Hunger Days

By Zhang Jiawei

When I was in high school I had a really big appetite. I’d bet that I could eat an entire family bucket from KFC and ifi could finish it they would have to pay for it. I won, every time. But my dad said that I wasn’t as good as my uncle. In the following years, I heard five or six guys telling seven or eight different versions of my uncle’s eating story. Some of the details are different, but the main story is the same.

The story goes that when my dad and my uncle were still young, they would often be starving. Deep fried the steamed bun slices golden yellow, dipped in a bit of sugar and you’d get yourself a feast. If the steamed buns could be baked a little crispier and dipped in a bit of sesame paste, once you got a bite into them whilst they were still sizzling away, it was like Spring Festival’s dinner. In those days during holiday, young men looking for fun would wager over eating food. Whoever lost would need to crawl under the table, call somebody “grandpa,” and do other sorts of things like that. There exists a kind of tricky logic: it doesn’t matter who wins and who loses, as long as you could satisfy your hunger, who cares?

One year at the dinner on the eve of the Lunar New Year, my uncle got into it with a distant relative of ours. In Southern China it was customary to make sure that everyone ate well and had enough to eat on this day, no matter how poor they usually were. Generally they’d start with a cold starter, then move on to a hot stir-fry and some vegetables. There would be snacks like white steamed buns with soup. Lastly, there would be a big plate of soy braised pork leg, as tasty and crunchy as you can imagine. That day, my uncle started a wager with someone who we also call “uncle” who came visiting from Changzhou. Two young guys with big appetites, who were often left very hungry, decided to bet who could eat the white steamed buns most. After all, wagering to see who could eat the most meat would leave them self-conscious and their relatives unhappy.

My uncle was intelligent. He knew that although steamed buns were fragrant and fluffy, they were also very dry, if you had too many, your throat would start to get blocked up. He specially got some pickled vegetables and some fermented bean curd. He peeled the steamed bun apart, put some of the sauerkraut in the middle and spread some of the tofu on top. After eating a steamed bun, he would have a sip of radish soup. He knew that he couldn’t drink too much soup otherwise the buns would start to swell in his stomach. That other uncle, though, was unfettered. He chewed, dryly, on the white steamed buns and drank water along with it.

After their first round, both of them started standing up and strolling around, while loosening their belts. After they had been eating again for a while, the other guy started rubbing his belly, later according to him it was, “to adjust the location of the buns in his stomach and make room for the next lot to slide in.” My uncle started drinking more of the soup while doing his best to swallow down his saliva and straighten out his neck.

They ate another round and everyone put down their chopsticks to watch both of them. My uncle started shaking, unable to grasp the pickled vegetables firmly with his chopsticks, feeling nauseous at the sight of the steamed buns. Looking at his rival, stripping apart the buns, continuously consuming the bread little by little, unperturbed and steady, but he was scared in his heart. They ate again for another while. My uncle felt like his saliva had all been used up and that his body was chockablock with white steamed buns. To use what he said to describe it, “There’s a lot of cotton stuffed down my throat.” The decisive moment had come.

He sat there for a long time, biting away. Seeing that they were presently tied, he seized a bun, dipped it in the radish soup and ate half of it. He couldn’t eat any more.

The other uncle, still calm, grabbed a steamed bun. He didn’t break it apart, though, this time. He wasn’t eating it, either. He just stayed there holding it for a long time, as if he didn’t recognize what it was. In the end he opened his mouth and his teeth came together like he was going to bite into it, but he only bit at the air. His eyes, suddenly, went blank, his body jerked and his face went green.

My dad said, everyone was really frightened then. Seeing that his eyes went blank, his breathing stopped and his stomach swelled, they thought he’d eaten himself to death.

Everyone came to help, giving out suggestions without even thinking. Grandma pushed everyone out of the way, complaining how children were really such trouble, while patting him on the back of his neck and massaging his belly. All the time while commanding others not to bring water for him to drink, “otherwise, if the food swells up he’ll choke to death.”

After tapping a few times, small clumps of dough balls started coming out of his mouth, like squeezing out toothpaste, and fell to the floor. After which he struggled out a long rolling belch, “burrrrp.” Grandma, only at this, let out a sigh. Everything was okay. Everyone let out a sigh of relief and sat back down. Some people stayed standing and asked, “Does your stomach hurt? Are you okay?”

In the next scene of other people’s version of the story, there is nothing. It is only my uncle’s version that is true to life. My uncle believes that anyone who had experienced hunger during those times would believe that this story is true.

Everyone came back to their senses and calmed down. They started talking about how dangerous everything was while making jokes out of it. The final dish was served. My auntie was in the kitchen controlling the flame while eating a bowl of rice, having no idea what had happened outside. Seeing the soy braised pork leg was highly successful, she cheerfully carried it out of the kitchen, with the smell of meat permeating the whole place.

The uncle who had just come back from the grips of death, choking while strolling on the streets of the necropolis, only to be saved by the pats of Grandma, was reclining in his chair, taking big long breaths while two kids were, still, rubbing his stomach for him. He suddenly opened his eyes, sniffing, and pursing up his lips.

