She made one scallion pancake after another, placing each finished pancake into a small cardboard box lined with a washed quilt she used in the summer. Inside the quilt was some plastic, which she sneaked from a big shed at home—worried that oil might seep out and stain the quilt, as that was the only quilt she had for the summer. Even though she knew their days would get better and better, they were accustomed to poverty, so she was reluctant to part with anything.
Then she placed some clean white paper at the bottom of the box before neatly arranging the cooked pancakes inside. Her movements became smoother and faster as she worked until all the dough was gone, after which she washed the mixing bowl and wiped down the cutting board.
When snacking, she always remembered to wipe her mouth clean.
She tied two straps around the box that could hang around her neck. It was about three o’clock now, yes, around three in the middle of the night.
Not far from their village stood both a train station and a bus station. No matter the time, those places were always crowded, even at such a late hour.
Indeed, they were just at the beginning of the eighties—a time when, it could be said, opportunity was everywhere. Those street vendors who set up food stalls usually ended up making ten thousand yuan, a fortune compared to a lifetime of farming. She had never heard of anyone becoming a wealthy farmer in those times.
Picking up the box, she knew she had to return by seven o’clock—while it was still dark.
In these rural evenings, it was very safe; in fact, not just in the countryside but in this era in general, people rarely harbored criminal intentions, and no one would think to rob, so even a child venturing out alone was typically safe.
The box grew heavy; she had to keep pausing for breaks. After nearly an hour, she finally arrived at the station.
The station lights were always brightly lit. Late at night, vehicles still passed through frequently. Now it was past four o’clock, which for the early risers meant it was already morning. Normally in the summer, many rural folk were already in the fields, whereas in winter, people got up late because of the cold.
She found a crowded spot and set her box down.
The current prices were:
Steamed bun: 0.055 yuan each;
Hua Jun: 0.06 yuan each;
Triangular sugar pastry: 0.08 yuan each;
Homemade steamed bun: 0.14 yuan each;
Meat-filled steamed bun: 0.19 yuan each.
Her scallion pancakes, made completely with white flour and generously filled with oil, were delicious and priced higher than plain buns but less than stuffed buns—after all, the size of a bun and the flour used meant one bun was equivalent to three of her pancakes, and they contained meat.
No one else at the station sold food; many carried their cold and hard rations that were barely edible in the winter.
She took out a pre-written sign from underneath and put it on the ground, then stood up and cleared her throat.
"Scallion pancakes, tasty scallion pancakes, still hot from the pan, ten cents each, good for eating on the go or cold, inexpensive yet delicious. Come and buy one."
Her voice was faint but continuous, a first in the quiet station.
Soon, attracted by her voice, people began to approach.