最佳深夜舒適食物！｜深度睡眠專用，中式ASMR下雨聲｜第二人稱現在式助眠故事｜助眠故事 ｜冷門歷史 ｜ 奇聞軼事｜失眠治療

最佳深夜舒適食物！｜深度睡眠專用，中式ASMR下雨聲｜第二人稱現在式助眠故事｜助眠故事 ｜冷門歷史 ｜ 奇聞軼事｜失眠治療

Welcome back to Too Many Murals to Help You Sleep. Enter your deep sleep. We are going back to an era of dim street lights and rumbling carriages. It is a Victorian night. You are walking on a wet cobblestone alley. The fog in London is like a wool blanket falling from the sky . You are holding an old-fashioned oil lamp in your hand , swaying with every step. Puddles are formed at your feet. A hot aroma suddenly penetrates the fog and hits your nose accurately. It is cinnamon, butter and ripe apples . The small bakery on the corner that has not yet closed is baking freshly baked pies. Victorian supper begins with this aroma. Before you relax, give me a thumbs up and a subscription. I also need you to support my creations by sending me Happy Points. Thank you for your companionship every night. In the comments, tell me which city you are in , what time it is , or what you have been going through recently. Whether you are happy or tired, you will get a deep sleep tonight. Please dim the lights and enter tonight’s story together. When you walked into this old London alley, you didn’t actually have any purpose. It was just that it was too late and you couldn’t sleep. At times like this, your stomach and heart are always in perfect harmony, especially in the Victorian era. The night was long. The night in London was like an old bed sheet, black, soft and sagging . Hidden in the details. You walked through the moldy brick-walled inn. You smelled a strong aroma, like freshly cooked jam still bubbling in the pot. It was the old bakery on the right. The sign was made of sheet iron and creaked in the wind. The owner was a man who always looked sleepy, wearing black-rimmed glasses and flour on his clothes. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything but pointed toward the oven. You understood and walked in directly. You closed the door and the heat hit you. The wooden floor under your feet was a little sticky , as if you were stepping on honey. There was only one oil lamp in the store, and the light illuminated rows of freshly baked pastries: apple pies, mince pies, sandwich soda crackers, and a kind of cake you had never seen before. The baked cakes you’ve never seen are like small pillows blown up by the wind. You choose a piece of apple pie, the corners are still steaming , you sit down and take a bite. The crust is so crispy that it crumbles, but the inside is like a pot of sweetness that has been secretly simmered all night. Nutmeg and cloves are added , and there is a little bit of alcohol to enhance the flavor. The baker coughed. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. He said it tastes best only when made at midnight. You nodded . You ‘re not sure if it’s superstition or logic , but at this moment, you just want the second bite to go in quickly. This shop used to be the favorite place for coachmen to come late at night. Coachmen would often take a detour after driving the last order just for this pie. They would tie the reins outside Let the horse breathe in the fog and come in by itself. Eat pie while talking about who in the city was rejected by whom today, which lady’s dog bit the postman again. You eat while listening to the boss chattering about those years when there was a violinist in the theater who came to drink ginger wine and eat meat pie every night after the performance . He said that this made him dream of Brahms. Aren’t you surprised? Victorian nights were like this, strung together into an invisible chain of various small habits and small foods. People at that time understood the art of midnight snacks better than you think. It’s not about eating to fill your stomach , but eating to warm your heart. For example, there was a period of time when Londoners suddenly became popular with hot cheese soup at midnight. The thick, bubbling yellow soup is cooked in a copper kettle and is served with white steam. It is eaten with toasted bread. That’s because it was said that milk can calm the restlessness in the soul. In other words, whoever makes the most noise should drink an extra bowl. You finish the jam pie and stand up to take another look at the kitchen. The boss nods and doesn’t bother to stop you. You push open a greasy wooden door. The world inside is like another time. The fire is roaring. Some kind of salty and fragrant broth is cooking in the iron pot. There is butter and rye flour on the table on the side. There are a few dried sausages hanging on the wall. The air smells of meat, sugar, flour, moisture and history. You touch the flour bag as if you have