In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 106, Section 105: A Bustling Breakfast Stall
The Sunday morning sunlight was rather stingy, only squeezing in a few fine golden rays through the narrow windowpane.

They lay lazily on the cement floor, casting blurry and slightly distorted shadows of the window frames.

Yang Guangming, unusually, slept in completely.

After a week of tension, his nerves, like strings suddenly released, completely relaxed on this day off that was entirely his own. He sank into a numb, all-encompassing comfort, feeling a long-lost softness even in the very bones.

Outside the window, the morning symphony of the alleyway had already begun. The clanging of pots and pans created the rhythm of life. The crisp, clear greetings of housewives in Shanghainese rose and fell, penetrating the thin walls and weaving a lively tapestry.

"Sister Caiyun, do you have any fresh ribbonfish at the market today? My husband has been asking about them for days!"

"Mrs. Feng, is your coal stove lit yet? Can I borrow a match to start it? This stove in our house is acting up today, it's so unreliable!"

"Oh dear, Granny Chen, could I borrow your feather duster? The windowsill is covered in a thick layer of dust..."

Yang Guangming rolled over, burying his face in the warm, sun-baked pillowcase. The deliberately hushed conversation of his mother and father next door clearly reached his ears.

Mother Zhang Xiuying's voice was soft, carrying the unique rambling and concern of everyday life, flowing like a stream.

The response from Yang Yongkang's side was low and brief, with a habitual calmness, occasionally interspersed with the crisp sound of an enamel cup lid lightly tapping the rim of the cup, like a steady rhythm.

This warm, noisy atmosphere, characteristic of family life, gently enveloped him, carrying a touch of body heat.

In this era of resounding slogans and fiery red flags, this small, slightly crowded front building was the most secure and warmest nest in his heart.

As the sun gradually climbed higher, it lengthened and brightened the few stingy rays of sunlight, and the light and shadow moved slowly on the cement ground. Only then did Yang Guangming slowly sit up.

He stretched slowly, as if dormant parts of his body were awakened, his bones making a series of soft, comforting clicks, as if they had been reassembled, filled with the exhilarating feeling of being stretched out.

He shuffled through the narrow courtyard in his plastic slippers.

In one corner of the courtyard, there were some miscellaneous items piled up, while in another corner were the public water taps and sinks.

He quickly splashed cold water on his face, the icy touch instantly dispelling any lingering sleepiness. He hastily brushed his teeth, the cool minty taste filling his mouth. The towel felt rough and coarse as he wiped his face.

Back in the dimly lit front building, Mother Zhang Xiuying was hunched over, busy inside.

She took the faded rag and vigorously wiped the edges of the old wooden table, her movements with a habitual focus. Fine beads of sweat glistened on her forehead in the light filtering through the window, and a few strands of gray hair were stuck to her temples by the sweat.

Father Yang Yongkang sat upright in a sturdy-looking chair next to the old wooden table.

He held the enamel mug with the double happiness symbol printed on it in both hands, wisps of white steam rising from its rim. He was sipping the scalding hot tea, but his gaze was fixed on the wall opposite him, which was covered with old newspapers. His eyes were somewhat vacant, as if he were lost in thought, or perhaps searching for some forgotten corner among the dense print.

"Mom, Dad." Yang Guangming picked up the short-sleeved white shirt draped over the back of the chair, put it on neatly, and fastened the buttons nimbly, only tying half of it casually, leaving the collar loose. "I won't be home for breakfast. I've made plans to get together with some old classmates in the morning, and I won't be back for lunch either."

Upon hearing the sound, Zhang Xiuying immediately turned around, still clutching a damp rag in her hand, her face instantly filled with concern:

"Not coming back for lunch? Eating out is so expensive! Do you have enough money on you? Mom will give you some more..."

As she spoke, she was about to put down the rag and reach into her apron pocket.

"Mom, that's enough!" Yang Guangming quickly stepped forward and gently pressed down on his mother's calloused, slightly rough hand.

His smile was gentle yet carried the certainty unique to youth, like warm sunshine trying to soothe his mother's worries.

"It's just a few old classmates, casually finding a place to get together, chat, and gossip. It doesn't cost much money."

"You and Dad should make something nice for lunch, like a steamed egg or some small yellow croaker. Things are better off now, don't skimp. I'll listen to your story when I get back."

Yang Yongkang raised his eyes.

