Chapter 101: The Amateur Sports School

Hong Tao was even less inclined to choose gymnastics. He was intimidated by those contortionist movements, and didn’t want to risk injuring all his tendons. If male and female athletes trained together, he might grit his teeth and endure for a year, but unfortunately, that was impossible.

In the end, only Chinese wrestling and judo remained. Compared to the other options, these two at least seemed somewhat useful; even if he never got into fights, he could at least defend himself, right?

As for which one to learn, Hong Tao had already made up his mind. Chinese wrestling was more about competition, while judo was more practical, especially those choking and joint techniques—it was sinisterly effective in real combat, capable of subduing an opponent without causing injury.

He knew this from personal experience. In his previous life, before he got married, he’d become infatuated with a female coach at a gym and would often tease her. The coach, not interested in him but too polite to say so, eventually got fed up and gave him a judo lesson, promising that if he could throw her and pin her, she’d agree to be friends.

The outcome was that Hong Tao didn’t even touch her, and was thrown to the ground twice in succession. Each time, she locked his joints with her body or legs so tightly that he had no room to resist, and was forced to admit defeat. He slunk away in embarrassment.

“I’ll learn judo,” Hong Tao decided after a brief thought, and told the two coaches at the sports school.

“Ah!? Hm?” The PE teacher was first to exclaim in surprise, not expecting Hong Tao to choose such an unpopular sport. Director Bai, on the other hand, looked as though Hong Tao’s decision carried some deeper significance.

“Judo isn’t bad. Alright, we agree to accept you in principle, but your parents must consent. Here’s what we’ll do: Sunday morning, bring your parents to the sports school to see me. We need to meet them face to face before making a final decision. Is that okay?” The coach wasn’t overly surprised; ultimately, Hong Tao’s word alone wasn’t enough—parental approval was necessary.

“Hong Tao, why did you pick judo? That’s an unpopular sport, and there’s not much future in it!” Having chosen his discipline, Hong Tao had completed his task. No sooner had he left the principal’s office than the PE teacher chased after him.

“Teacher, I’ll be honest with you—I never planned to pursue a sports career. The competition is too fierce; making it big is harder than getting into Tsinghua or Peking University. So many people are squeezing onto that single-plank bridge already—I don’t need to add to the crowd. But rest assured, with my little frame, I can still run around at elementary school sports meets. If you need someone for a certain event, sign me up. I might not bring glory to the nation, but I’ll do my best for the school and for you! Besides, do you really think my father would let me pursue sports? That’s a very real issue. I appreciate your kindness, but ultimately, I have to walk my own path. I need to get back to class now—goodbye, teacher!” Hong Tao laid out his thoughts directly, to spare the teacher from fighting for opportunities he couldn’t take, which would only make both of them uncomfortable.

“...Ah, such a promising seedling! How can he have so little ambition? No wonder the other teachers call him an oddball!” The PE teacher stood where he was, watching Hong Tao walk away, at a loss for words.

That evening, Hong Tao brought up the training class at the sports school over dinner, explaining that he’d already promised his father it wouldn’t interfere with his studies, and was only for exercise, with the added benefit of extra points for school admissions later. Though his father didn’t want him to be distracted, Hong Tao had already countered all his objections and dangled the carrot of bonus points for exams. His father could only reluctantly agree.

The juvenile sports school in Dongcheng District was at the east gate of the Temple of Heaven—a fair distance from Hong Tao’s home, but the bus route was straightforward. He could catch the 116 bus right outside his house and ride straight to the Temple of Heaven, with only one block to walk after that. Essentially, they were on the same street, but that street ran north-south through the whole city; Hong Tao’s home was at the northern end, the sports school at the southern.

On Sunday, Hong Tao’s father took him to the sports school. They found Teacher Zhang, who explained the training schedule, then helped Hong Tao with registration. From the following week, Hong Tao would skip afternoon classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, heading straight to the sports school after lunch for training.

