters of Sichuan tea houses, or the diverse array of dishes found in Cantonese tea houses. In the 1950s, when I first arrived in Beijing, there were still tea stalls in Zhongshan Park’s Laijin Yuxuan. But by the time I wanted to drink tea, the tea houses had been upgraded to restaurants and bars, seeking more profit. Even selling fried sauce noodles was more lucrative than running a tea stall. You’d order half a pound of noodles, scoop them into a bowl, and mix in the sauce from the salt seller’s jar, eating it without much thought. At most, you’d drink the noodle soup and leave. But drinking tea was far less straightforward—refilling the pot one by one and having to constantly prompt the waiter.
So whenever I visited Guangzhou, I would go for tea. When eating Cantonese morning tea, you really don’t need to pay attention to the young and lively crowd or the fashionable men and women. These people are usually either discussing business, shopping, or flirting. I find the most interesting part of a tea house are the elderly—truly devoted tea drinkers, the soul of the place. Especially those with weathered faces but youthful spirits, or bald heads but long eyebrows, who find great liberation and tranquility in their cups. They seem to embody a semi-divine state, achieving enlightenment with every sip. Such joy is truly envy-inducing.
A cup of tea is a friend that accompanies us throughout our lives. Smoking may leave you, drinking may leave you, wives, lovers, friends, and comrades may leave you, but only tea will stay. It will remain firmly in your hands for a long time. The value of tea goes beyond being a lifelong companion—it embodies a spirit of simplicity that we should all strive to embrace.
Occasionally, we’d invite a few familiar acquaintances to add some variety to our tea gatherings. The conversation would range from trivial matters to deep discussions, with no fixed theme, no boundaries, no host or guest, no restrictions—just pure enjoyment, laughter, and light-hearted banter to stimulate the appetite and aid digestion.
When you gather a group of people, adding up their ages, and they’re hundreds of years old, if there’s still someone who doesn’t understand what’s good for them, they must truly be clueless. At our age, it’s better to be more tranquil, less restless; more relaxed, less tense; more peaceful, less grumpy; and more self-caring, less intrusive. Life is like tea—becoming more subtle with time, and so should we. Perhaps this is the way the Cantonese people drink tea, and it’s also why we, as fellow writers, can sit together at a table and enjoy tea. The beauty of tea lies in its effortless simplicity.
P37-39