At the Henan restaurant, the table looked like a military offensive against hunger: wood ear mushrooms, pork with peppers, a whole braised fish, a mountain of noodles, leafy greens—and a bottle of clear spirit that smelled, all on its own, of “morning-after regret.” Plus the classic disclaimer in the bottom right corner: Minors, please don’t drink. As if anyone here looked underage.
First shot. Straight down. No toast, no fanfare—just a stomach-lining buffer and a facial expression that briefly said: Okay. That was a mistake. But an honorable one.
Then came the fish. Head facing the camera. Banquet rule: whoever stares at the head has to drink. She grinned. You and I—suddenly, we were accomplices. Another shot. Then a bite of fish. Then garlic—raw, whole, unadulterated, as if it were a snack rather than a chemical attack on one’s breath.
Every now and then, she’d clutch her cheeks, looking for a moment as though her body were staging a protest. You might have thought: *Time to call it a night.* Instead, she called for cheap, ice-cold beer, poured a large mug full, dropped the shot glass in like a torpedo, and challenged you to keep up.
The end wasn’t a farewell, but a charming threat: drop your city in the comments—we aren’t going home until no one can walk in a straight line anymore.
The moral of the story? Some dates end with dessert. This one ended with baijiu, a beer bomb, raw garlic, and a firm resolve to remember absolutely nothing tomorrow—except that it was amazing.
Yellow River carp, Baijiu, Laba garlic