touched time. The back of the hand between the two. No wonder there was a school of thought in London called the Late Night Diet School. They advocated that people eat something hot, sticky, and sweet at night to drive away the cold and get rid of nightmares. They opposed sleeping on an empty stomach , saying that it would make people have nightmares and even dream that they had turned into potatoes in the pot . You remember reading in an old book that a female writer insisted on eating two slices of buttered bread with sugar water before going to bed every night, stirring with a silver spoon, saying that only in this way could the stories she wrote have a creamy feel. You suddenly felt a little sleepy. Was it because the pie pan was too thick or the fire was too gentle? You said goodbye to the boss, but he didn’t look up, only said, “Don’t go. ” The fog is too far. There’s a ghost on the south street recently. You smiled and pushed the door open to go out. The cat jumped again. Climb up the wall. The night in London is still thick and wooly. But your stomach is now like a hot water bottle that has just been held. It is soft and full, no longer empty. You walk back slowly, but your mind starts to think about other things. How many kinds of midnight snacks are hidden in this city ? Do different classes eat different things? The nobles must eat more than just apple pie. The workers should not eat so much meat. What do the servants eat secretly? You step over a puddle of water. In the reflection is you and the oil lamp. The light is swaying like a dream. You think eating pie late at night is elegant enough. The one who doesn’t really know how to stay up late elegantly is the royal family, especially the one who ruled Britain. For more than ten years, Queen Victoria ‘s midnight snack was not just a casual meal , but a palace action movie with a full sense of ritual. You are now walking through the corridor of Windsor Castle. The walls are hung with oil paintings of old nobles who don’t look too happy about you. You walk lightly in soft-soled slippers for fear of waking anyone up . But in fact, there are still people in the whole castle who are not asleep, including Her Majesty the Queen herself. At a certain moment in the dead of night, the light is still on in his study. You quietly look in through the gap and see him leaning back in an armchair with a book in his hand. It may be a fairy tale written for his great-grandson , or it may be the report handed over by the Prime Minister that is not easy to digest. But you notice the small silver plate on the table. On it lies a small piece of cheese roll, a cup of hot chocolate and two slices of almond shortbread as thin as lace. Yes , even her midnight snack is dignified like an official document. Queen Victoria is actually a sweet tooth. She once wrote a letter to the maid to complain that the cakes in the kitchen were not soft enough recently. After dinner, she quietly instructed the chef to double the amount of cinnamon. When she woke up in the middle of the night, she most often asked for a cup of warm milk tea Rose jam on toast , it’s said to relieve his migraines , but the most amazing thing you’ve heard of is when he suddenly craved strawberry parfait at 2 a.m. The royal chef was plucked out of bed in his nightgown and rushed into the kitchen to stir the gelatin. Of course, his midnight snack couldn’t be just any bowl of soup. For example, the dessert called “Queen of the Night’s Honey” was tailor-made for him. It consisted of rose water, roasted figs, softened pear slices , and a sprinkle of vanilla seeds. It wasn’t for the calories , but for the mood. Some say it was the only thing that made her feel a little willing to face the night after her husband Albert died. You are now… You walked around a maid’s passage and tiptoed to the kitchen. Although the royal chef had fallen asleep , the deputy chef was still on duty. He was using a silver kettle to cook a pot of white wine stewed pears and yawned as he cooked. He was not surprised to see you, but only asked you which one you wanted, the queen’s or the servant’s. You chose the queen’s, and he added a pinch of cloves to the pot. The firelight reflected on his face, and you suddenly felt that the night in the royal palace was not much brighter than that on the street, but the taste was indeed different. You sat on a low stool in the corner of the kitchen, holding the bowl of Queen of the Night’s Honey in your hand. The first bite felt that this was not food , but emotions. It was thick, fragrant, and a little melancholy , as if you had eaten 19. The thoughts of 19th-century Britain. You recall that even the ladies of the