Where Does the Meal Come From?饭从何处来

“革命不是请客吃饭”，但石头汤这个故事的确关乎吃饭，关乎请客。幸亏这三个和尚不是进了匪寨，否则可能被扣下做奴隶，幸亏这村子不是山妖的障眼法，否则和尚可能饿着肚子、葬身妖腹。这些想象或许有点灾难，但它们其实都有关一个问题，食物从哪里来？人的善意从哪里来？食物由谁支付和生产？人们拿出食物来分享、招待，交换到了什么？

搬到伦敦之后，我和两位朋友一起住，大部分时间都在自己做饭，去超市采购也变成了生活里最稳定的动作。ASDA、Tesco，每次去会买够一个星期的食材。我们建了一个共享账户。伦敦物价飞涨（虽然去了土耳其、见识了年度80%的通胀之后，才知道英国涨价只是洒洒水），每次在餐厅吃饭要三思而行，超市货架是我们少有的随心之地。

年末，“歧路批评”在伦敦的Minor Space做了线下的第一次活动，我们做了一场派对——由头是， 歧路的编辑部（伟田、梓耘和我）第一次在一个城市了。派对来了许多读者和朋友，有朋友说这是他参加过的最“清纯”的派对，让他想起八零年代的大学生，大家都是真的想来聊天和交流的。 但我知道，这种简单背后，许多人在默默支持。Minor Space这个空间是朋友点点和嘉月创业之后的再投入——她们想做一个乌托邦一般的女性主义空间，而每月要投入的费用令我咂舌。歧路拿出了大约200磅的预算， 支付了食物、饮料、打车费，而这些预算其实来自“歧路批评”赞助人的捐助。我自己心里有笔账，一场轻松、单纯的派对后面，基础的架构是怎么搭起来的。而钱只是一方面，还有人的时间、精力和心意。派对上，也有朋友拎着饼干、蛋糕和酒瓶出现时——我心里很感动，这些或许素昧平生的读者，没有觉得这场派对是一个机构活动，而是把我们、把这个空间也当做了朋友，愿意来分享和分担。

派对结束后，我们打扫现场，发现几乎所有食物都消失了！我们都很震惊，一般派对结束都会剩下好多东西，怎么会全部都消失了呢？是因为我们的选品不错，还是天寒地冻，大家胃口大开？我还在体会，并且希望未来的派对也能如此。

聂小依，2026年1月4日

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"Revolution is not a dinner party," yet the story of Stone Soup is precisely about eating and hosting. Fortunately, the three monks in the fable didn’t stumble into a bandit’s den—where they might have been enslaved—nor was the village a demonic illusion, which would have left them starving in a monster’s belly. These scenarios might seem catastrophic, but they point to fundamental questions: Where does the meal come from? Where does human kindness come from? Who pays for and produces what we eat? And when people bring food to share and host others, what exactly are they exchanging?

Since moving to London, I’ve lived with two friends. We spend most of our time cooking; grocery shopping has become the most stable rhythm of my life. We hit ASDA or Tesco once a week to stock up, using a shared bank account. Prices in London are skyrocketing (though after visiting Turkey and witnessing 80% annual inflation, the UK’s price hikes felt like "small change"). Eating at a restaurant requires a second thought; the supermarket aisles are among the few places where we can still follow our whims.

At the end of the year, Qilu Criticism (歧路批评) held its first offline event at Minor Space in London. We threw a party to celebrate the fact that the editorial team—Weitian, Ziyun, and I—were all in the same city for the first time. Many readers and friends attended. One guest called it the "purest" party he’d ever been to, saying it reminded him of university students in the 1980s—everyone was there simply to talk and connect.

But I know that behind this simplicity, many were quietly providing support. Minor Space is an investment made by our friends Diandian and Jiayue through their startup—they want to create a utopian feminist space, and the monthly overhead is eye-watering. Qilu Criticism put up a budget of about £200 for food, drinks, and taxis—funds that actually came from our patrons' donations. I keep a mental tally of how the underlying infrastructure of a "relaxed, simple party" is built. Money is only one part of it; there is also time, energy, and heart. When friends showed up with cookies, cakes, and wine, I was deeply moved. These readers, some of whom I had never met, didn't see the party as a corporate event. They treated us and the space as friends, willing to share the joy and the burden.

When the party ended and we cleaned up, we discovered that almost all the food had vanished! We were shocked—usually, there’s plenty left over. Why did it all disappear? Was it because our selection was good, or because the freezing weather gave everyone a massive appetite? I’m still reflecting on it, and I hope all future parties can be just like that.

— Nie Xiaoyi, 4 January 2026

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