Tang Miao scrambled to her feet.
They made their way through the underground passage and emerged from another exit above ground.
Outside, the daylight was blinding, the accumulated snow gleaming white under the sun.
First stop: a general store on the old street of Daowai District.
At 7:15 in the morning, the shopkeeper’s wife would place a plate of leftover blood sausage on the back door steps.
It was meant for stray dogs.
But Auntie Bai had her ways—they arrived five minutes before the dogs did.
Tang Miao crouched by the steps, staring at the roughly sliced chunks of blood sausage on the plate.
Blood sausage was the soul of Northeastern pork stew.
Pig’s blood stuffed into casings, boiled until set, then sliced into segments—the outer skin chewy, the congealed blood inside carrying a faint metallic tang and the slick richness of pork fat.
Tang Miao took a bite.
Tender. Silky.
As her tongue pressed down, the blood sausage crumbled in her mouth, the deep, mellow flavor of pig’s blood wrapped in a whisper of scallion fragrance.
Delicious.
But before she could get in two more bites, Auntie Bai grabbed her by the scruff and hauled her away.
“Dogs are coming.”
Sure enough, the sound of paws scraping through snow echoed from the alley entrance.
Second stop: a barbecue stall.
Harbin barbecue used thick iron skewers threaded with thumb-sized chunks of meat, grilled over charcoal until sizzling with grease, cumin and chili powder sprinkled on like they cost nothing—the more particular vendors even added a dusting of sugar.
The one Auntie Bai took her to was tucked in a small alley in Daoli District, setting up shop at exactly 11:30 noon.
The owner was a bald, burly man. “Here we go! Ten beef skewers, five tendon strips, three kidneys!”
Auntie Bai crouched under a bench at the very edge of the stall.
As the bald owner flipped the skewers, a piece of fat roasted to crispy perfection popped off and landed on the ground.
Auntie Bai snatched it up.
Three minutes later, a cube of beef rolled off.
Tang Miao grabbed it.
The beef was grilled to seven-tenths doneness—crispy outside, tender within.
Cumin seeds were embedded in the charred crust, and the moment she bit down, the smoky aroma of charcoal and the pungent spice of cumin burst forth together.
Tang Miao chewed with both cheeks puffed out.
Third stop was even better.
Beside the freezer at the entrance of a time-honored shop, Auntie Bai taught her how to wait for old-fashioned ice pops.
Harbin’s old-fashioned ice pops—a smooth, milky-white bar with a rich cream flavor and low sweetness, snapping with a crisp crunch when bitten.
Tourists bought them and strolled down the minus-twenty-degree streets, nibbling as they went.
Cold on top of cold.
Every so often, someone would bite halfway through and the pop would snap off the wooden stick, hitting the ground.
Tang Miao didn’t wait long. Sure enough, a girl let out a yelp as half an ice pop slapped onto the ground, shattering into three pieces.
The girl clicked her tongue in annoyance and walked off.
Tang Miao dashed over and licked a big mouthful.
The sweet creaminess melted on her tongue, the ice shards jolting her palate with a sharp sting.
She shivered, but her paws pressed firmly down on the broken pop, refusing to let go.
So satisfying.
This kind of cold was different from the bone-chilling cold outside.
This cold was sweet.
They also picked up two fried dumplings with sauerkraut and pork filling from the back door of a dumpling house.
The bottoms were fried golden and crispy, grease seeping into every fold of the dough.
Auntie Bai fed Tang Miao all morning.
Tang Miao’s little belly swelled into a ball.
Finally, Auntie Bai led her to the back alley of a Russian-style Western restaurant, then found a sheltered corner against a wall and lay down.
“You wait here,” Auntie Bai said, her tail flicking toward the back door. “Go over once the kitchen starts smoking.”
With that, she closed her eyes, and snoring began.
She was getting on in years, after all—a whole morning of running around had taken its toll.
Tata had caught up with them at some point, poking his head out from the downspout overhead.
“Not a bad guide I found for you, eh, old man?”
The kitchen began to smoke, the greasy fumes mixed with a smell Tang Miao had never encountered before.
Tang Miao’s nostrils flared wildly.
“Hungry again? Go wait over there—we Northeastern cooks are kind-hearted. They’ll always scoop out an extra ladle or two if they see a cat.”
