Chapter 5: Setting Up the Stall

Early April. Another morning.

The family finished their meal. Chen Qi wore a grey outfit with a cotton shirt underneath, his feet clad in the same pair of black-topped, red-soled cloth shoes. He was eager to head out to sell tea, but his parents looked as miserable as if they were facing a tragedy.

"Just look at you. You throw away a perfectly good job just to debase yourself," his mother complained. "I know your personality better than anyone. Do you even have the nerve to call out to customers? You wouldn't even know how to count the money if someone handed it to you."

Yu Xiuli was a mess of tears and snot, leaving Chen Qi speechless. "Mom, stop painting me like an idiot. I’m sharper than a monkey!"

"Just be careful. If you can't hack it, come home," Chen Jianjun added.

Finally, Yu Xiuli tried to force a cotton cap onto his head. Chen Qi resisted to the death; the thing made his appearance too unpredictable—on his best days he looked like Edison Chen, on his worst, like Zhao Benshan.

Huang Zhanying had been waiting nearby the whole time. Compared to him, her parents didn't care at all. Chen Qi waved her over, and she followed in silence, creating a stark contrast. Anyone watching might have thought the two were heading off to sell tea, or perhaps that a "simp" had finally paid an 800,000-yuan dowry and was about to marry his bride.

The meeting point was the Qianmen Arrow Tower. It was only a few hundred meters away, so they walked there in about ten minutes. This central axis of the capital—the Forbidden City, Tiananmen, the Monument to the People's Heroes, and the Memorial Hall—was the heart of the city. Heading south from the Memorial Hall brought one to Qianmen, and further south was the Arrow Tower. From the flagpole in Tiananmen Square, it was barely 1.5 kilometers away.

The Arrow Tower, built in the Ming Dynasty, stood 38 meters tall and was quite majestic. It had a large gate underneath, the same one through which the People's Liberation Army entered the city in 1949.

"Huang Zhanying!"
"Chen Qi!"

By now, the eleven other unemployed youths had already arrived on the east side of the tower. They were buzzing around under the direction of Auntie Wang. When she saw the duo, she called out, "Come help! Set out the bowls and get the stove going!"

"You got it!" Chen Qi rolled up his sleeves and got to work without a word.

There wasn't much to prepare for selling tea. Everyone had chipped in 40 yuan to buy two large teapots, tea leaves, and 50 thick, coarse ceramic bowls. They borrowed tables and built their own stove—yes, they were building a stove right at Qianmen! That was nothing, though; there were even people selling radishes in Tiananmen Square.

The tea was the cheapest grade of "high-end scraps," selling for two cents a bowl. You read that right: two cents. A bottle of Arctic Ocean soda cost fifteen cents—that was considered "light luxury." How much would a big bowl of tea with far less flavor and prestige cost? Naturally, it followed a "Pinduoduo" pricing strategy.

Chen Qi watched the commotion, though he didn't actually do anything. It was a Schrodinger’s level of busyness.

"Oh, I'm exhausted!" He wiped his brow with exaggerated flair. "Auntie Wang, can I have a bowl to taste?"

"Go ahead. Our tea is cheap, but it quenches thirst. Passersby aren't looking for flavor; they just want to be refreshed. Come on, you kids are tired too, take a break..."

Auntie Wang was a capable woman. She poured several bowls for everyone to share. Chen Qi picked up a bowl; the texture was rough. He took a sip, and his taste buds suddenly triggered a memory from his previous life: it tasted just like the cheap, ten-yuan-for-a-half-jin Biluochun he’d once bought on Taobao.

The flavor profile was essentially, "Ptooey!" It was nothing but tea dust and stems.

The others didn't notice; they had grown up drinking this stuff. What was "high-end scrap"? In the old capital, the poor couldn't afford premium tea but loved the drink, so tea shops gave the scraps this fancy name. This way, the poor could drink tea while maintaining their dignity. It was authentic! Even the famous "Zhang Yiyuan" in Dashilar continued to sell this grade of tea well into the future.

As they worked, a crowd began to gather. Since the Qing Dynasty, Qianmen had been a bustling hub filled with shops, bus stations, a subway station (opened in 1971), and the "Qianmen Hotel," which catered to foreigners and had cars parked out front.

The capital’s population was now 8.97 million. With the addition of business travelers, overseas guests, and compatriots from Hong Kong and Macau, the daily foot traffic was countless. Men, women, and children in grey, blue, or military-green jackets stood in layers, looking as bewildered as NPCs in a game, question marks floating over their heads, waiting for someone to step forward and trigger the "Drink a Bowl of Tea" quest.

When Huang Zhanying and the others finally realized they were being watched, they all lost their nerve.

"Auntie Wang, what... what do we do?"
"Call out to them!"
"But we have a sign."
"Even with a sign, you have to call out. This is business! If you don't call out, how will people come?"
"Call out, call out... uh..."

The twelve of them, including Huang Zhanying, were like the naive, sheltered college students of later generations. None of them had ever done this, and they couldn't let go of their pride—not just in 1979, but even in 2024, many people would find it impossible to stand at a stall and shout.

Auntie Wang was unfazed. "Don't look at me. I can help once, but I can't keep doing it for you. You have to rely on yourselves."

"Hey, what are you doing?"
"What are you selling?"
"Why are you so quiet?"

The crowd sensed their embarrassment. There was no malice, just the curiosity of onlookers starting to heckle. Huang Zhanying glanced at Chen Qi, but he was busy counting ants on the ground. She gritted her teeth, her face turning crimson, her teeth chattering: "Big... big bowl of tea! Two cents a bowl!"

Boom!

Even though the sign clearly stated the price, and the crowd was mentally prepared, the announcement still felt like an explosion.

That single cry, much like the first Coca-Cola in China, the first television commercial, the first poster of a woman in a swimsuit, the first disco, the first Teresa Teng song, or the first red dress—it was just one of countless ripples merging into the masses, slowly gathering into the great tide of reform.

Someone asked from a few steps away, "Comrade, which unit are you from?"
"The Dashilar Production and Service Cooperative."
"Do I need ration coupons?"
"No coupons needed!"

The exchange verified their legitimacy. The crowd grew restless. The man, who looked like a middle-aged cadre carrying a bag, hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He spoke with a Shandong accent: "Give me three bowls!"

"Coming right up!" Huang Zhanying signaled her companions. They scrambled, pouring the yellow, tea-leaf-filled water into the white-and-blue ceramic bowls. Steam rose into the air. They were inexperienced; they should have poured it earlier and kept it covered so it would be warm but drinkable.

The man reached out and touched the bowl. It was scalding. "We’ve been walking all day and couldn't find a drop of water. This tea stall is a great idea. We’re grateful."

"It’s all in the service of the people. Are you here on business?"
"Yes, we're from Shandong."
"Welcome to the capital! If you have time, do look around. The Great Wall, the Forbidden City, and the Summer Palace are all quite beautiful."

Huang Zhanying began to steady herself, her outgoing nature taking over. The man and his two companions finished their bowls. Still thirsty, they ordered three more. Then, the man pulled out two five-cent coins and two one-cent coins, arranging them neatly on the table.

"Thank you for supporting our work!"
"Welcome back anytime!"

Huang Zhanying’s hands trembled as she took the money. She felt a mix of shame and immense accomplishment. Seeing those four coins drop into the cash box with a crisp, pleasant clink brought the same look of pride to the faces of all her companions.

Chen Qi was still busy counting ants.