The sun has set, and I’m standing above the Jialing River (嘉陵江).

Not far from here, it merges with the famous Yangtze.

An overwhelming sense of regret is sweeping over me.

I wish I had more time in Chóngqìng.

It’s a special city perched on a humid mountainside, overflowing with funky transport and spicy food.

The confluence of the two mighty waterways is beginning to light up and come alive, feeding that regret.

As a younger man, this would have been the perfect place to spend a year abroad, learn a language, and adopt aspects of a faraway culture.

I’m swaying a little on this exposed bridge, and I curse the wind.

But then I realise there is no wind, I’m laughably inept at learning new languages, and this city would have eaten my incompetent, ignorant younger self alive if I'd decided to stray this far.

I’m swaying because I'm unconscionably drunk—a happy consequence of the home-cooked meal I was invited to join earlier today.

Learning Chinese dining etiquette the fun way

I had the honour of being invited to join a Chinese family for lunch.

My host was an 80‑year‑old local man named Dàwázǐ (大娃子). His name literally means “big baby.”

Thankfully, Dàwázǐ is not his given name, although everybody at the lunch calls him by it.

As my host briefly left the room, I subtly inquired with the other guests—some of them his close family—what his actual name is.

There were a lot of furrowed brows, followed by a hasty calculation of his family name, and finally an embarrassed consensus that his given name was immaterial (because nobody used it).

Dàwázǐ has a twin brother, only minutes younger than himself.

The younger brother has gone through his entire life being known to all as Xiǎowázǐ (小娃子).

His name means—you guessed it—“little baby.”

Unfortunately, Little Baby was not in attendance at our meal.

The urns of liquor

While his wife prepares lunch, Dàwázǐ gives me a tour of his flat.

Among his prized possessions are his pets, his two lovebirds hanging in a cage at eye level beside the flat entrance.

From a shoebox on his balcony, he extracts a hibernating tortoise, shaking it like a tambourine with a broad grin across his face.

After the tour concludes, I’m shown to my seat and poured a cool half pint of báijiǔ (白酒)—56% Chinese grain liquor.

This was at 11:15 in the morning.

How authentic Chinese meals are served

The first dish hits the table, and Dàwázǐ toasts me.

Given that more food appeared to be imminent, and not wanting to appear rude, I magnanimously clinked and swigged away at my glass of spirits.

More food was not imminent, however.

I’ve observed that, like eating the freshest food possible, it is a Chinese practice to prepare one dish at a time, usually in a wok, and bring it to the table as soon as it is complete.

It is a rule, though, that eating may not commence until all dishes are present.

If seven or eight dishes are being prepared (not unusual), an hour can easily pass before lunch is fully constructed.

This approach to eating is practised both in the home and at Chinese restaurants.

On Chinese drinking etiquette at dinner

Another tradition is that no one has agency over when they drink.

Other people will toast you, and you must then drink.

If you sip your drink without toasting, you will receive some odd looks.

The result of this, on the morning of my meal, was that I finished my half pint of báijiǔ and had well started a second before my first bite of Chóngqìng food.

"Cutting Back” means a pint of spirits a day

I mentioned to my host that this was more than I’m accustomed to drinking in the morning, and with a serious face, he informed me that he has recently had to halve his annual consumption of báijiǔ—on The Doctor's orders.

His new per annum limit (or target) is 330 jīn (斤), which is about 180 litres.

Roughly a pint a day.

Seeing my incredulous look, he takes me to an airing cupboard in his flat.

Inside stands an enormous ceramic urn the size of a kitchen bin, flanked by another that’s three‑quarters as large.

Both are brimming with báijiǔ.

My favourite part about this airing cupboard, though, is the four little tins of lager cowering in the shadow of the earthenware behemoths; just in case two gigantic urns of liquor wasn't enough to sate Dàwázǐ's almighty thirst.

Hóngyádòng's lights and a liquor‑hazed goodbye

So I’m here on the bridge in the cold and the mist and the dark, at the convergence of two enormous rivers in a city with such a long and storied history I can't even begin to fathom.

In my drunken torpor, I'm trying not to fall off the bridge.

The reason I'm not napping or drinking more, is to witness the lighting of Hóngyádòng (洪崖洞).

It's an enormous modern entertainment shopping‑and‑eating complex styled in traditional Chinese architecture.

The multi-storey hip and gable roofs are all highlighted with golden lights that flicker on in unison at the stroke of 6 pm.

Piercing through the thick fog, the brilliant display is quite something to behold, even if the glare expedites the onset of my spectacular liquor headache.