Chapter 36.1

◎ Chen Zhiqian the Coward ◎

Around 6 p.m., traffic was heavy. Chen Zhiqian turned on the radio. The news was reporting on the U.S.-Japan Semiconductor Agreement.

In the mid-1980s, Japanese manufacturing was at its peak, known for high quality at low cost. In addition to signing the Plaza Accord, the U.S. had launched a trade war against Japan, slapping a 100% punitive tariff on Japanese products like color TVs and computers.

As for Japan’s semiconductor industry, after anti-dumping investigations, the U.S. forced Japan to sign the Semiconductor Agreement. The terms included: Japanese exports of semiconductors to the U.S. must not be priced lower than in Japan; Japan could not use third countries to sell semiconductors to the U.S. at lower prices; and 20% of Japan’s domestic semiconductor market must consist of imported products.

“Same old tactics, same old taste,” Fan Qi tsked. “Uncle Sam is shameless. When it benefits him, he calls for open markets and free trade. When it doesn’t, he cries anti-dumping, anti-monopoly, and forces deals down people’s throats.”

“That’s what comes with being the world’s number one power. Besides, the U.S.-Japan relationship is delicate—like a servant at home suddenly eyeing the master’s cake. Of course he’d get punished. But for Japan, it’s a crisis. For other regions, it’s an opportunity.” said Chen Zhiqian.

Fan Qi understood his point. In her previous life, the U.S.-China chip conflict had broken out, and she had studied the history of the semiconductor industry. It was during the 1980s and 1990s, under pressure from the U.S. and two rounds of the Semiconductor Agreement, that regions like Taiwan and South Korea were able to develop their own semiconductor sectors.

Fan Qi nodded. “True. Those regions were able to carve out a share of this massive future market. Unfortunately, our country didn’t have a strong enough foundation. We probably missed the chance.”

At least, in her previous life, they hadn’t caught up.

“What about Hong Kong?” Chen Zhiqian asked.

“Hong Kong?” Fan Qi scoffed. “They could’ve made easy money from entrepôt trade, but instead they went all-in on real estate and finance. Who’s going to bother with manufacturing—heavy investments, exhausting work, and little return?”

Chen Zhiqian pulled over. Fan Qi got out. The sky was already dark. Chen Zhiqian looked up at the towering buildings, their windows glowing with light. “People keep flooding into Hong Kong. How many leave? Very few. The capable thrive here. The average person? They just struggle to get by in this concrete jungle. Right now, half the population works in manufacturing, but the entire industry is shifting to the mainland fast.”

“They have no choice,” Fan Qi said. “Labor costs here can’t compete with the mainland. How could these manufacturing businesses survive if they stay? Even if they remain, they’ll collapse from lack of competitiveness.”

“Exactly. Once the shift is complete, then what? What’s the fastest-growing region in the mainland?”

“The coastal economic belt.”

“Do they lack ports?”

Fan Qi thought of the many port stocks and massive shipping companies listed on the A-shares market. She shook her head. “No shortage. So even Hong Kong’s port advantage will slowly fade away.”

“This place has become a playground for financial capital. For the middle and lower classes, it’s a home they can’t bear to leave, but also one without a future. They’re crammed into tiny spaces, scraping by under enormous pressure.”

Fan Qi strongly agreed. In her past life, Shanghai was already considered a high-pressure city, but even that didn’t compare to Hong Kong. Just think of Baomei at the office—she couldn’t even splurge on a slightly pricier lunch, and her whole family was counting on getting into public housing. Thirty years later, situations like that were still all too common.

Chen Zhiqian led her down a street much like the one where they’d bought fried dough sticks last time. On both sides were privately built Tong Laus (tenement buildings).

Outside, there were many street stalls. Chen Zhiqian brought her to one labeled “Cheung’s Noodle Factory.” Hanging beneath the sign were wooden boards listing products like egg noodles, shrimp roe noodles, Shanghai-style noodles, wonton wrappers, dumpling wrappers, and more.

“There are so many varieties of noodles here?”

Chen Zhiqian said to Fan Qi, “The noodles we had last time were bought here. Should we get some more today to make breakfast tomorrow? Or we could get some wonton wrappers instead—these are probably the best Shanghai-style wonton wrappers in all of Hong Kong.”

“I’d love to have wontons, but forget shepherd’s purse—where would you even find chicken feather greens in this sweltering weather? Better just stick with noodles,” Fan Qi said, thinking it over.

“Just pick up a bunch of watercress,” Chen Zhiqian suggested.

“Oh, right!”

After buying the wonton wrappers, Chen Zhiqian led her past another shop. Fan Qi spotted pan-fried buns and soup dumplings.

She couldn’t tear herself away. Seeing that, Chen Zhiqian went in and got a takeaway order of pan-fried buns.

“Soup dumplings,” Fan Qi protested, still not budging.

Chen Zhiqian asked, “Then what if we come across pork ribs with rice cakes later? Will you want that too? And what about the Minnan cuisine—are we still eating that?”

Fan Qi looked torn. “Only kids make choices. Adults want it all.”

“We’ll come back next time,” Chen Zhiqian said, taking her hand and leading her forward.

Sure enough, on the other side of the street, there were some stalls selling Shuita Rice Cake. Fan Qi started crossing the road. “Why are there so many Shanghai dishes here?”

