At the opposite end of the road is the even more modest “community canteen” where I often get my own four dishes and a soup at lunchtime. Like the rest of the motley crew of office workers and pensioners who patronise that refectory, I show up with my own saucepan or Tupperware container, which gets loaded to the brim with meat, fish, rice and stinky tofu for as little as Rmb5-8 a meal. Conversation at the cramped tables often revolves around how happy we all are that the Nanny provides such cheap fare, so close to our homes or offices. (I tend to be more grateful on days when stinky tofu is left off the menu.)
在南京路的另一头,是更为简朴的“社区食堂”。我常常在这里吃午饭,享用自己的四菜一汤。与光顾这家食堂的其他形形色色的办公室职员和退休老人一样,我也拿着自己的饭盆或特百惠(Tupperware)饭盒,仅仅花上5到8元人民币,就能装上满满一饭盒肉、鱼、米饭和臭豆腐。在拥挤的餐桌边,人们谈论的话题往往是,“姆妈”政府提供了这么便宜的伙食,而且就餐地点离家或办公室这么近,大家是多么高兴(在菜单上没有臭豆腐的日子里,我往往会更加感激。)
But it’s not quite the iron rice bowl that it sounds: Jing’an government officials say that of the district’s 250,000 white-collar workers – up from 100,000 when the project started in 2007 – 70 per cent eat a meal from the scheme regularly. But the goal is not just to fill their hard-working bellies: it helps Jing’an compete with second- and third-tier cities trying to lure investment away from Shanghai. (Lunch is cheap in those places, even without the party’s help.) And Nanny is happy when people spend money: since boosting consumption is her plan for saving the Chinese economy.
【无奈的艰辛:上海工薪族的打折午餐】相关文章:
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