His gaze, like an old searchlight, slowly and carefully swept over his son's neat clothes and combed hair, finally settling on his calm and composed expression.

He nodded steadily, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weighty authority of a head of household.

"Go ahead. Be careful on the road, and avoid crowded places."

He paused for a moment, as if considering his words, "Among classmates, we should value friendship, be generous when appropriate, and maintain appearances."

He picked up his enamel mug, took another sip of tea, and tapped the lid lightly against the rim. "But you have to know your limits. Money doesn't come easily."

He spoke those last words with exceptional clarity, and his gaze refocused on his son's face.

"I understand, Dad. I know what I'm doing," Yang Guangming replied earnestly.

He smiled at his mother again, a smile full of affection and reassurance, and said, "Then I'm off."

Pushing open the heavy back door, a strong and complex mixture of smells, typical of the early morning air in a Shikumen alleyway, rushes towards you like a warm embrace.

That was the faint smell of alkaline water left over from scrubbing the toilet the night before, the pungent smell of coal smoke from the coal stoves starting to burn in each house, the earthy smell of water vapor rising from the stone pavement after being poured on by the sun, and the aroma of oil wafting from someone frying food...

They intertwine and entwine, forming the most fundamental and vibrant atmosphere of this city.

Yang Guangming stood on the high threshold, squinted slightly, and took a deep breath of the unique, bustling air of the city.

As if an invisible vitality had been injected into his body, he straightened his youthful back, his steps became lighter, and he then merged into the increasingly dense and hurried flow of people in the alley.

His goal was clear, and he didn't go far. He turned into the always bustling, steaming snack shop at the entrance of the alley after a few steps.

The five large red characters of "Weimin Dim Sum Shop" are written on the wooden sign. Years of smoke and grease have turned the red paint black and dull, but it has only added to the warmth and familiarity of the local people.

The breakfast shop has a low lintel, so taller people have to duck to get in.

As soon as he lifted the thick, greasy, dark blue curtain, an even stronger and more intense wave of heat suddenly enveloped him.

The heat wave, a mixture of the sizzling aroma of boiling oil, the wheaty scent of baking flour, the beany smell of boiling soy milk, the slight astringency of alkaline water, and the sweat emanating from the crowded shop, hits you in the face, almost suffocating you.

The cramped shop was like a steamer, packed with people.

The square tables and long benches, stained black and shiny with grease, were already packed with people.

Most people could only stand, or simply squat in the corner or by the door, holding bowls and plates, and eating heartily.

Most of the men wore sweat-stained white vests or faded work clothes with blurry factory names printed on them, revealing their dark and muscular arms.

The women wore their hair neatly in buns, carried bamboo or rattan baskets, and spoke in clear, high-pitched voices that could be clearly heard even in the midst of the noise.

"Two fried dough sticks and a bowl of savory soup! Dine-in only!"

"Two flatbreads! And a pack of sweet syrup! Hurry up, we're running late!"

"Cifan wrapped around fried dough sticks, with sugar! Extra sugar! Hurry up!"

……

The sounds of people ordering food in Shanghainese, the crisp or dull clatter of bowls and plates, the slurping of scalding soup, and the loud, almost hoarse, responses of the waiters...

All these sounds, amidst the rising steam and fumes of the food, intertwine to form a boisterous and vibrant morning symphony at the breakfast stall, brimming with life and carrying the raw texture of everyday existence.

Sunlight, like a nimble fish, darted sideways through the gaps between people and quickly squeezed to the cashier counter against the wall.

The cashier was a lean young man, known as "Little Ningbo".

He wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses with one leg broken and carefully tied to his ear with thin hemp rope. Behind the lenses were a pair of eyes that looked exceptionally shrewd from years of scheming.

His fingers, covered in a mixture of oil and flour, moved swiftly across a greasy wooden abacus, the beads almost invisible, making a "clattering" sound. His practiced skill made the abacus seem like an extension of his fingers.

"Little Ningbo, a big flatbread and fried dough sticks, the flatbread must be savory, a bowl of savory soy milk, for dine-in." Yang Guangming's voice remained clear and steady amidst the bustling noise.

"Salty flatbread 3 cents, fried dough stick 4 cents, salty soy milk 5 cents, flatbread half a tael of grain coupons, fried dough stick 1 tael of grain coupons."

The total was 12 cents, plus 1.5 ounces of grain coupons.

