The Fishmonger of Danshui Lu

I happen to live on the corner of Danshui Lu and Hefei Lu, in the Luwan district of Shanghai. Being very much a creature of habit, I walk most of the length of Danshui Lu every day on my way to and from the shops, cafes, markets, and restaurants of Xintiandi and Huaihai Lu. There are other, more attractive routes I could take to be sure, but somehow I always find myself back on this dingy, over crowded road; in particular the block between Zizhong Lu and Fuxing Lu, with its funky fumes, its simple sounds and sights. Lucky for me, I moved here in time to see Danshui Lu in all is raw, uncut glory. Sadly, I don't think it will be around for much longer.
I could easily walk home by taking Madang Lu, only a block away, but a neighborhood on the up-and-up, with its new subway station going in (and blocks of row houses going out). But it's losing all its flavor now. When I first moved here a year ago it was a lovely, leafy street with charming, if dilapidated brick row houses on either side. But now a big subway project has ex'd out the entire east side of the street, and on the next block the west side is a ghost town, getting smashed down piece meal. Inevitably there will be a shiny new shopping complex above the shiny new subway station, and high rise condos closer to me - hopefully not obscuring my views too badly. But I'm on the thirty first floor so I'm not that worried.
As I rail against the obliteration of 'old Shanghai' I realise I am open to charges of hypocrisy, since I myself live in a high rise. But my guilt is tempered with the knowledge that my building is ten years old, and by Shanghai speed-morphing standards it's already 'old'. But getting back to Danshui Lu. It's really old, and its inhabitants are quite an incredible, inscrutable bunch. In fact a lot of them are also really old. I never seem to get tired of watching them go about their daily business, it being so far removed from the 'modern' life I knew in America. I say modern life because the scenes being played out on Danshui Lu are probably not much different from life in say, turn of the century America. Where we now have mega-markets, organic deliveries, boutique delis, home and bath emporiums, and fast food, Danshui Lu has grubby little shop fronts selling vegetables, fruit, tobacco, tea, meat and poultry. And my personal favorite, the fishmonger.
These shop fronts are very small, maybe ten or fifteen square feet, and almost always where the proprietor lives and sleeps. Often the whole family. Many's the night I have seen a sleepy eyed woman closing the front gate of a little shop from the inside. I have also looked past the energetic cajoling of a fruiterer to see a wizened old man sit up from his loft bed inside the shop, surrounded by supplies, and call for his tea. There is one woman who lives in a tiny vegetable stand - not more than the size of a decent bathroom - that is fantastically cluttered and spilling out everywhere onto the sidewalk. She is constantly washing, trimming, and pruning her goods, seated at a small stool on the sidewalk, while simultaneously doing her laundry (by hand) and hanging it everywhere around the shop. In fact most of the inhabitants of Danshui Lu hang their clothes out to dry on the street, from windows, and with an elaborate web of lines connecting street lights, trees, shutters, and power lines. In order to keep them out of harms (and pedestrians) way they hang the clothes high above the sidewalk with bamboo or wooden poles, reminding me of the contraptions they used to use in old school delis in New York to get things that were stacked high up on the shelves. It's not at all unusual to feel a drop of collected water hit you in the face as you hurry along your way. Looking up you might find a pair of lucky red underwear or some faded sheets, freshly hung out to dry a full story up.
There are no fewer than three vegetable stands on this block, and they get their goods in from the countryside daily. You can always tell what's in season on Danshui Lu just by looking at the baskets of greens being clipped and washed in front of the vegetable stands. A few times I asked the Shanghainese (all they generally speak on this road) name of the fresh vegetable with the idea that I would casually drop it while ordering at a restaurant later that night. But I inevitably paid for my showing off, as the waitress took that as a sign that I spoke the local lingo and began a rapid fire discourse about the greens. Sheepishly I would then have to throw my hands up and mutter "Wo bu dong", I don't understand.
If fruit is what you're after, there is even more of that. In fact, I would say that Shanghai has as much, if not more fresh fruit around than any place I've ever lived. There are fruit stands simply everywhere. On this block of Danshui Lu there are five, including the corner. I always ask myself, who buys it all? I buy my fair share, and one of the small joys in my life is the fact that they always have fresh, firm apples for sale. Lately the season has delivered a bounty of small (the size of a large grape) delicious mandarin oranges, locally called 'jin jeu'. They are firm and smooth on the outside, and you basically just pop them in your mouth and eat the whole thing, thin rind and all. Absolutely amazing; sweeter than an orange, but the rind adds the slightest hint of bitterness to the proceedings, and you don't even notice the pulp and pits. I've had a hard time keeping them on my kitchen table, as they are hard to stop eating once you start. Today I bought a bagful from my favorite place on the way home, and when the proprietress rang me up she looked at me and put up two fingers, flashing them twice. Now, understand that this lady has stuck with me through my knowing how to say 'hello' and 'thank you' and not much else, to learning (and forgetting) how to count, to finally having a very tentative grasp of Putonghua, or Mandarin. And she speaks Shanghainese, a whole other dialect. She looked at me and said what sounded like "Nee eh nee", flashing the two fingers again. Her son said something from the back, where he was doing his homework amidst the supplies and empty boxes, and they both laughed. Not at me, but knowingly - they know me by now. Then she said "Er shi er" which is Putonghua for twenty two. This may sound ridiculous, but it was a breakthrough for me. I knew she was saying twenty two in Shanghaihua, although I was too shy to ask in mandarin. But I knew! So I asked her to repeat the Shangahinese and she did and we established that it meant I owed her twenty two kuai at the end of it all. I paid and was happily on my way.