The judo coach was in his thirties, surnamed Pang. He met Hong Tao and his father that day. His physique was distinctive—thick arms, short legs, and not as tall as Hong Tao’s father. Teacher Zhang explained he had retired from the city’s judo team and had placed in national competitions.

“Dad, did you see our coach? With him, you don’t have to worry about me pursuing sports. He joined a professional team as a child, trained for at least twenty years, and at just over thirty, he’s teaching kids like us. He has neither money nor a good job, and probably suffers from injuries. There are plenty who are even less fortunate. So, I’m just exercising; in the future, I’ll follow your plan—go to university, maybe even get a master’s or doctorate.” Hong Tao took the opportunity to reassure his father, lest he always fear for his son’s future.

“Hahaha, hearing you say that puts my mind at ease. Come on, let’s not go home for dinner—I’ll take you out for roast duck!” His father was so pleased by Hong Tao’s words, it was as if he’d drunk a bottle of iced Beibingyang soda in mid-summer. He was even willing to spend freely outside, suggesting he had a secret stash of cash!

Speaking of roast duck, it’s a signature dish of the capital, most famously from Quanjude. But for old-timers, Quanjude isn’t the most authentic. True roast duck should be from Bianyifang, at the intersection of Chongwenmen Road, on the first floor of the Hademen Hotel. Historically, Bianyifang predates Quanjude by a long shot, having adapted the Qing imperial method of roasting suckling pig to ducks, and only in the late Qing did Quanjude appear outside Qianmen.

Both serve roast duck, but Bianyifang uses a “closed oven,” while Quanjude uses a “hanging oven.” The closed oven is heated with sorghum stalks, then the duck is placed inside and the door sealed. Once closed, the oven isn’t opened until the duck is ready, relying entirely on the chef’s experience, making it a high-skill process. The enclosed environment preserves the duck’s fat and moisture, resulting in tender, soft meat, much like a freshly steamed bun.

The hanging oven method, developed from the closed oven, uses similar ovens but without doors, and fruitwood as fuel. With no oven door and an open flame below, the temperature is higher, causing more fat and moisture to escape and yielding crisp skin but less tender meat.

Which tastes better is a matter of personal preference—there’s no absolute standard. In modern times, Quanjude became synonymous with Beijing roast duck due to historical and other factors: Bianyifang lost many of its master chefs and traditions, while Quanjude was proactive, aligning itself with official events and hosting foreign guests. Over time, Quanjude became famous.

Eating roast duck is a ritual. When a duck arrives, you don’t tear into it; you wait for the chef to carve it at the table. A whole duck should yield 108 slices, each with both skin and meat. This carving must be done in front of the guests, not in the kitchen, and served in several plates.

After carving, the duck’s head is split in two, and along with the piece from the tail, presented to the “chairman” at the table, symbolizing completeness. Only then does everyone begin eating.

There are two ways to eat the duck: one uses a thin pancake similar to a crepe, called a lotus leaf pancake. You press it in your palm, then release so it doesn’t stick. Place three strips of duck meat inside, add cucumber, scallion, and sweet bean sauce, wrap it into a roll, and eat it. When someone asks how much duck you ate, you say, “I had ten rolls!”—not “half a duck,” which marks you as an amateur.

Besides the meat, the duck carcass is a delicacy. You can take it home, add cabbage and vermicelli, and simmer it slowly—meat and broth both delicious. Hong Tao and his father managed to eat only half a duck, packing the rest and the carcass to take home for dinner.

On the bus home, Hong Tao glanced at his two little shops. The glass doors were now covered with large photos of clothing and hairstyles. Though not as finely printed as modern advertisements, these pictures were eye-catching for the time, drawing young men to sneak peeks and swallow nervously at the sight of the pretty women.

One of those women was now working at the entrance: Han Yan, holding a large aluminum basin, standing on tiptoe and stretching her arms to hang towels on the clothesline. This was the hardest job in the salon—dozens of towels needed washing each day, and it was tough work, since they were covered in chemicals. If not properly cleaned, they would always carry a lingering smell of ammonia.

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