Without even looking up, Xiao Ningbo's oily fingers made one last crisp flick on the abacus, announcing the price in an unquestionable tone.

Yang Guangming took out a few crumpled small bills and two equally crumpled grain coupons with red stamps from his pocket, carefully counted them, and handed them over.

Xiao Ningbo took the money, his fingers spitting as he quickly counted it, deftly tore off a piece from a stack of greasy, twisted pieces of paper, marked it with his ink-stained hands, and handed it to Yang Guangming.

"Here, take number nine and get in line. There are eight more numbers ahead of you."

The line at the order window was quite long.

A huge iron wok for frying dough sticks was set up at the entrance of the shop, with hot oil bubbling and sizzling inside, producing fine golden bubbles and rising smoke.

A burly, shirtless man with a gray towel draped around his neck, its original color long since obscured, stood there. His bronze skin gleamed with oil, and sweat rolled down the grooves of his muscles.

He was skillfully flipping the fried dough sticks in the oil pan, which were rapidly expanding and turning golden and crispy, with two long bamboo chopsticks. Each flip brought out an even richer aroma of caramelized fat.

Next to it was a barrel oven for baking flatbread, the fire blazing brightly, the glowing red embers reflecting off the oven walls. The flatbread, stuck to the oven walls, was baking, and the aroma of wheat mixed with the unique charred fragrance of charcoal filled the air, intertwining with the scent of fried dough sticks.

The rice ball maker stood beside a large, steaming wooden tub, his movements as swift as a wound-up toy.

He used a damp cloth to cushion his hands, quickly scooped out a ball of snow-white, piping hot glutinous rice from the wooden bucket, spread it out on the damp cloth, sprinkled a pinch of glistening white sugar on it, placed a piece of freshly cooked, golden-yellow oil strip on top, and then with an extremely deft roll and pinch, a plump, round glutinous rice ball magically appeared in his hand and was handed to the customer who was eagerly waiting at the window.

Sunlight streamed in, and everyone's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the freshly baked food.

Golden-brown fried dough sticks, crispy and fragrant flatbread, snow-white and soft glutinous rice balls...

His stomach seemed to stir slightly, a faint protest emanating from the irresistible aroma. The simple meal he'd eaten the night before had long since been digested, and now it lay empty, awaiting its filling.

"Hey, Xiaoming! So early on Sunday? It's good for young people to sleep in!" A familiar, slightly hoarse voice rang out behind him.

Yang Guangming turned around with a smile; it was Granny Wang from next door to the Shikumen.

She was carrying a bamboo basket containing an old pot that had been washed until it was white and had several pieces of enamel chipped off. The lid of the pot was tied with a strip of cloth.

"Good morning, Grandma Wang!" Yang Guangming greeted her familiarly. "It's rare for me to sleep in, and I'm starving. What would you like to buy?"

Grandma Wang leaned closer, her face showing the shrewdness typical of the elderly and a smugness as if sharing a secret, and said in a low voice:
"My husband is being unreasonable; he insists on eating savory soy milk with fried dough sticks. So, bring your own pot to serve it, so we don't have to use their bowls and they charge us an extra penny!"

She shook the basket in her hand, "I'll also take two big flatbreads back with me. I'll soak them in boiling water for lunch, add a couple of drops of sesame oil and sprinkle some chopped green onions, and eat them as rice porridge. It'll save me the trouble of cooking, saving both money and effort."

Yang Guangming nodded in understanding. This was the norm for living frugally; every penny and every grain coupon had to be used wisely.

In times of scarcity, thrift was an instinct ingrained in our bones.

"Mingming, how are your parents? It's been so hot and humid lately, they need to take care of themselves." Grandma Wang greeted them as usual, her eyes filled with the simple concern of a neighbor.

"Very good, very good, thank you for your concern, Grandma. They are all in good spirits," Yang Guangming replied with a smile.

"Good, good! Young man, eat more, eat your fill!"

Grandma Wang stretched out her age-spotted hand and patted Yangming's strong arm firmly, her eyes filled with the unquestionable care unique to elders. "Health is the foundation of everything! Only when you're well-fed can you have the strength to build the country! Do you understand?"

"I know, I know!" Yang Guangming replied with a smile.

Finally, it was Yang Guangming's turn.

He handed the number nine ticket to the busy clerk at the window.

The guy was a round-faced young man, probably seventeen or eighteen years old. His sleeves were rolled up high to his elbows, revealing his tanned forearms. He moved as fast as a whirlwind.