Tang Miao obediently crouched to the side of the back door steps.
Before long, the kitchen’s iron door swung open, and an auntie in a white apron came out carrying a stainless steel basin filled with lunch scraps.
She took two steps toward the slop bucket, then looked down and spotted Tang Miao by the steps.
“Oh.”
She set the basin on the ground, turned, and went back inside.
Tang Miao was about to peer into the basin when the auntie came out again, holding a small plate.
On the plate was a neat little pile of red sausage bits and half a loaf of Russian bread.
The auntie set the plate in front of Tang Miao and patted the flour off her apron.
“Eat up, little kitty.”
Tang Miao lowered her head and took a bite of the red sausage.
First came garlic.
Then the sharp bite of black pepper, the smoky char of pinewood, and finally the natural sweetness of the pork itself.
The meat was firm, with a slight spring when bitten, the fat cubes melting on her tongue, carrying the smoky flavor down her throat.
Tang Miao froze completely.
This was nothing like Old Liu’s red sausage from the market.
Old Liu’s was factory-made—salty, hard.
This one was hand-stuffed, from the layers of flavor to the delicacy of the texture, entirely on another level.
She quickly grabbed another bite, and the second was even better than the first.
Because her tongue had adjusted to the garlic, she began to taste the smoky sweetness lingering underneath.
The crust of the Russian bread was a bit hard. Tang Miao pressed it down with her front paws, tilted her head, and gnawed with her back teeth.
The crust cracked, and the inside was completely different.
The inner core was soft and chewy, carrying the subtle tang of rye.
The natural flavor of fermented grain itself.
As she chewed, the sourness faded, giving way to a faint layer of wheat fragrance.
Tang Miao squinted her eyes into slits as she ate, her fur relaxing all over, even the taut skin and flesh along her back softening.
Tata crouched beside her, watching her eat, and curled its lip: “Alright, alright, you’re dripping drool all over the plate.”
Tang Miao ignored it.
She licked up the last bits of chopped sausage from the plate, not even leaving behind the crumbs of the crusty bread.
The auntie at the kitchen doorway watched, let out a soft laugh, and turned back inside.
Full now.
Tang Miao’s four legs had strength again, the blood beneath her fur warming back up.
From her paw pads to the tips of her ears, her whole body felt cozy and warm.
“Let’s go!” Tata jumped down from the drainpipe and in a flash scrambled up the wall beside them.
Tang Miao followed it over the wall, dropping to the ground from another exit.
The feel beneath her paws changed.
Rounded, smooth stones, packed tightly side by side across the ground.
Cobblestones.
“My great-grandpa said Old Man Shok made the molds after bread. Wide on top, narrow on the bottom—lets water through, and stays steady.”
“Back then, one stone was worth a silver dollar—pricey stuff!”
Tata led Tang Miao up onto the eave of an old building nearby.
From this angle, Central Street spread out below them.
The cobblestones stretched to the edge of sight, flanked by European-style buildings from various eras—Baroque, Renaissance, Art Nouveau…
The street was crowded with people.
Tata went on: “My great-grandpa said the workers who paved this street earned only a few coppers a day, and after it was done, the only ones walking on it were rich folks in fur coats.”
“Now? The fur coats have turned into southern little potatoes here on vacation.”
Down on the street, tourists in bright down jackets were taking selfies.
Scarlet red, canary yellow, sky blue—they dotted the gray-white street like a handful of scattered candy beans.
Some held up selfie sticks, some crouched to photograph close-ups of the cobblestones, and one young girl stomped her feet against the cold, but held her phone higher than anyone.
They stepped on the same cobblestones, with a hundred years of time beneath their feet.
Tata led her over two more rooftops, then slipped through a hidden passage to the back of Saint Sophia Cathedral.
Tata chattered on, starting from when it was built in 1907.
Tang Miao marveled: “You know so much!”
Tata’s tail slowed its swish by half a beat.
“We squirrels rely on memory to store pinecones, and we pass down history through stories told generation after generation.”
“My great-grandpa’s great-grandpa saw the Russians, my great-grandpa saw the Japanese, and my grandpa saw the 7381 digging tunnels.”
It puffed out its chest.
“I… I’ve seen southern little potatoes.”
Tang Miao burst out laughing.