Our reporter finds community at a century-old Chinese teahouse in Chengdu
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Ann Scott Tyson Staff writer
| Chengdu, China
In the darkness before dawn, Yang Xingping opens the spigot of a huge, hissing tank, sending steaming hot water gushing into a big white thermos with a cork stopper. Two by two, he hoists full thermoses into a waiting cart.
鈥淚鈥檝e been here since 4:30 in the morning!鈥� Mr. Yang exclaims. 鈥淚 fill thousands!鈥�
An intriguing tip has led me very early to Heming Tea House, nestled in Chengdu鈥檚 lushly verdant People鈥檚 Park. A longtime resident of this balmy southwestern Chinese city told me that 鈥渙ld-timers鈥� arrive before six, when tea costs three yuan, or 42 cents.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onOur reporter sought to be a fly on the wall during her early morning visit to a Chengdu teahouse. Instead, she found community among strangers.
I imagined Chengdu鈥檚 version of the small-town coffee shop or diner, filled with regulars debating local affairs. An ideal spot for an observer. The open-air, century-old teahouse was a rarity, having survived decades of explosive building in China that has demolished many ancient urban mainstays. Along with the three-yuan tea, it seemed worth rising at five for.聽
Heming provided all that 鈥� and, unexpectedly, much more.
A symphony of birdsong greets daybreak visitors entering the park en route to the teahouse. A lone cat crosses a stone path and darts into the underbrush. A man in a sleeveless undershirt strolls solo, his arms swinging loosely. From over a moat and under a tall gate, the heavy wooden teahouse appears with its black-tiled roof and upturned eaves, along with the sound of Mr. Yang鈥檚 clanging thermoses.聽
鈥淔ind a seat!鈥� he shouts, with an urgency that seems out of place in the nearly-empty teahouse. I pick out what appears to be a good table 鈥� one that fits neatly into a corner protruding over the lake that surrounds the building.聽
Mr. Yang disappears, and returns moments later holding a small, bowl-like white cup containing a packet of jasmine tea leaves favored by Chengdu residents. He explains that the three-yuan tea normally comes with 鈥渞estricted hours鈥� 鈥� from 6:30-9:30 a.m., after which the penny-pinching tea drinkers must depart.
But 鈥測ou come from afar,鈥� he says, setting down a full thermos. 鈥淵ou can stay and drink it all day and into the night, if you like.鈥澛�
Not long afterward, a retired Chengdu worker with a buzz cut and plaid shirt arrives at a nearby table. He rinses his cup, tossing the water into the lake with a splash. After steeping his tea, he uses the lid to stir and cool it. 鈥淚 come here whenever I have time,鈥� he says, holding the lid to strain the leaves and sipping tea off the rim.
Following his example, I steep my tea, and wait. Birdsong draws my gaze upward to the forest-like canopy. A golden carp jumps in the water below my teahouse perch, creating ripples on the lake. I take a sip, and time slows down.
Little by little, more people arrive. At seven, a retired manager called Mr. Wang occupies his usual corner spot. 鈥淭his is my custom. It鈥檚 the morning habit of Chengdu people,鈥� he says, nodding at the men seated beside him. 鈥淭hese are all my friends.鈥�
The sound of conversation rises. A peddler, Dai Da, sells newspapers 鈥� food for discussion. A villager from just outside Chengdu, Mr. Dai has served as a soldier, labored on the railways, and is proud, in his 80s, to remain a jack-of-all-trades.
Then the out-of-towners arrive. Suddenly, we鈥檙e all chatting 鈥� small talk giving way, in good time, to weighty topics of the world, life, and dreams deferred.
A university administrator from Shanghai bemoans the flight of foreigners from his city, both during and since the pandemic. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a shame,鈥� he sighs. 鈥淚鈥檓 so fond of the United States 鈥� I鈥檓 practically an American myself,鈥� he says, voicing hopes for continued peace, as do many in Chengdu and across China.
From the adjacent table, a woman called Ms. Wu agrees. A shop owner from Wuhan, she is visiting with her daughter, who just finished China鈥檚 rigorous university entrance exams. Ms. Wu talks about how the country鈥檚 pandemic lockdowns and slowing economy have impacted people鈥檚 outlooks.聽
鈥淏efore, people worked so hard and always wanted more 鈥� but they weren鈥檛 any happier, so what鈥檚 the point?鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 difficult to find work and make money now, so the attitude changed from one of 鈥榮truggle鈥� to a slower rhythm.鈥�
Ms. Wu plans to go back to her childhood home in a rural village, grow flowers and vegetables, and care for her parents, who still farm. 鈥淥ur neighbors also farm and we share, so we have everything we need,鈥� she says.
Before I know it, hours have passed. Planning to merely observe, I鈥檇 been drawn in. People came to the tea house with their cares and left unburdened, no longer strangers.聽
Then, across the patio I spot a woman holding the hand of a young girl in pigtails searching for a seat. Admittedly with a twinge of reluctance, I catch up to them and pass on the best seat in the house, made better by the giving.聽