He took the receipt, glanced at it, and quickly grabbed a freshly baked, hot, oval-shaped savory flatbread from the oven next to him with his left hand. The flatbread had a golden-brown, crispy crust, was slightly puffed up, and emitted a rich aroma of baking soda and caramel.

With his right hand, he used long bamboo chopsticks to pick up a golden, crispy fried dough stick from the draining iron rack. The stick was still sizzling with tiny oil bubbles and dripping with oil. With a "snap," he neatly and cleanly placed it on the hot flatbread.

Immediately afterwards, he casually scooped up a large spoonful of boiling hot soy milk from a steaming iron pot next to him, and with a flick of his wrist, the pale yellow soy milk poured forcefully into a large, rough porcelain bowl with a blue rim.

A thin, wrinkled layer immediately forms on the surface of the soy milk.

This is not over yet!

With his other hand, the waiter deftly and quickly grabbed ingredients from several open, coarse porcelain bowls on the table: a small pinch of dark green seaweed flakes, a few pieces of crispy fried dough sticks, a small pinch of slightly yellow and translucent dried shrimp, and a little bit of finely chopped brown pickled mustard tuber.

Finally, with a nimble twist of the wrist, a few drops of dark brown soy sauce and a small spoonful of bright red chili oil are poured on.

A steaming bowl of savory syrup, rich in ingredients and with an enticing color, magically appears before the bright sunlight.

The richness of soy milk, the freshness of seaweed, the saltiness of dried shrimp, the crispness of pickled mustard greens, the spiciness of chili oil, and the crispy aroma of fried dough sticks—all these flavors immediately captivate the senses, both visually and olfactorily.

"Hold it properly! Be careful, it's hot!" The waiter placed the flatbread with fried dough sticks on top and the bowl of steaming salty soup on the greasy counter by the window, his loud voice drowning out the noise in the shop.

Yang Guangming carefully stretched out his hands, and his fingers recoiled slightly as soon as they touched the scalding hot bowl.

He steadied himself, picked it up steadily again, and his fingertips were slightly red from the heat.

With his other hand, he pinched the edge of the pancake containing the fried dough stick, the scorching heat penetrating his palm through the thin paper bag.

He carried the heavy, steaming breakfast, looked around, and tried to find a slightly empty corner.

My gaze swept across the crowded throng and landed on an old worker with gray hair, wearing faded blue overalls, wiping his mouth and picking up his empty bowl as he stood up at a greasy, shiny square table in the corner.

Yang Guangming quickly squeezed past and carefully placed the scalding hot bowl of salty soy sauce on the newly vacated table. The table still retained the oil stains and warmth left by the previous customer.

He pulled out the equally greasy long bench and sat down; the bench seemed to still carry the residual warmth of his body.

He couldn't wait to put the flatbread wrapped with fried dough sticks on the table, and first picked up the bowl of savory soup.

The bowl was too hot to touch, so he carefully blew on the rim to try and lower the temperature.

The unique aroma of the salty soy milk, a blend of the fragrance of soybeans, the freshness of seaweed, the saltiness of dried shrimp, the crispness of pickled mustard greens, and the spiciness of chili oil, wafts even more intensely into the nose, tantalizing the stomach.

He couldn't resist taking a small sip.

The scalding hot, salty, and thick liquid, carrying the aroma of crispy fried dough sticks and the crunchy texture of pickled mustard tuber, slid down my throat. A strong warm current instantly spread from my stomach, quickly reaching every part of my body, dispelling the last trace of laziness and coolness of the morning.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, as if his whole body had come back to life.

He put down his bowl and picked up the classic "pancake wrapped with fried dough stick".

The savory flatbread is baked until golden brown and crispy, with the unique aroma and chewiness of alkaline flour. If you squeeze it hard with your fingers, you can hear a slight cracking sound.

Inside is a soft, warm dough core filled with the aroma of wheat.

The fried dough sticks were fresh out of the fryer, golden and fluffy, and still hot to the touch.

He took a bite, and a crisp "crunch" exploded clearly in his ear as the outer skin shattered.

Inside, it's soft yet chewy, with the aroma of hot oil mixed with the fragrance of flour, instantly filling the entire mouth and bringing a simple and straightforward sense of satisfaction.