It's been unseasonably warm the last few days, and with the warm weather came the return of another interesting feature of Danshui Lu, the floating card game. As a rule this card game is going on regardless of the elements, kind of like the U.S. Postal Service. But the bitter cold of January had driven it inside somewhere, or possibly shut it down altogether. So the other evening as I walked up the road in my light sweatshirt, eating jin jeus, and enjoying the twilight, I was happy to see them back in action; right back in their favorite spot, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a rather disreputable looking smoke shop. As usual the game itself was dwarfed by the crowd of kibitzers standing around the rickety table, smoking, spitting, and making side bets. Once when I was passing by I noticed a larger than usual crowd and realised that the card game wasn't getting the attention it usually does; in fact the heaving swell of humanity was all crowded around the front of the smoke shop instead. Not being able to resist, I walked over to take a look and discovered (after a minute or two of jostling for position) that there was a pitched cricket fight going on. Inside the shop, seated across a small table from each other were two old men, and in what looked like a small flat bowl were two glistening black crickets going at it. The tension was edible, and the action was fast, with so much money going down on the two combatants. I watched for a minute, but the novelty of my presence quickly evaporated and the gamblers edged me out to watch their investments. Seriously, you would have thought it was Ali-Frazier or the 'Thrilla in Manila' by the looks on their faces.
I have previously mentioned the notorious 'pink houses', and surprisingly, while this humble block of Danshui Lu boasts three hair salons and two foot massage places, there are no barber shops of the dodgy variety to be seen. At least not any outright ones, but you never can tell at night. One night I was walking home quite late and as I walked past one of the foot massage places a girl came out, and when she saw me she quickly smiled and said "You want massagey?"
"Foot massage?" I queried. Remember it was after midnight. I thought it was a bit late for this kind of service. She smiled slyly and said "I give you good massagey...now!" I passed.
As I walk home every day I always notice something new. Recently one of the fruiterers on the west side of the street has expanded, and now his shop seems to be two shops banged together, giving it an almost reasonable size. I will continue to buy from the ramshackle place on the corner though, despite (or possibly because of) getting heckled in Shanghainese from the lady there. Another development has been the slow proliferation of arty little boutiques along the road, always a danger sign to any old neighborhood. Just ask the East Village in New York, or Shoreditch in London. It seems especially odd on Danshui Lu, with it's rough manners and village atmosphere. But there they are; there are three now, with names like La Vie Jolie and Artiscene. They all sell jewelry, clothes, and assorted knick knackery. I'm sure the rent must be dirt cheap. I wonder if the shop owners and denizens of Danshui Lu take a moment out of their treadmill day to reflect on what these boutiques might portend? Right around the corner, across from Rich Gate all the original shops are long gone, replaced by...boutiques. Probably not, as the locals don't seem to be the most reflective people; but rather, hard working and living, in their 'head down and get on with it' Shanghai way.
There are two rough and ready little restaurants on this block that cook food in tiny shop fronts and seve their customers on crates and stools out on the sidewalk, in a low budget version of al fresco dining. The sidewalk within a ten foot radius of these places is filthy and grease stained, and the curbside perpetually cluttered with refuse from their quick, oily offerings. To be sure, these places are nerve centers for the neighborhood. Everyone from locals to the migrant construction workers from the nearby construction projects take meals here - usually a meat and a vegetable (whatever they're cooking that day) cooked in a wok in copious amounts of oil, the Shanghai way. This rough hewn meal is invariably washed down with large bottles of local Reeb beer (get it? Beer spelled backwards) and then cupfuls of cheap tea. It may not sound wonderful, but if you can get that all down your neck for ten kuai who can complain? The second place is a bit larger and actually has a few tables inside. They also serve seafood, and at certain times when a nice catch comes in they will proudly display live crayfish, crabs, or shrimp outside for all the Lu to see. Again, it's absolutely filthy to look at, but that never stops the locals from dallying on until past ten some nights, picking at bones, drinking, smoking, spitting (invariably), and basically enjoying life. I have been sorely tempted to take a seat myself when the crayfish are on offer, but can't get past the grease and grime of it all. I have eaten in much worse places in the the world (did somebody say India?) but if I'm given a choice I prefer to eat in relative cleanliness. Having said that, I have no doubt that those crayfish would be delicious. I'll have to ask if they do take-away.
