Good Harvest Restaurant

It was Enxi's turn to treat, so we went to 大丰收 (literally "Big Harvest") on a recommendation from Teacher Zhang, who couldn't come herself, citing "too much homework".

"What's the address?"

"Well it's opposite 哈中三 (an abbreviation for 哈尔滨第三中学, or Harbin Number 3 Middle School). Just tell the taxi driver to take you there."

It says a lot about the emphasis that China places on education that a school, and a middle-school at that, can be an identifying landmark, even more so than a popular restaurant.

The underwhelming exterior covered a bustling, brightly-lit interior, styled in a 'rural' style, replete with plenty of auspicious decorations, and using lashings of bamboo. Our waitress, dressed in a stylised rural uniform, looked and acted about sixteen and had her hair up in bunches.

I wanted to get a picture of the uniform but she wouldn't let me.

"A lot of people want to take pictures of the waitresses, but it's against the restaurant rules" she said, laughing and waving my camera away.

"Never mind then, I'll j... Over there! Look! WHAT'S THAT!?" I shouted, snapping this spy-shot.

After my incredible piece of cunning trickery, our waitress brought us a couple of beers, along with a bowl each. We were about to ask for glasses when we noticed everyone in the restaurant had a bowl too.

"I've seen this before, when I was on Chongming Island. In the countryside, people drink out of bowls, like this." I said, hooking one finger over the lip of the bowl and lifting it to my mouth.

"Looks dangerous," said Enxi's flatmate Zhaoyan, lifting her bowl with both hands and slurping it down like soup. "Much better!"

The food came - pumpkin chips, chicken stewed in mushroom, buns stuffed with pickled cabbage, and pork dumplings - substantial and simple fuel for farmers.

Halfway through our food, a middle-aged man took the stage in one corner of the restaurant and began to banter away with customers, welcoming one and all, exhorting everyone to enjoy the food, and cracking jokes. In style, if not appearance, he resembled nothing less than a Chinese Bruce Forsyth, and I halfexpected him to start shouting "很高兴认识你 (nice to meet you)!", at which everyone would shout "认识你很高兴 (to meet you nice)!"

Abruptly, he broke into a one-man variety performance. He pulled out a traditional recorder-like wind instrument, attached a pair of hoses to his nostrils, then played along, accompanied by a plink-plonk of a little Yamaha keyboard.

Next, he scrounged a cigarette off a nearby table. Puffing away, he waited for the keyboard intro before flipping the lit death-stick into his mouth and playing the recorder. During the bridge, he flipped it out again, took a couple of drags, then repeated the trick. Amazing! The whole restaurant roared its approval.

His last trick was to play a jaunty little tune using chopsticks, on five upturned rice bowls of different sizes, tapping out a tune faster and faster until his hands were a blur, again accompanied by the tinny little keyboard.

The place took on an intimate family gathering feel as he put his instruments away and reverted to chatty compere mode. Chinese Uncle Bruce told some colourful jokes, recited some amusing limericks (including a very well-received one which alarming exhorted everyone to kill the Japanese!) and sang the first lines of some patriotic couplets, to which the whole restaurant roared the concluding second line in unison.

Chinese Uncle Bruce disappeared before reappearing a couple of minutes later with his two lackeys, each sporting Revolutionary era uniforms and clutching a Little Red Book. They took their positions on stage under a portrait of Chairman Mao and proceeded to sing to a series of patriotic songs while performing comically exaggerated salutes and marching. At one point, a huge Chinese flag was hauled out and waved round and round, and the whole while customers laughed their approval, stamping and clapping, while singing along in a drunken roar.

"They're not mocking Chairman Mao, it's a kind of nostalgia" Guo Li informed me when I asked her if Mao Zedong wasn't still revered in this part of China. I tried to take some photos but it was almost impossible with the low-hanging lights and the smoke which hung in a thick haze.

Chinese Uncle Bruce said his goodbyes only to be replaced by an auctioneer with a case full of paintings. His assistants rolled each one out in turn and he desribed them before beginning bidding in a hurried, slightly desperate muddle.

"The first has no reserve price, what am I bid? ... Anything? Anyone?" The first went for all of 20RMB (£1.30) and the remainder went for his first asking price if they went at all. Even this impressive depiction of five tigers wasn't getting any bids at a starting price of 150RMB (£10), and I felt a pang of sympathy for the young man in his pristine white gloves, hiding his desperation behind a pained rictus grin.

After dinner we met up with Wang Lei and hunted around for a pool hall around the back gate of University. We descended into the first place we saw - a grubby and smoky hall with four tables placed slightly too close together.

Wang Lei challenged me to game.

"Let's make this interesting. 5RMB (30p) to the winner?".

"How about winner pays?" Wang Lei shot back.

A wretched twenty-odd minutes later and Wang Lei slots in the black while I shake my head at my four remaining balls.

"Best of three?" I ventured, feeling like Death in Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey. A fluke-filled half-hour later and the black bobbles across the ripped baize before dropping into a corner pocket. Wang Lei pulls out his wallet and I feel terrible.

"How much was it?" I ask as we climb a set of uneven steps, cigarette smoke billowing into the cold night air behind us as the door swings shut.

"11RMB (70p)" Wang Lei replies, and I suddenly don't feel half as bad.