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Squatting by the charcoal grill, breath mingling with cumin smoke, we await a winter midnight treat. Our Uyghur friend seasons the yangrou chuanr - five pieces per stick; four meat, one fat.
A street vendor, his restaurant had been given two weeks' notice. It was bulldozed, for the city's beautification.
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The white-tiled Post Office has tables outside; 3-kuai noodles arc into the boiling pot. Soon, they slop into the bowl. "No cilantro, miss – hot oil!" Bite the raw garlic clove, let the noodles slip down after. "Helloooo! Laowai, take a picture with my son!" This is my Beijing.
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