The Tea Pastries of Peking

From a secondhand book stall in the Dongan Market, I bought a copy of My Books and Writings written by the Japanese writer Igarashi. In it, Igarashi suggested that tea pastries served in the in the pastry shops of Tokyo were no longer very good, with a few notable exceptions such as those found in shops at the foot of Ueno Mountain. There, one could still find such fine delicacies where filling, sugar and nuts blend on the tongue in a unified splendor. It is no wonder that, after the two hundred and fifty years of Edo's flourishing, during the Kamakura period, there still lingers an aroma of its luscious past, even if it may not measure up to Kyoto. One would expect that Peking, the capital for more than five hundred years, would itself have much to offer by way of achievements in style, taste and accommodations. The reality, however, is seemingly different, a view inspired by tasting the city's tea pastries. To this day I have yet to taste any pastries worthy of merit. Admittedly, we are not all that familiar with Peking, but whenever I've happened to enter a pastry shop for a bite to eat, I have not once managed to buy anything I would consider tasting good. Is it possible that Peking has no delicious pastries to offer, or is it that we just don't know where they are? My attention to this is not merely a function of my discerning taste; I just feel a great sense of regret if I cannot enjoy a pastry which embodies some historical character—refined or decadent—in this ancient capital. So, my Peking friends, could you direct me to a shop that serves really palatable pastries?

I bear a bit of dislike for so-called twentieth-century Chinese stuff; the goods are labeled soundingly "Make in China" but are actually vulgar imitations more expensive than those from abroad. As for the things being sold in these new-fashioned stores, I cannot help but be a bit leery. Though I may sound old-fashioned, it may seem that I am reacting against wickered tendencies. I must admit that I do have a kind of blind faith in tradition. When walking south of the Xisi triumphal arche, looking up and seeing the wooden, three feet long sign of the Yifu Bakery, I am irresistibly charmed. Not only does the sign mark the shop as predating the Boxer Rebellion, the dimly carved words on the sign also convey a kind of quiet gloom reminiscent of a life of leisure and plenty, of meditation amidst a haze of burning incense. Although I have never done it, I would be interested in burning incense, though I would never dare enter an incense store nowadays for fear that they put bottles of toilet water and bars of soap on their incense boxes. In addition to the daily necessities, I also need a bit of play and pleasure beyond utility. Only with these would life be more fun. I watch the setting sun, the autumn river, the flowers; I listen to the raindrops and smell their fragrance. I drink not for thirst alone but for pleasure, and eat pastries for satisfaction and not mere hunger. All of these are indispensable to life though to some they are just some "useless" decorations. The fancier the better if one were to ask me. It is a pity that life in today's China has become so extremely dull and vulgar. I won't get into it more than to say that in ten years of wandering around Peking, I have yet to find satisfaction with any delicious pastries.