重庆Chongqing | Hotpot | Little Noodles | Malatang | Liziba скачать в хорошем качестве

重庆Chongqing | Hotpot | Little Noodles | Malatang | Liziba

At five o'clock in the morning at Chaotianmen Wharf, fog covered the river like a veil. Lao Yang's noodle stall was set up on the stone steps, and a dim light bulb cast a warm halo in the fog. The dough on the chopping board flew in his hands, pulled into thin noodles, and jumped into the boiling pot. This is the most moving morning song in Chongqing. The aroma of the noodle soup mixed with the dampness of the river water awakened the sleeping mountain city. "Two taels of small noodles, add more pepper!" The dock workers who were rushing to the early shift shouted at the top of their voices. Lao Yang didn't even raise his head, stirring the long chopsticks in his hand in the pot. The red oil rippled at the bottom of the bowl, and chopped green onions, minced garlic, and crushed peanuts were sprinkled in sequence, and finally a spoonful of boiling bone soup was poured. The workers squatted on the stone steps, slurping their food, and fine beads of sweat oozed out of their foreheads. The river breeze blew by, bringing the sound of the ship's whistle, mixed with the aroma of the noodle soup, drifting in the morning mist. At noon, at Jiefangbei, the sun shines through the gaps between high-rise buildings. In the hot pot restaurant deep in the alley, the nine-square grid is bubbling. Old Tang stood at the kitchen door and pounded garlic, and the sound of pounding echoed in the alley. He said that the sesame oil should be heated to the temperature that is just enough to scald the garlic paste. This is what he learned from his father. The heat cannot be any worse. Regular customers know that they should first put a handful of bean sprouts in to make the soup more fresh. The tripe jumps on the tip of the chopsticks, the yellow throat stretches in the soup, and the duck intestines roll up and down. The uncle at the next table picked up a piece of tripe, dipped it in the boiling red soup, dipped it in the garlic paste and sesame oil and put it into his mouth, squinting his eyes in satisfaction. The hot steam from the hot pot rose up, blurring the outline of the mountain city outside the window, but making this hot memory clearer. In the evening, lights were lit up in Hongyadong. The roadside stalls set up stoves, and the grilled fish on the iron plate sizzled. The boss skillfully flipped the fish, and the aroma of chili, pepper, ginger and garlic intertwined in the air. Diners sat around on plastic stools, drinking iced beer and putting the tender fish into their mouths. The river breeze blew over, bringing the sound of the whistle from the other side, mixed with the aroma of grilled fish, forming the most moving movement of the mountain city at night. Lao Yang was cleaning up the noodle stall and throwing the last handful of noodles into the pot. He said that he used to squat on the roadside to eat noodles, but now that conditions are better, it’s a little less delicious. Lao Tang sat at the door of the hot pot restaurant smoking, and the sparks flickered. The street lights in the alley were dim, shining on the bluestone slabs, like a thin layer of salt. He said that this alley might be demolished, and he didn’t know if he could still find such a store by then. In the smoke, their eyes were a little dazed, as if they saw the backs of their fathers squatting on the roadside to make soup. This aroma has the richness of butter, the numbing aroma of Sichuan pepper, the precipitation of time, and the inexplicable homesickness of the people in the mountain city. The charcoal fire gradually dimmed, but the aroma of the hot pot still floated in the alley. This is the taste of Chongqing, the memory of the mountain city, and the homesickness flowing in the blood of Chongqing people. It is hidden deep in the alley, floating in the river breeze, and melting in the morning mist, becoming the most distinctive mark of this city.#chinesefood #streetfood #chongqing #hotpot #liziba #futurecity