time were fond of late-night snacks, especially a sweet called sleep pudding, which consisted mainly of egg yolks, milk sugar, nutmeg, and a little brandy. Not only did it help you fall asleep, but you could also dream of marrying an aristocrat. However, Queen Victoria had a unique secret. She believed that midnight snacks were best eaten after reading, otherwise she would not feel comfortable eating. So every night before going to bed, she would read a few pages of a book , usually history or religion. The dessert after the book was like a small ritual to reward herself for a hard day’s rule. She also had a little quirk: she liked to listen for footsteps while eating. One of her favorite servants had to walk back and forth 50 meters outside his study door every night. It wasn’t that something was wrong, but the sound of someone being around that made him feel at ease, just like the sound of rain you hear now. You didn’t feel annoyed, but instead felt that the sound was like a lullaby. You gently put down the spoon, and suddenly an idea popped into your mind. Is such a fancy midnight snack only affordable for the nobility? What should ordinary people do? When they get hungry in the middle of the night , do they just eat dry bread , or do they have other secret midnight snacks? You stepped out of the kitchen, and the night was still deep outside the window. You heard the sound of carriage wheels in the distance . Perhaps another noble had just returned from the theater and was ordering his late-night sandwich and champagne set meal . But at this moment, you were more curious about what the servants who served these nobles would eat at midnight. Is their midnight snack secretive or open ? Is it delicious? Does it bring happiness? You quietly slipped out of the castle’s back door, rubbing your palms to keep warm as you continued walking into the darker place. London tonight was still as quiet as a thick blanket. You walked on this blanket, walking farther and farther. You left the castle’s back door and walked through a narrow alley. Night It’s getting late. The cobblestones of London creak under your feet. It seems like there’s a sound coming from the cracks in the ground. You look down and see it’s a mouse running by with something in its mouth that looks like butter and bread crumbs. You can’t help but laugh. Even mice know that eating something hot late at night is a good idea. You suddenly remember something. How do these servants who work around the royal family every day eat? Are they hungry ? Do they eat decently? So you look up at the lights in the distance. That’s the servants’ quarters. You decide to go over and take a look. You push open a wooden door and find a simple kitchen inside. Copper pots and iron kettles hang on the walls. The oil lamp reflects a pot of steaming stew on the table. In the corner sits a few maids in aprons. A patch of their clothes is wet, as if they had just washed a pile of sheets. They are eating enthusiastically around the pot of food. You move closer and see that it’s a thick soup made from onions, potatoes, and a little bit of ham leftovers . The salty aroma is fragrant. They don’t notice you, you just keep putting the spoon into your mouth and eating quickly, as if you’re going to be called to fetch water, mop the floor, or iron your shirt in the next second . There’s also a tall, thin male chef in the kitchen. He’s putting a plate of custard tarts on the table. Cut it into four pieces , each piece is not big, but he cuts it neatly, like an exhibit. He speaks with an accent, and he must have come to London from Scotland to make a living. Seeing your curiosity, he hands you a piece and smiles, saying that this is specially prepared by the kitchen for people like us who don’t belong at banquets. You take a bite, and it has a strong egg flavor , with a crispy butter base that is just the right sweetness. After finishing it , you feel your stomach is glowing . The servants’ midnight snacks don’t have gold-rimmed porcelain plates or silver spoons , and they are not on the menu , but their way of eating is closer to real life. You see a male servant secretly take half a sausage from his pocket, lean over the fire , and bite it with a crunch. His face immediately relaxes. Their midnight snack is overtime pay, comfort, and the most relaxing moment of the day. They don’t care about the presentation, but only about being hot, full , and a little oily. You heard that in the late Victorian period, some servants even organized their own late-night kitchen meetings. When the nobles fell asleep, they would secretly gather together to use leftovers to put together a hot meal, sometimes even more