Chili Sauce

Old Mrs. Liu's chili sauce stand sat in the bend of the hallway — a folding table, seven or eight glass jars. No sign, no QR code. Sometimes she wasn't even there.

The first week I moved into this urban-village rental in Shenzhen, I passed that table every night. Not a single jar sold. On the seventh day, coming back with a bag of frozen dumplings, I stopped for no reason I could name, pulled out a twenty-yuan note, and tucked it under one of the jars. Next morning, a jar of chili sauce sat outside my door, along with eight yuan in change. Eight yuan for a full jar. In Shenzhen, that's practically charity.

One taste and I understood. Not the industrial kind of heat — this was the real thing, made by pouring smoking oil over crushed chilies, the red slick flecked with crushed peanuts and white sesame seeds, bits of garlic fried to a deep gold. I dipped a chopstick in. It burned, sure, but clean, no acid burn at the back of the throat, and finished with something almost sweet.

After that I bought a jar every few days. Sometimes the old woman sat beside the table — in her seventies, hair neatly combed, a radio beside her playing Cantonese opera, eyes half-closed as if asleep. I'd say "One, please," and she'd nod, pull a fresh jar from under the table, and hand it over. Not a word.

I thought she was mute for a while. Then one afternoon I heard her on the balcony, laying into the landlord about a rent hike. Full lung capacity.

That was just life in an urban village. I went to work, she sold her sauce. Sometimes I'd come back late and the table would be cleared away, the empty jars gone, as if none of it had ever been there.

I started noticing the jars.

Each one had a piece of white tape stuck to the bottom, a ballpoint number scribbled on it. "37," "42," "61" on the latest one. I assumed it was batch numbering, but after seven or eight jars the numbers didn't follow any order. Inside the cap, there was another piece of tape, marked with a date: "March 14, 23°C." "April 2, 26°C." "May 11, 28°C."

This didn't feel like selling. It felt like record-keeping.

By mid-June, when the temperature climbed past thirty, one of Mrs. Liu's tables vanished. She'd had two — one for chili sauce, one for pickled radish. Now just the sauce. Two weeks later, the jars dwindled from seven or eight to three or four, as if she couldn't keep up.

One night I came home early and found her sitting alone in the hallway. No jars on the table. Just the radio and a glass of cold tea.

"Any left?"

She looked up at me, went inside, and came back with one jar. The bottom read "74." I took it and noticed something different — under the date inside the cap, there was an extra line. Tiny writing. I had to tilt it under the hallway light to read it.

"Nannan, the peppers are especially spicy this year."

I said nothing. Paid. Went to my room. Set the jar on the table and sat there for a long time.

The landlord told me the rest. Mrs. Liu's daughter, Ah Ling, worked at the tech park uptown. She'd loved her mother's chili sauce since she was little. Every weekend she came home, and every weekend Mrs. Liu made a fresh jar for her to take back. Three summers ago, Ah Ling worked late, clocked out past midnight, and was sideswiped by a cement truck on her electric scooter.

The chili sauce started after the funeral. Three years, from "1" to "74." Every jar made the way Ah Ling liked it. Every one as if she might walk through the door and pick it up.

In July, I decided to move out. On my last night, I went to the hallway. The table was there. She wasn't.

One jar left. Bottom read "79."

I picked it up, unscrewed the cap out of habit. Under the date, another line.

"Nannan, Mama won't be making it next month."

I pulled the unopened "74" from my bag, set it on the table, and took "79."

On my way downstairs, the Cantonese opera was still crackling from the radio. Mrs. Liu sat on the stone stool by the front gate. She didn't look at me. Didn't speak.

I walked a few steps, then turned. "Last one's with me."

She didn't move for a moment. Then, just one word.

"Good."