Fists can't cross Tianjin

Chapter 14 Construction Begins

The next day, early morning.

The snow has stopped, but the sun hasn't come out yet; the sky is a bluish-gray.

The state-run Hongqiao Hotel.

Chen Zhuo stood in the shadows outside the door for a minute.

I had a tough night last night. The same problem remains: I'm hungry.

He had a stack of meal tickets tucked in his pocket, but because the restaurant was closed, he couldn't get a hot meal.

He had to drink a lot of cold water to barely suppress his anger.

He came out very early this morning, just as dawn was breaking. In order to shake off any potential pursuers, he deliberately took three alleys and even passed through an abandoned construction site, only daring to show his face now that the restaurant has opened.

He doesn't know what the situation is like on Ergaizi's side right now.

However, he concluded that they wouldn't be able to find Gangzi's body in the short term, so this would give him a good opportunity.

Besides, even if they are searching for him everywhere now, who would have thought that this poor coachman who just crippled several of their skilled men would dare to swagger into a place like this?

This is called "the darkest place is under the lamp".

More importantly, if they don't eat, they'll starve to death.

……

In the early 1980s, the state-owned Hongqiao Hotel was a very respectable place in Tianjin.

The two double glass doors were polished to a shine, and although the red paper cutouts of "Happy Chinese New Year" still had some residue, it didn't detract from their grandeur. A heavy cotton curtain hung at the entrance, made of blue cloth and filled with who knows how many kilograms of old cotton, heavy and insulating against the wind and snow outside.

As soon as the curtain was lifted, a wave of aroma, a mixture of coal smoke, tobacco smoke, and most enticingly, the rich fragrance of pork cracklings and stewed meat, rushed towards you like a heat wave.

This flavor is so overpowering.

For someone like Chen Zhuo, who rarely eats anything rich, this taste was even more intoxicating than strong liquor.

warm.

It's so damn warm.

The lobby was bustling with noise, with more than a dozen varnished square tables packed full. The sounds of clinking glasses, drinking games, and waiters' shouts filled the air.

Most of the diners were dressed in blue khaki Zhongshan suits or gray cotton-padded jackets, their sleeves stained with oil. In front of them were loose bottles of baijiu and peanuts, their faces flushed from drinking. In the corner, there were also a few people dressed in green military uniforms and peaked caps who looked like cadres, carrying black leather bags. Their voices were different, exuding a sense of reserve.

"Have you heard? It's starting again in the south, and this time it's serious."

"That's right! These thugs are lawless and should have been dealt with long ago."

"Hey, let's not talk about politics, let's drink!"

Chen Zhuo pushed open the curtain and walked in.

The once noisy entrance quieted down for a moment.

His attire seemed out of place here.

He wore his tattered cotton-padded jacket inside out, the collar revealing a blackened cotton lining, and his trouser legs were smeared with black mud from who-knows-where. Although he had wiped his face in the snow, the cold, hardened look of someone who had just crawled out of a battlefield still sent chills down one's spine. Especially his eyes, which gleamed black, making him look less like someone who had come for a meal and more like someone seeking revenge.

He ignored the probing gazes and walked straight to the counter.

Behind the counter sat a waitress in her thirties, wearing a white coat and a white hat. She had a perm, a popular hairstyle at the time, which, despite being covered by the hat, still stubbornly remained fluffy. She was knitting a red wool vest with fine, dense stitches.

Hearing the noise, she didn't even lift her eyelids, her hand moving the skewer rapidly.

"Want to eat?"

Her tone was curt, as if someone owed her two hundred strings of cash.

These days, waiters in state-run restaurants are treated like royalty; they have an iron rice bowl and don't have to worry about what customers think. The sign on the wall that says "No one shall beat customers without cause" is not a joke, but a real and enforceable rule.

Chen Zhuo remained silent.

He pulled out the two meat tickets Lin Xiaoman had given him, along with a pile of crumpled banknotes and coins.

They were all slapped onto the counter.

"Smack."

The sound wasn't loud, but it was deep, with a metallic, impactful quality.

The waitress paused in her knitting, finally looking up. Her previously impatient triangular eyes narrowed slightly when she saw the internal meal ticket stamped with the red seal of "Workers' Canteen of the Third State-Owned Cotton Mill."

This is hard currency.

These days, these kinds of internal meal tickets from large companies are more valuable than money; they're extremely valuable.

Judging from this poor kid's appearance, he doesn't seem like a worker at a state-owned cotton mill; he looks more like a desperado.

Looking at that pile of loose change, the largest coin was only 50 cents, and the rest were all cents.

Did they empty their pockets?

"I'll take them all."

Chen Zhuo waved his hand and said, "Two servings of braised pork, the fatty kind. Four large steamed buns. And a bowl of broth, with plenty of chopped green onions."

"Two servings of braised pork?"

The waitress frowned, put down the sweater she was holding, and looked Chen Zhuo up and down.

"Comrade, this money and the tickets together are just about enough. Are you going to splurge on everything in one meal? There's no way you can be so wasteful!"

Although her attitude was bad, people these days always feel a bit uncomfortable seeing poor people squandering money.

"Do."

Chen Zhuo uttered only one word.

His eyes were dark and deep, like two dry wells, unfathomable.

The waitress shuddered at that look, swallowing back the harsh words that were about to come out. She had seen that look before; it was the look of a butcher whose eyes were bloodshot in a slaughterhouse.

"Fine, fine, you're the boss."

She pursed her lips, muttered something, grabbed the form, quickly wrote out the receipt, collected the money and food coupons, and shouted towards the dark window of the kitchen:

"Two servings of braised pork! Four steamed buns! A pot of soup! Urgent! Hey you, Erpang, stop dawdling, someone's waiting for meat!"

Chen Zhuo found a corner seat and sat down.

The table was greasy, covered in a patina accumulated over the years, and felt sticky to the touch. But he didn't care.

He only cares about one thing now.

repair.

Last night's fight, though it looked like a victory, was actually a Pyrrhic one.

The forceful thrust of "Little Sleeves" looked impressive, but it actually strained the major tendon in his right arm. Now that he's sitting down and the adrenaline has subsided, the tingling, numb, and throbbing pain has begun to seep into his bones, like a million ants gnawing at his nerves.

That's a signal of tiny tears in the muscle fibers.

This body was like an old, poorly maintained machine, its parts rusted and its lubricant dried up. Although the stolen midnight snack had provided some emergency relief, allowing the machine to barely start running, it was still far from operating at high speed.

To repair this machine, and to truly master martial arts, a great deal of energy is required.

meat.

Fat.

carbohydrate.

That is the most primitive and effective material for repairing the body.

……

The dishes arrived shortly afterward.

Two large bowls of braised pork belly—that's a real hearty dish. The meat is cut into pieces the size of mahjong tiles, a bright red color, trembling slightly, all layered with fat and lean meat. People these days don't have much oil in their stomachs, so they love this fatty cut. Lean meat? Nobody wants that; that's "firewood meat."

Add to that a large pot of bone broth floating with oil and scallions. Although there wasn't much meat, the broth was made by simmering large bones overnight, and it was as white as milk.

The diners at the surrounding tables couldn't help but look over, their eyes practically popping out of their bowls.

"Wow, who is this? Why are they doing this?"

Two bowls of braised pork? That's too extravagant, aren't we living beyond our means?

"Those are meal tickets from the state-owned cotton mill, aren't they? Tsk tsk, what a spendthrift."

These days, who can afford to eat like this during the Lunar New Year? This meal is worth more than half a month's wages for an average worker.