My uncle swears that before this, this guy must have been like him, unable to produce any saliva. But now, unexpectedly, swallowing down his spit, he weakly said, “Oh, pork leg, you guys can have the meat, I’ll eat the skin.”

(From Wishing You Happiness, July 2013. Translation: Sam Bowden)

吃馒头比赛

文/张佳玮

上高中时我很能吃，跟人打赌“我能吃个肯德基全家桶，吃得完你付账”，次次都赢。但我爸说，我还是不及我叔叔。后来几年，这个段子我听五六个人说了七八个版本，细节有出入，但大意相同。

说我叔叔、爸爸都还是青壮年时，经常饿肚子。馒头片炸到金黄，蘸点糖就是打牙祭；要能蘸点芝麻酱再烤酥一点，嗞啦一口咬下去，那就是过年了。那时逢年过节，年轻人无聊，就打赌吃东西，赌输了钻桌子、叫干爷之类。这里有种狡猾的逻辑：无论输赢，至少能落个饱肚，谁不愿意呢？

说那年年夜饭，我叔叔就和一个远房亲戚扛上了。江南年夜饭常例，平时日子再怎么穷，年夜饭要吃好，而且要管够。先冷盘，后热炒，再蔬菜，然后点心是白馒头就汤，最后来一大盘香酥入骨的红烧蹄髈。那天，叔叔和从常州来串门的我们叫伯伯的人就赌上了。两个都是年轻好胃口，又常饿，就赌吃白馒头。赌吃肉毕竟有点不好意思，亲戚们看着也不高兴。

我叔叔长心眼，知道白馒头虽然喷香蓬松，但是干，吃多了堵嗓子眼，特意要了点咸菜，要了点腐乳。白馒头掰开里面塞咸菜，表面抹腐乳，吃完一个馒头，就喝一小口萝卜汤，不能喝多，不然馒头发涨。那位伯伯就很豪迈，干嚼白馒头，就白水。

两人吃完头一圈，都开始站起来溜达，皮带也解开了。又吃了一会儿，伯伯开始揉肚子，据他后来说，是“把胃里的馒头位置调调，腾出地方来，好落下去”；我叔叔的萝卜汤开始加量，用力咽唾沫直脖子。

再吃一巡，大家都停筷子看他俩。我叔叔当时有些抖，咸菜都夹不稳，看着馒头犯恶心，看看伯伯，他撕着馒头皮，一缕缕塞嘴里，慢条斯理，手还是很稳，心里就有点怯。又吃了一会儿，我叔叔觉得自己唾液都没了，白馒头塞满身体，用他跟我说的话，“喉咙里塞了好多棉花”，就知道生死之际到了。

又坐了好一会儿，他咬咬牙，看见眼下还是打平，他强自拿过一个馒头，蘸点儿萝卜汤，又吃了半个，真不行了。

再看伯伯，还是很平静地拿起馒头，但这回没撕，也没吃，把馒头端详了好一会儿，就跟不认识似的。最后，他张了张嘴，然后牙齿一合，好像要咬下去，但只是咬了口空气，人忽然眼睛就直了，坐椅子上的身体忽然一抽紧，脸就青起来。

我爸爸说，当时大家真吓怕了，看那伯伯两眼发直，气不往外冒，肚子高高隆起，真以为他就这么撑死了。

大家过来救护，七手八脚瞎出主意。奶奶排开众人，一边抱怨小孩子家真胡闹，一边拍那伯伯的后脖子，一边给他按摩肚子，还喝令别递水过来给他喝，“不然涨起来，噎死”。

拍了几下，那伯伯嘴里挤牙膏一样挤出几小团面疙瘩来，面疙瘩落了地，接着就艰难地蹦出一个悠然漫长、连绵起伏、格里咕噜的嗝。我奶奶这才叹口气说，好了。大家有的松了口气就坐了下来，有些还站着，都问，胃疼不疼？有没有事？

接下来的一幕，为其他人讲的版本里都没有，只有我叔叔说得绘声绘色。我叔叔认为，那年纪饿过的人听了这个，都会相信这是真事的。

大家缓过来，情绪恢复，一边说太危险了太危险了，一边开始拿这事说笑话。最后一道菜上来了。我大姑那时一边在厨房里看火候，一边自己吃泡饭，不知道外头发生了什么。这时见红烧蹄髈大功告成，高高兴兴地端出来，肉香四溢。

我那位刚才还在鬼门关被一个嗝撑住、在丰都城遛大街、才被我奶奶拍回来的伯伯，这时人斜靠着椅子，喘着很长的气，正被两个小伙子继续揉肚子呢，忽然睁了眼睛，吸了吸鼻子，嘴抿了一下（我叔叔发誓说，之前这伯伯肯定跟他一样，都分泌不出唾沫了，这时居然咽了口唾沫），虚弱地说了声：“蹄髈啊，你们吃腿心肉吧，我要肉皮。”