Citizen Breakfast: Waterlogged Rice in Shanghai

A friend approached me to write about the street food of Shanghai, the city that I spent 7 years of my childhood in, The first thing that came to mind is the ubiquitous “Xiao Long Man Tou”*of course, it’s the street food Shanghai is known for.  But upon sitting down, and with my hands poised over the keyboard, I realized that as delicious as they are, and as much as that indescribable consommé inside those delicate buns have brought me to many orgasmic moans, I can’t quite speak to those just yet, instead, all that fills my mind when I think of Shanghai, is a simple bowl of slurpy waterlogged rice.

Situated at the mouth of the Yangtze River on the Huangpu Tributary, the silt of the river has blessed Shanghai with enough rice to eat year round. “Xi liang,” or “fine staple” as my northern born mother calls it, often teasing my father about his addiction to the crop. Elsewhere in China, the rice is eaten dry, or as porridge/congee. But here, in Shanghai, for breakfast, left over rice from the previous night is served after being brought to a watery boil, with each grain of rice is still intact, with small servings of side dishes.

It really is not that special, just another permutation of the staple. Yet, what made this meal boring also set it in orbit as one of the few constants of my childhood. Having been born to a mother from the North, and a father who is native Shanghai-nese, much of my childhood was spent shuttling between parents who worked in different cities, riding on trains traveling between the various cities: Harbin, Beijing, Nanjing, Hangzhou, and of course, Grandmother’s place – Shanghai.  It was probably not the easiest of days for me, but I don’t really remember. Instead, I rely on my mother’s frequent description of those days. Of all the stories from that time, Mother’s favorites are those “arrival” stories.

Each year, several days before Chinese New Year’s my parents and I, stationed in our respective cities, would return to Grandmother’s Shanghai home.  Logistics were always sketchy at best, but also fairly standard: weeks ahead, my folks would send word by letter to announce our approximate window of arrival – my father from Beijing, and my mother and I from another city.  Then, my grandmother would simply wait for her 6^th son and his wife and kids to show up at her door…

My mother and I always entered the city following hours of cheap hard-seat train rides. Another bumpy bus ride drops us, suitcases in tow, in front of the alley leading up Grandmother’s apartment. Mother would then slowly make her way to our destination, with me, in an oversized red Tibetan-style cotton stuffed jacket, trotting along as toddlers usually do – inconsistently and slowly – in the chilly early morning air.  Sometimes, I’d be too exhausted to walk, and Mother would tell me to stand in place while she dragged the suitcase for a short distance; then she’d come back and carry me to the luggage. In this fashion she would repeat until we slowly make our way down the alley, making one turn then another, to the bottom floor of Grandmother’s building, where she lives on the 4^th floor.

“You liked to sing a lot, so we’d sing our way through those walks, and before long, we’d be there.” My mom would say. “You were really quite an adorable kid back then, not obnoxious like you are now.

“We’d be on the 2^nd floor, and you’d be yelling for your grandmother, ‘Nai-nai! Nai-nai!!’ all excited.  The neighbors who would be up and sweeping the hallways would smile and wonder where this little Northern kid came from. Then they’d recognize you from the previous visit. And if the 2nd floor Granny (as that’s the name she went by) would give you a Big-Rabbit milk candy.

“Next comes my favorite part,” my mother always beams at this point of the story, “Your grandmother is always there to greet us at the head of the stairs after all this ruckus.  ‘You guys are here.’ And there she was, as excited to see us as I am relieved. You’d teeter-totter up to her, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief that we’ve arrived safely.  All of the weariness would leave my body, as excitement fills everybody for the short time we’ll be spending together.

“Your grandmother would then hand me a steaming-hot moist towel – and I’d wipe my face while you run to her with a dumb smile on your face. And she’d take off your jacket, and start washing your dirty little hands and face, and in Shanghai dialect, grandmother would exclaim how big you’ve gotten in the past several months; and you’d tell her all the things you’ve seen on the trip over, making up half of the stuff there on the spot.

“Then, as if by magic, breakfast would be set up on the square dining table – and comfortingly, it was always be the same Shanghai morning fare: oil crullers, fermented bean curd, salted fish, sometimes shrimp paste, and some sweet pickled veggies…. all in their small delicate bowls. And served last would be newly boiled, steamy hot, water-logged rice. I’d settle into that bowl of rice and savor in the salty sides one bite at a time.  The rice soup would send warmth to every part of my body. I’d look over to you, and you’ll just be quietly working on your bowl of rice with your spoon. Completely satisfied, and in total simple contentment, the two of us were, and your grandmother would just be cleaning the kitchen area while we ate. Later I would unpack and give her all the produces I’ve brought with me for New Years, but for now, we just sit, slurp our rice, and settle in….And you know, after these years living overseas, when I think of home, that’s where my mind goes to, that place, that moment.”

My mom would end the story there.

Although I don’t have memories of this homecoming my mother speaks of, somehow I can see it all in my mind’s eye.  The long weary train rides, grimy, the stoic concrete alleys, my red Tibetan jacket my mother had made for me by hand, and the endless staircases going up to her unit…All of these I can see in my head, as if I’m salvaging an old photo from spring cleaning. Blowing off the dust of time, I am transported to that meal, and there I am fed a waterlogged rice.  Slurping contently the rice broth, I indulge expertly the sweet pickles, pungent fermented bean curd, salty fish, and crunchy crullers.

Somewhere in the recess of my subconscious, my grandmother is waiting for me, ready to wash the dirt off my hands and face, happy to do nothing more than serve me warmth and contentment in a bowl of boring, predictable waterlogged rice.

Notes:

* 小笼馒头 – “Small-Steamer Wheat-Buns” (Xiao Long Man Tou)

** 泡飯 – “Waterlogged Rice” (Pao-Fan)

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Tags: grandmother, mother, salted fish, shanghai, travel, waterlogged rice, XLB