She remembered coming to this street in her past life, drawn by a Michelin-starred Minnan dim sum place. But after trying it, she thought it was just so-so—nothing compared to those hidden gem shops in Quanzhou.

“This place is called ‘Little Shanghai,’” Chen Zhiqian explained. “It’s where a lot of Shanghainese settled after moving to Hong Kong. That’s why I rented an apartment here and started my business. But in recent years, more and more people from Fujian have moved in.”

Even in her past life, after achieving success, Chen Zhiqian used to visit here nearly every week—have a bowl of mini wontons and a few pan-fried buns. Over the years, he’d seen the shift—more Fujianese came, and “Little Shanghai” gradually turned into “Little Fujian.”

As they were speaking, Chen Zhiqian had already taken her into a Fujianese eatery. Not a fancy restaurant, but a simple, street-style spot. He looked up at the menu on the wall and asked, “What do you want to eat?”

“Soy sauce braised assorted fish, satay beef, sweet-and-sour pork, oyster omelet…” Fan Qi read off the menu. “Tǔ sǔn dòng?”

“You don’t want to eat that—it’s not actually bamboo shoots. It’s worms,” Chen Zhiqian told her.

“Young man!” the owner interjected. “Tǔ sǔn dòng clears heat and replenishes energy. It’s great for the yin and yang!”

“Two portions, please—we’ll give it a try,” Fan Qi said immediately.

Tǔ sǔn dòng (土笋冻)—a jelly made from boiled marine worms—was one of her favorites. She recalled a year in her past life when she visited a professional investor in Quanzhou. He took them to a back alley stall that served this dish—not the translucent, jelly-like versions with a few visible worms inside, but the type that resembled pork skin jelly, thick and richly flavored from the slow-boiled worm broth. One bite and she was hooked.

She even flew to Quanzhou several times just to have it, always hosted by that investor. She enjoyed the food, and he enjoyed the company. At the time, he was stuck at 5 million yuan in stock investments and couldn’t break through. While eating tǔ sǔn dòng, she analyzed his stock trading problems for him.

Six months later, his capital had jumped to a new level. He was so happy he occasionally sent her tǔ sǔn dòng by air just to show his thanks.

Just seeing the name on the menu now was enough to make her mouth water.

Since she was insistent, Chen Zhiqian gave in and told the owner, “Uncle, bring the tǔ sǔn dòng out last.”

“Why last?” Fan Qi asked, wanting it as a starter.

“Because if you see it first, you might lose your appetite for everything else,” Chen Zhiqian said, taking out the pan-fried buns for her to try.

Fan Qi picked one up with her chopsticks. Then a thought struck her—how could the original host possibly have eaten tǔ sǔn dòng before? “Maybe I won’t be fazed,” she said.

“Wait until you see it—if you can eat it, I’ll be impressed!” Chen Zhiqian replied, full of confidence.

After the pan-fried buns, the first dish that arrived was sweet-and-sour pork. Unlike the crispy fried versions elsewhere, the Minnan style used aged vinegar for a distinctive, tangy aroma. Fan Qi took a bite—it was authentic. “This is delicious. I might have to move here.”

“Move here?” Chen Zhiqian gave her a look. “You’d give everything up just for the food? The apartments here are even smaller than ours—you sure you want to live here?”

“Fine,” she conceded. If it was more cramped than where they currently lived, it wasn’t worth it.

Even three or four decades later, this problem of “concrete forests” remained unresolved. Some places had apartments as small as 12 square meters. As Chen Zhiqian had mentioned earlier, with housing prices sky-high, ordinary people were stuck scrambling for jobs in declining industries.

“I get it now,” Fan Qi said thoughtfully.

Chen Zhiqian was puzzled. “Get what? Eat your pork.”

She said, “At this point in time, the mainland doesn’t have the talent pool, industrial foundation, or trade freedom to develop a semiconductor industry. The ones best positioned to absorb Japan’s overflow production capacity are the Four Asian Tigers. If Hong Kong can develop high-tech manufacturing, it could form a proper industrial cluster—offering well-paid jobs in manufacturing, tech, and management.”

Chen Zhiqian had to admit, “Smart.”

But in her past life, the government poured massive investment into the semiconductor sector, and Fan Qi frowned. “This is an industry that needs state support. Right now, we’re still in the transition period before the 1997 handover. Do you think the British Hong Kong government would give out generous incentives? Even if they did offer support or land, I’m telling you—those Hong Kong tycoons would still use it for real estate. Why make hard-earned money when you can make easy money?”

Just then, a big bowl of mianxian hu (vermicelli paste) was served. Chen Zhiqian ladled a bowl for Fan Qi and one for himself.

Fan Qi looked down and took a sip—it was authentic. She hoped the tǔ sǔn dòng would be just as good. Meanwhile, Chen Zhiqian said, “Didn’t I go to Japan to find Rong Yuan? He went there specifically to connect with people in the semiconductor industry—to understand the landscape better. While we were talking, we discussed this exact point. We both hoped that Hong Kong could establish its own semiconductor industry and achieve a more diversified development.”

“You want to do it?” Fan Qi looked up at him.

Chen Zhiqian had spoken candidly with Rong Yuan about this before, and now, almost unconsciously, he found himself sharing it with Fan Qi.

“Do you think it’s unrealistic?” Chen Zhiqian asked.

“No.”