In the 31st year of the Republic of China, April 17th, Grain Rain.
In the third alley south of Xiafei Road in Shanghai's French Concession, a faded wooden plaque is hung with the words "Nanke Tea House" in four official scripts. The front door is not big, with two bays. There is a bamboo shed facing the street and two Eight Immortals tables under the shed. At half past six in the morning, the mist was like water-soaked cotton gauze, darkening the bluestone road.
When Chen Yanqing opened the blue cloth curtain, the copper pot in his hand was still emitting white steam.
He wears a gray cloth robe, the cuffs of which are washed and hairy, and wears round glasses on the bridge of his nose - the lenses were fitted at Yong'an Company the year before last, and now there is a slight crack on the left side, like a dead centipede. At the age of thirty-two, his back is habitually slightly hunched, and he walks lightly, as if he is afraid of disturbing something.
"Good morning, Boss Chen!"
Across the street, Ah Fu, the man from the soy sauce garden, was removing the door panel, his voice loud and harsh. Chen Yanqing shrunk his shoulders, put on a smile, nodded in agreement, and then walked into the teahouse two steps faster.
The scent of sandalwood that burned out last night still lingers in the hall. There are four square tables, sixteen benches, and the pendulum of an old-fashioned chiming clock in the corner swings slowly. At the innermost side is the counter, with a mahogany Duobao Pavilion behind it. The items on display are not antiques, but seven or eight tea cans of different styles with handwritten labels: Longjing, Biluochun, Qihong, Pu'er...
He placed the copper kettle on the small red clay stove, filled it with water from the water jar, and knelt down to strike the match. The moment the flames burst into flames, the eyes behind the lenses narrowed.