And that brings me to my favorite character on the block, the fishmonger. Actually there are two fishmongers, possibly three (I can never tell, one of them just opportunistically sells whatever's going). But my fascination lies with the larger shop, just before Fuxing Lu, on the west side of the street. Like everyone else that sells anything (aside from the recent boutiques) on this block, the fishmonger's wares are displayed wherever he can find space; in his shop, on the sidewalk, in the street, and sometimes even across the street, in the form of large fish hanging from windows, drying in the sun. It is not uncommon to walk by and see three of four kiddie pools full of eels or crabs or splashing river fish impeding your path. So in this way he kind of forces you to have a look at what he's got. Talk about marketing 101. And keep your wits about you when passing his place, because anything can be hanging from hooks under his awning. One recent day I was absent-mindedly following the trajectory of a guy on a motorbike who had just finished eating at the seafood place on the opposite sidewalk; he got up, blew out the shocking contents of his nose in the general direction of the curb, coughed up something loud and long, spat it with much flair, hopped on his bike while lighting a cigarette, and peeled out, honking his horn in warning at all and sundry. Talk about multi-tasking. Mildly affronted, I followed him with my eyes until I felt a damp 'thump' against my forehead. Flinching, I looked up to see the swinging carcass of a freshly plucked duck. In fact there were many ducks, and chickens, and even a few geese, all hanging from hooks from every place imaginable. What's this, I thought. Is the fishmonger branching out?
At that moment it was about six p.m. and the dusk was settling on Danshui Lu like a dirty, well-worn jacket. I looked up at the naked flock above my head in amazement. Also hanging to dry in the twilight were blood red slabs of bacon and chubby grey fish that had been sliced in half and opened up, so that they resembled a round flounder. Just then the fishmonger, a huge man with a wedge shaped head and deep set coal black eyes, walked out and started laughing and pointing. His shirt and apron were more crimson than whatever color they originally were. In fact he looked like he'd been tarred and feathered bizarrely with dark red pitch and fish scales. His enormous black rubber boots were equally covered, and he came squishing out to the sidewalk and started booming at me in rapid fire Shanghainese. I had no idea what he was saying, but he kept pointing up at the duck I had knocked into and laughing and saying what sounded like "De va?" I have been living in Shanghai for almost a year now and this is probably the phrase I hear the most from cabbies, store clerks, or any local people. Actually he was saying 'dui ba?', which is a bastardization of 'dui ma?' or to be literal, 'correct, right?'. It's the same as saying 'right?', or in New York possibly 'You know what I'm sayin?' But alas, I didn't know what he was saying.
Nevertheless, he took the oddly skinny duck down and offered me a close up view of its waxy head and over sized webbed feet. At that point I noticed that inside the shop was what looked like his whole family, five or six people, all seated around a chopping block table eating dinner. They were all in their work clothes, and eating heartily (and noisily). They all looked up at the same time, only vaguely amused (with their dinner in front of them), and a bit puzzled. They all had the same snowman's eyes and round faces with fiery cheeks, and I thought they must be related. These are not the same Chinese people you meet at parties and night clubs. These are the People of the People's Republic. Then the big boss said something and they all erupted with laughter. I looked back and he was thrusting the dead duck towards me and everyone thought that was pretty funny too. I started laughing also, and then he pulled down one of the Frisbee fish and showed me that, making another crack out of the side of his mouth that brought the house down again. It was funny too, I could tell that. He had very natural comic timing, something I always find hard not to appreciate even if it's aimed at me in an incomprehensible language. So I walked over to the wall and pointed to what looked like a splayed open narwhal hanging on a nail. Really, I had been marvelling at these fish from the fist time I saw them drying against his wall a few weeks earlier. They are silver and shaped something like a tarpon, and average about five feet long. "Zhe ge shen me?" I asked, and pulled a face; and then there was one of those beautiful moments in comedy called the broad take...and then everyone started cracking up. I guess just the fact that I'd spoken (quite possibly incorrect) Chinese was enough of a shocker to the convulse the peanut gallery. They really were getting a kick out of it, repeating what I'd said with obvious relish over and over. All I'd asked was "what's this?"
Deflecting the fishmongers overtures to buy a big dried fish for my house brought on another round of giggling. As if I'd have the first idea what to do with it. He kept pointing to it and saying, among other things, "Chun jie", his small black eyes glittering in the reflection of the lone bulb hanging above him. "Chun jie" they all kept saying, and I was familiar with the term, but my Chinese being extremely shaky, I panicked and couldn't put two and two together. I pantomimed my adieus and we all shared a last snicker, having shared a joke that we hardly understood. But it was good natured, and I was glad of this human contact, this small moment.

***

I walked away happy and scratching my head at what he could have possibly been saying to me that was so funny. When I got home I went right to my Chinese lessons and searched through my notes. And there it was. Chun jie means Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, an event that will take place starting next week. So that's why all the delicacies were hanging there. The next day I asked my Chinese tutor about those big fish and she told me they are called 'man yu', and they are caught in the ocean and eaten in soups and stews after being dried. Then I recalled hearing that word over and over again too. Of course they were laughing; in their world Chun Jie only comes once a year and it's the biggest celebration of the year, and I was pointing to a fish that's ritualistically eaten during the Spring Festival. Every Shanghainese person, young and old knows about man yu.
And now I do too.