Chapter Sixteen: The Azure Lantern

Chapter Sixteen: The Blue Lantern

It might sound ridiculous that a lantern could frighten a grown man like me, a former soldier, so badly that I nearly lost control of myself. But the real issue isn’t just that I served in the army; I am also a cook, one who learned the true craft of Chinese cuisine from an old sergeant. I know a little about the customs surrounding lanterns.

What customs, you ask? In fact, it’s quite simple. If you think back, you’ll realize that in China, aside from lantern vendors, the restaurant business is the most fond of hanging lanterns—especially red ones.

Pay closer attention, and you’ll notice that any halfway decent Chinese restaurant will hang at least two lanterns by its entrance. The practice is peculiar: other trades might hang lanterns only during festivals, but restaurants do so as soon as they open shop, all year round.

Before I learned the trade, I thought this habit was just a matter of luck and visibility. But after becoming a cook, I realized it was far more complicated. My old sergeant once explained to me in detail the ‘importance’ of restaurant lanterns.

It happened as I was about to leave the service. News of our division’s restructuring and downsizing had spread, but no one knew who would stay or go. We soldiers, nervous about the future, would crack jokes and boast about not wanting to stay in the army, dreaming aloud about what we’d do after discharge. Everyone acted as if they’d been wasting their talents in the barracks.

Looking back, those words were more about masking our unease. When the time came to leave, not one of us spoke nonsense, and not one could bear to part with the training ground where we’d spilled blood and sweat.

I still remember when the order came to disband the whole company: the hum of sobbing on the parade ground, comrades stubbornly holding their heads high—that was the last dignity of a soldier.

About two weeks before our unit broke up, I asked the old sergeant what he wanted to do after retiring. He was stunned; it seemed he’d never considered leaving the army. My question left him speechless for quite a while.

After much thought, the old sergeant finally answered, slowly and with nervous energy, “I want to open a Shandong-style restaurant—the kind with two red lanterns.”

I laughed then, trying to ease his tension. I teased him, saying he was the head of the division’s kitchen squad, so they wouldn’t let him retire early. And why must you hang two red lanterns, I asked? Nowadays, young people want to be unique; you could hang pumpkin lanterns or bat lanterns to attract customers and keep up with the times...

My words made the old sergeant smile with helplessness. Then he waved to cut me off.

He told me that the cooking trade had a custom: lanterns aren’t things you can hang just anywhere. In the past, their significance was greater than the restaurant’s sign—they were marks not to be altered.

Hearing this, I was intrigued and asked him to explain the rules about lanterns.

He told me that lanterns were once called ‘bright lamps,’ belonging to the fire element, the purest yang. In ancient times, every household hung lanterns on important festival nights, using their fiery virtue to drive away the filth of the night—a symbol of good fortune.

In restaurants, lanterns carry special meaning. In a sense, they serve as the ‘guardian’ of the door.

In the past, families pasted door gods to ward off evil, but the food trade never used these guardians. According to old superstition, door gods block not only ghosts but also people—bad people, yes, but also anyone who might bring trouble. Restaurant owners believed that blocking people was a bad omen. Restaurants rely on customers for their livelihood; they are the source of income, the providers. Regardless of who they are, none should be blocked. Blocking customers would offend them, so not only were door gods forbidden, but doors were kept open year-round to ‘welcome good fortune.’

Later, no one knows which dynasty or person devised a compromise: lanterns replaced door gods in restaurants. Lanterns, belonging to fire, could ward off spirits and illuminate the path for guests at night—a double benefit.

Thus, the custom of hanging lanterns at restaurant entrances spread. Depending on local culture and cuisine, the lanterns varied. Those in the know could tell a restaurant’s style and clientele just by the lanterns.

Typically, a single white paper lantern marks a small roadside stall—a modest business. That small lamp is called the ‘warm-hearted corner.’ Red lanterns are common for larger, working-class restaurants; two red lanterns symbolize ‘prosperity and warmth.’ Eight-sided palace lanterns are favored by southern restaurants and private kitchens, meaning ‘wealth from all directions, exquisite preparation.’

