자세한 소개
Qiqi Restaurant: No. 165 Renmin Road. Qiqi Restaurant stays open very late, and its fried rice and ginger duck rice are famous. Qiqi, the girl who runs it, is also very kind. Although many people like Qiqi's restaurant, the main reason I recommend it is because of my understanding of her and the connection between us.
Two years ago, I wrote about my past connection with this restaurant and Qiqi:
Qiqi Restaurant
One night, I stumbled upon a post. The author said they had gone to a restaurant in Dali Old Town called Qiqi Restaurant, but were dissatisfied with both the service attitude and the food. Below, someone chimed in with criticism in that clever, know-it-all way: "It was bound to be like that." During the summer, with so many people, slow service means the restaurant is arrogant; if the taste doesn't suit one person, they decide no one else should like it either, and the good reviews must all be fake.
I've also encountered a few guests like this, so it wasn't unexpected. But seeing the name Qiqi Restaurant brought back memories of people and events from the past.
It was already two years ago. I had a friend named Wang Yong. He was a poet and, over the past decade or more in Dali, he was known to everyone as the king of street vendors. He made a living selling CDs on the street. He said the owner of September Bar showed him kindness and let him set up a stall by the entrance. Sometimes he would also recite his poems with deep emotion in the bar. He could tell stories - his own stories - and they often touched people's hearts. Guests found him fascinating and often bought his CDs to support him, even though many didn't have CD players, and some didn't even take the CDs. These were things he told me when he came to eat at Midnight Diner. The stories he told guests, he would also vividly reenact for me. When he got emotional, he would stand up and recreate the scene among the narrow tables and chairs. I was often moved as well, so I could imagine how travelers, in a strange ancient town, hearing such bizarre and sorrowful stories, could not help but be touched.
Wang Yong was a poet - not just in his writing; his life experiences, his life choices, and even the way he left this world were poetic. Born in the '70s, he grew up in a collective factory. In his youth, he was a street brawler who collected debts. He loved music, and Zhang Chu was his lifelong idol and a friend in his heart. Later, he left the factory and wandered, destitute, washing dishes and working odd jobs just to get by. In Dali, he married a female screenwriter from Taiwan. He became famous with the rise of Dali's utopia, and those were the most glorious years of his life. Soon, however, under the pressure of a new wave of commercialization, he, together with September, withdrew from Renmin Road. September moved back to a courtyard in a deep alley. Wang Yong tried several times but never found a place where he could peacefully continue his stall. He couldn't return to a quiet life, even though the spotlight on him had already been turned off. Later, there was a malicious rumor accusing him of abusing dogs, and he lost his spirit and gradually faded away. Then he discovered he had severe diabetes, but refused treatment. He stayed shut in at a guesthouse for months, his body growing weaker. It got to the point where he could no longer walk, and after much difficulty, he returned to his hometown. Six months later, news of his death came. Before he left, I took him to the bus station. He said, "I've lived two lifetimes in one, so I've gotten my money's worth."
I remember the last story Wang Yong loved to tell: "One year, Tingwei came from Taiwan to visit me in Dali. I asked Tingwei to make pasta and invited many friends to eat. After Tingwei left, I brought a lot of pasta and cheese to Midnight Diner and gave them to Jason, saying, 'Let's count these as ten meals for me.' The more I ate, the more reluctant I was to finish. Each meal felt like Tingwei was still here; I didn't want to eat it all so quickly."
Later, the two never saw each other again.
Now he has been gone for a year and a half. Back then, before his body had severely weakened, he was only thin and afraid of the cold. He would often come to my place at Guanyintang to chat. Sometimes he seemed gloomy, and sometimes he said he had found a new place to set up his stall, had even paid a deposit, and was full of ambition to start over. But then nothing came of it, presumably because he found it unsuitable. As diabetes made him weaker and weaker, he came less and less often. He didn't want to go to the hospital, either because he didn't trust it or because he was tired of such a life. After I insisted on taking him to the hospital twice, a few days later he sent me a message:
Soon he came to me again, telling me that he rarely went out during the day, staying in his guesthouse, his condition bad, not wanting to run into acquaintances. Only at night would he slowly walk to Qiqi Restaurant, have some soup, and eat a little something. Qiqi Restaurant is in an alley off Renmin Road, open until late, with few customers. By then he could barely take care of his hygiene, though he had never been clean anyway. He gave off a smell that even I often couldn't stand, and ordinary people avoided him even more. He said Qiqi treated him very well, and he was willing to go there.
During that period, Qiqi also messaged me, saying she felt Brother Wang Yong seemed unwell, perhaps seriously ill. A few days later, Qiqi asked me which guesthouse Wang Yong was staying at, because she noticed he hadn't come for several days. Worried he had nothing to eat, she had stewed chicken soup and wanted to deliver it. I sent her the guesthouse's location. Knowing he didn't want to see people and worrying he might be disturbed, she left the chicken soup at the front desk of the guesthouse. The owner told her that Wang Yong had ordered takeout that day, so she felt a bit relieved. She and Wang Yong had not known each other before; he had only visited the restaurant a few times.
Qiqi and I weren't close either; we had only met once or twice. I remember she had short hair, was brisk and energetic, and rode a motorcycle. I first learned of her when she planned to take over the small courtyard of our original Earth Kitchen and wanted to learn cooking at Midnight Diner. My friends around me were not in favor of the idea, as it seemed quite risky. He Chen was at Midnight Diner at the time, responsible for teaching her. He said, "I'll teach her while trying to talk her out of it."
After seeing that critical article, I searched again for Qiqi Restaurant and found a large number of sincere positive reviews. Among them was one recommending other restaurants, but it began with: "When you go to Dali, don't just know Qiqi Restaurant's fried rice."
I was truly happy that she had achieved all this.
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