Linhai | A Thousand Years of Culinary Heritage

| A thousand years of culinary heritage. As dusk spread like ink across the grey bricks, I stepped onto the stone-paved Ziyang Street. Red lanterns outlined the winding contours of the 800-meter-long alley, and bronze bells hanging from the eaves chimed gently in the breeze, casting the moonlight of the Tang and Song dynasties onto the Ming and Qing brick walls. This trading port, which has existed since the Tang and Song dynasties, is now awakened by the aroma of food, revealing another layer of its soul. The rising steam from a corner stall caught my attention. The owner of the *qian gao* shop kneaded a ball of rice cake into a bowl shape in her palms. The glistening white glutinous rice dough enveloped braised pork, crispy fried dough sticks, and fresh vegetables, and was finally drizzled with amber-colored gravy. The piping hot rice cake skin, filled with rich ingredients, burst in my mouth, the gravy blending with the sweetness of the rice. I could almost hear the thousand-year-old reverence of Linhai people for rice. The signboard of Wang Tianshun Cake Shop had faded to a deep brown. The third-generation owner kneaded seaweed powder into the dough and used a wooden mold to press out moon-like rounds. The cake skin bloomed layer by layer in the charcoal fire. The moment I bit into the crispy shell, the salty and fresh aroma of seaweed, combined with the richness of sesame, filled my senses. This flavor from the East China Sea suddenly brought to life the record in *Chichengzhi*: "Moss grows on reefs, and is picked to make cakes." As shops along the street gradually hung up their "closed" signs, the shrimp cake stall at the end of the alley became increasingly lively. Freshly peeled shrimp were patted into rice milk, and an iron spoon traced golden arcs in the hot oil. The moment the shrimp cakes floated to the surface, the oil sizzled like fleeting fireworks in the night. The crispy shell encased a springy sweetness, much like the resilient character of this ancient city. When a bowl of *danqing yangwei* was presented to me in a celadon bowl, I realized that this dessert, brought by the Southern Song Dynasty, held a hidden secret. Egg whites were whipped into fluffy clouds, wrapped around red bean paste, and deep-fried in lard. The fluffy, lamb-tail-like exterior hid a soft, flowing center. As the powdered sugar fell like snowflakes, I caught a glimpse of the sweet wisdom cherished by the people of Linhai during hard times. The watchman's clapper echoed from the drum tower at midnight, and the lights of the food stalls gradually went out. Ziyang Street returned to silence, with only the remaining oil stains on the bluestone slabs reflecting the moonlight, like scattered stars marking the thousand-year-old culinary heritage. The ancient flavors awakened in the night would slumber again in the morning light, awaiting the call of the next dusk.