The old sergeant, now in full flow, explained that the content depicted on lanterns also carried meaning. For instance, lanterns decorated with dragons and phoenixes signified imperial heritage—the founder likely worked in the royal kitchen. Lanterns bearing the shop name indicated a century-old business, at least three generations in operation.

Listening, I was struck by how deep and rich Chinese food culture was. Even the lantern hanging at a restaurant doorway held so much meaning. Nowadays, I suspect most have forgotten these traditions—and few old cooks like the sergeant remain.

At that point, I asked him, “Sergeant, what about a restaurant with nothing hanging at the door? What does that mean?”

It was just curiosity. These days, many restaurants don’t hang lanterns; even those that do probably don’t understand their meaning—it’s mere imitation.

The old sergeant chuckled and told me, “First, ancient brothels and taverns didn’t hang lanterns. If their lanterns were up, it meant the women were ‘working’ and others should keep their distance. As for the second—”

I saw him hesitate, as if there was something he couldn’t say.

But the more he held back, the more curious I became. Finally, after my repeated urging, he revealed, “Restaurants with nothing at the door are ‘black shops.’”

“Oh?” I was puzzled. Aren’t black shops supposed to be secret? Why leave a hint, indirectly telling others they’re shady?

The old sergeant quickly answered. He said that not hanging lanterns was a kind of advertisement for black shops. In turbulent times, with many wanderers about, black shop owners wanted dirty money but feared killing the wrong person and provoking the wrong hero, risking revenge. So they devised this ‘public announcement.’

By doing so, they signaled their identity to those in the know, while avoiding unnecessary vendettas—a double benefit.

Suddenly enlightened, I nodded repeatedly, “These old lantern customs are dangerous. Ignorance could cost you your life!”

The old sergeant smiled, “Black shops are bad, but as long as you know their rules, eating there is not lethal. But as for true darkness and danger... black shops don’t compare!”

His words implied there were restaurants more terrifying than black shops.

“Darker than black shops? What are they?” I pressed.

He lowered his voice and told me, “There are two kinds more dangerous! One is the ‘shadow shop’ with a blue lantern. The other is a black-lantern ghost shop, run by spirits and monsters.”

It was the first time I’d heard the term ‘shadow shop.’ I felt both shocked and curious.

“What does a shadow shop do? And what’s a ghost shop?” I asked eagerly.

The old sergeant shook his head, “Ghost shops aren’t run by humans. He’d never seen one—probably made up by superstitious storytellers. Shadow shops, though, truly existed. In late Qing times, tales of shadow shops harming people were common, even causing public outcry.

Such places were very peculiar, often hidden away with no signboard. But at night, they would hang a single blue-green lantern at the entrance, opening only at midnight.

The old sergeant stressed that these establishments were ruthless! Their blue lanterns, like a snake’s tongue, served as a warning—telling those in the know to stay away. No matter who you are, if you enter a shadow shop, they will strip you to the bone, draining your wealth and even your life.

Inside, their methods often involved sorcery, poisons, and the supernatural—far beyond what ordinary black shops could do.

Just how cruel were shadow shops? The old sergeant gave examples: the knockout drugs and human meat buns of black shops were mere trifles—appetizers, really.

He concluded, “A shadow shop is the blackest of black shops! Even if you survive, their food will leave you neither human nor ghost—unable to live, unable to die.”

After hearing all this, I felt a chill run down my spine.

That solitary blue lantern became deeply rooted in my heart.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand or believe the old sergeant’s words. I always thought—this is the new era; those things from decades or centuries ago surely wouldn’t happen again. Surely shadow shops have been forgotten in the dustbin of history...

Until I encountered this blue lantern, and finally understood. Understood the true malice of a shadow shop.

Xian Hongye’s illness—wasn’t it exactly what the old sergeant described? “Neither human nor ghost, worse than death!”

This “True Taste Private Kitchen” is an authentic shadow shop!

It not only covets money and life, but devours people whole, leaving not even bones behind!