This is the most classic and affordable breakfast combination in Shanghai. It's hearty, filling, and full of the down-to-earth feeling of everyday life. It's also a shared taste memory for countless people from the alleyways.

With a bite of piping hot, crispy fried dough stick and a sip of savory, piping hot soy milk, Yang Guangming ate with focused concentration.

Fine beads of sweat quickly appeared on his forehead and trickled down his temples, but he didn't bother to wipe them away, completely immersed in the primal pleasure of the food.

The surrounding noise seemed to gradually fade away, becoming a blurry background sound.

He vaguely heard two young men in faded military green casual clothes next to him wolfing down their food while enthusiastically discussing the current events they had heard on the cable radio the night before. Their voices were so excited that their spittle almost flew into their bowls.

Then I overheard a housewife wearing a floral apron complaining to her companion that she had to wait in a long line at the market to buy just two tiny ribbonfish, each about the width of a finger, and the price was outrageously high. "In my house, a whole batch of pork only costs a few ounces, and this little bit of fish costs so much money..."

The oil in the pan was still sizzling, the sound of food dancing in the hot oil.

The charcoal fire in the flatbread oven occasionally emitted a slight crackling sound.

The vendor's shouts were like a sharp sword, piercing through the rising steam: "Number 13, the pancake and fried dough stick are ready!" "Number 7, the savory soy sauce, packing up!"...

Yang Guangming ate quickly but carefully, adapting to local customs. He even carefully picked up the few crumbs of fried dough sticks that had fallen on the greasy table and put them into his mouth with great care.

The food had a rough and authentic texture, a scalding temperature, and a rich aroma, which genuinely soothed his young and hungry stomach, bringing a primal sense of fullness and satisfaction.

In an era of widespread scarcity and planned rationing, a hot, fragrant breakfast that is enough to fill one's stomach is a wonderful and empowering start to the day, a small but certain happiness that supports people in facing life.

The salty broth in the bowl quickly ran out, leaving only the seaweed and dried shrimp crumbs at the bottom.

Only a few crumbs with burnt edges remained of the fried dough sticks and flatbread.

He picked up the bowl and drank it down like soup, finishing the last bit of salty syrup mixed with seaweed, dried shrimp, and pickled mustard greens. He then licked his lips, which were still stained with chili oil and soy sauce, with a lingering sense of satisfaction.

My stomach felt warm and full, and a sense of solid, inner satisfaction filled my entire body.

The hunger disappeared, replaced by a feeling of languor and energy after a full meal.

More sweat appeared on his forehead, and his vest clung slightly to his body.

He breathed a satisfied sigh of relief, stood up, and gently pushed the bench back under the table.

"Have you finished eating? Young man, you have quite an appetite!" Grandma Wang, having also finished buying her groceries, was carefully carrying an enamel pot full of piping hot soy milk over. Seeing the empty bowl and table in front of Yang Guangming, she smiled approvingly. "Young people are great, they eat everything with gusto!"

Yang Guangming smiled a little embarrassedly and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand: "Mmm, I'm full. It tasted really good. Grandma, please enjoy your meal. I'll be going now."

"Alright, alright, go have some fun!" Granny Wang waved her hand that wasn't carrying the pot, her smile kind.

Then, as if remembering something, she raised her voice and reminded Yang Guangming's retreating figure, "The sun is quite strong outside, be careful on the road! Wear your hat!"

"I know, Grandma!" Yang Guangming turned around and replied, then squeezed through the crowded, sweaty, and steaming crowd again, lifting the thick, greasy, and slippery dark blue curtain.

Outside the shop, the July sun was already high in the sky, becoming quite scorching, and the blinding white light made people squint.

In the alley, the sounds of scrubbing toilets in the early morning have gradually faded away, and the coal stoves of each household emit wisps of smoke that rise and dissipate in the sultry air.

He stood on the steps at the shop entrance and wiped the newly formed beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

The aroma of fried dough sticks, the wheat fragrance of flatbread, and the unique salty and savory taste of salty soy sauce still seemed to linger on the corners of my mouth.

The languid comfort of waking up at home has been completely awakened by this breakfast, full of local vitality and the aroma of everyday life, transforming into a solid energy that surges through my young blood.

He straightened his back, casually tucked in the hem of his shirt, and strode toward the bus stop.

The sunlight cast his young shadow onto the shimmering stone pavement of the alley, where it quickly blended into the noisy chatter deep within the alley.

(End of this chapter)