IMPRESSIONS
A winter's tale
PALLAVI AIYAR
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Whether it is the "pay the bill" or the icy swim, the Beijinger can be quite scary.
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Photos: Pallavi Aiyar
A freezing winter: Checking on the amounts of coal.
"AND what's that? Lungs by any chance?" I queried, a catch in my throat betraying the only sign of discomfort, excluding that is my sweaty brow and increasingly strained smile. "Oh you're in for a special treat," grinned Mrs. Xu ghoulishly, stirring the steaming vat with a glinting ladle. "It's not just lungs, but kidneys and liver too — all mixed up in a broth of stock and blood and flavoured with Sichuan chillies."
For a moment she looked concerned. "You don't mind chillies, do you?" she asked attentively. In dumb misery, I shook my head. In good conscience I could not claim to be chilli-averse "That's alright then," she smiled, relieved and proceeded to ladle out a particularly large helping of grey, quivering meat, plop, into my reluctantly extended bowl.
And so the meal went on. Mixed innards were followed by bullfrog on the bone, so that the meat had to be gnawed off and little bits of cartilage spat out. "It's not very well known but frog meat is, in fact, the most delicious of all," informed Mr. Xu, our former railway ministry official-landlord.
Landlords' night out
It was a spontaneous night out with the landlords for the spouse and I. Mr. Xu had been pottering around our courtyard fixing some standard siheyuan plumbing problem and by the time he finished up it was well into the evening. When he suggested supper we accepted. It was a chance we had, in fact, long been hoping for.
Every time we had been out to eat with the landlords on previous occasions, Mr. Xu had picked up the tab. This did not reflect as much on his generosity as it did on our lack of skill in the popular Chinese dining contest of "who can pay the bill first", the losing of which brings much loss of face to the defeated party.
I had on occasion witnessed scenes at restaurants where the two or more parties concerned ended up tugging at the bill with one hand while using the other to strike forceful blows at their opponents, until the pain from the pounding became unbearable causing the weaker among the contenders to surrender. The victorious party would then proceed to gloatingly pay the bill, while the vanquished looked on in misery and humiliation.
Turning tables
Trees begin to look starved.
Having always lost to Mr. Xu in the bill-paying game, we were determined to turn the tables and his dinner suggestion presented us with just the right occasion.
Allowing him to choose the restaurant and dishes was part of our strategy. We would lull him into thinking he was the acknowledged host for the night and then after we had eaten our fill, the spouse would excuse himself to go to the loo but head instead for the cashier where he would sneakily pay the bill. When Mr. Xu asked for the cheque, we would triumphantly reveal that it had already been taken care of and try not to smirk when his face crumpled in defeat.
All was proceeding according to plan when half-way through the meal Mr. Xu swallowed a morsel of frog the wrong way down and went into frightening convulsions, clutching desperately at his throat as he gagged on a piece of amphibian cartilage. Suppressing base thoughts about this being poetic justice visited on the landlord for the ordeal inflicted on my stomach, I gamely pummelled his back, but to no avail. Mr. Xu broke away and went dashing out of the room, but the Mrs., who insisted that we were not to worry, prevented us from following. "Old Xu is tough," she said. "He'll be fine."
A few minutes later Mr. Xu reappeared, a bit red in the face but obviously recovered. Brushing off our solicitous inquiries he once again tucked into the pig lungs on his plate with gusto. Half an hour on, our appetites sated, Julio slipped off as planned to the "loo" and stealthily made his way to the cashier where he whispered for the bill. "The bill?" replied the puzzled lady. "But, that was taken care of by the old man you're eating with, about half an hour ago."
* * *
In the hutongs, winter's freeze sets in. Once plump trees take on a starved look. Stinging winds originating from Siberia sweep across our courtyard, sending our cats cowering for the warmth of blankets.
In the chill
Summer and autumn are the honeymoon period of courtyard living in Beijing. With winter comes certain disenchantment, especially if you are a tropically inclined Indian.
The different pavilions of a siheyuan are unconnected, so that visits from the kitchen to the living room, for example, necessitate an outdoor journey across the yard. Outside its minus 10 degrees, inside a toastier 20 degrees; combined it's a sure-shot recipe for a cold, with which I promptly come down.
I was thus lying sniffling on the sofa in weak repose when my maid, or auntie as we call her, came into work one Monday morning. I expected a small fuss to be made over me, perhaps a cup of hot ginger tea proffered. Instead I got a long lecture on my foolhardiness in keeping the heat up at 20 degrees, when all it did was waste electricity and weaken the immune system.
"Feel the fresh air," said Auntie, dramatically, flinging open the windows to let in the Siberian winds. Nothing is quite as frightening as a Beijinger in winter. The Chinese take deep pride in their resilience to cold and the idea that feeling cold at all is an illness seems to have widespread currency.
Popular winter sport
Admitting to feeling chilly is thus looked upon with scorn and met with long lectures on how to improve your immune system. Small wonder given that one of the more popular winter sports amongst the hutong's geriatrics' is "winter swimming". Aficionados swear by its health benefits as they strip down to their trunks, break the layer of ice covering their chosen lake with a stick and then proceed to plunge into the teeth-chattering water for up to five minutes.
Old Guang from the neighbouring hutong is missing too many teeth for their chattering to bother him much, but he's very proud of his health. "I never catch a cold," he says to me as I blow loudly into my handkerchief. "Because of winter swimming I have no illness. I am so old but I don't need any pills," he gloats on, as I clutch at my bag of throat lozenges.
Research reveals that Beijing's Winter Swimming Association boasts over 5,000 members at an average age of 50. China's youngsters most sensibly seem to prefer a hot cup of Starbucks coffee as their winter time leisure activity. As for me, all I have to say is, "aachoo"!
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