The canteen in summer was as hot as a steamer. Not to mention that there was no air conditioning, even electric fans were impossible to have; a squad shared a table, each person with an enamel bowl.
On top was the dish, below was the rice, meals were served on schedule and in fixed amounts; meat was rarely seen, the food was just that much, you ate it you finished. As for any food grabbing, Zhang Guoqing had truly not witnessed it.
In the aisle of the canteen, there were several barrels of soup. This soup was a pale soy sauce color, having a pleasing name "broth" — clear to the bottom, with a few amaranth leaves floating on top.
A long queue was lined up by the barrel, everyone's uniform soaked through, all sweating profusely, holding an enamel bowl in their hands.
No one paid any mind to whether it tasted good, filling the stomach to endure the upcoming training was the primary concern.