delicious than the master’s dinner. Beef scraps are made into a thick soup. Yesterday’s leftover cake is cut Chop it into small pieces, mix it with cream, and then add a few pieces of crispy toast. You even heard that there was a butler who was good at making midnight meat pies, which were prepared specifically for the servants. There was a small blackboard on the kitchen wall that listed tonight’s leftovers : roast potatoes, carrots, almonds, crab, and half a pig’s liver. These were the raw materials for their creations, and the spatula, milk pan, and iron plate were their palette. You saw a young maid kneading dough, her fingers nimble , and she hummed as she kneaded. She said she used to be a pastry apprentice, but later she couldn’t afford the tuition and had to come here as a servant , but she never gave up her art of late-night snacks. She only used crushed sugar and breadcrumbs to make a kind of caramelized milk cube . Everyone who had eaten it said it dreamed of summer. There was a small patio outside the kitchen , paved with a few stone slabs. Two servants were sitting on the steps drinking hot tea, holding meat pies that were not yet cold. They said this was the moment of freedom. No one asked you to fetch water , no one ordered you to serve tea. Only the night and the steaming hot food in front of them proved that they were alive, not just tools. They didn’t complain or talk about dreams. They just said that being warm was better than anything else. You stood against the doorframe for a moment, the heat from the fire making your face burn, but your heart began to sour. In this era, queens, generals, and poets are always remembered, but these servants who work late at night also have their own stories , their own pies, and their own tea. It’s just that their stories are not written in books , but in the leftovers at the bottom of the pot and in the moonlight. You decided to take one more bite of the custard tart before leaving. You ate it too quickly just now and didn’t have time to savor it carefully. On the second bite, you found a little almond paste hidden at the bottom of the tart. It was delicate and sweet, as if it was some kind of secret thought. Maybe they felt that even other people’s leftovers could be made delicious . You suddenly realize that a true midnight snack isn’t determined by your status , but by your mood. You push the door open and go out, the night breeze blowing in your face. The oil lamp goes out behind you. You turn your head and glance at the figure in the kitchen, still busy with the soup bubbling away. The aroma drifts gently through the window, like a whisper, telling you that the next story is waiting for you. Keep walking forward. After leaving the servants’ kitchen, you walk east. The night grows darker. The gas lamps on the street seem to be falling asleep, their apertures soft as if soaked in water. You cross a small bridge and the Thames lies below, the water black as strong tea. You look up and see the factory chimneys in the distance still emitting smoke, as if… Reminding you that this city is never really quiet. You suddenly think of those night shift workers who are still working. What do they eat for midnight snack? Do they eat something delicious or just fill their stomachs? Thank God. You walk along a dirty cobblestone alley towards the factory. You can hear the rustling of metal sheets, the breathing of machines and the occasional cough of people. You see a group of workers in gray work clothes walking out of the gate. Some squat on the steps by the door, and some lean against the wall smoking. They all hold a piece of bread in their hands. It is not the kind of crispy bread you recognize , but a kind of rye bread as solid as a brick. The crust is hard enough to smash eggs, and the inside is coated with a layer of Thick lard . That’s right. In those days, lard was the most affordable source of energy for workers and the essential fat of their late-night snack. You leaned over to see someone sprinkling some chopped onion on the lard, while others smeared some syrup, saying it wouldn’t be greasy that way. A young man, his face covered in soot, grinned at you and said this piece of bread could last for five hours of machine work. He sounded proud, but you could hear the fatigue in his voice. He took a bite as he spoke, the corner of his mouth stained with lard, but he continued chewing without paying attention, his eyes drifting away, as if he was homesick. At the factory gate, there was an old man pushing a wooden cart with two hot pots on it, one of stewing beans and the other of milk porridge. He worked from 10 pm to 1 am every night. You squatted down and ordered a bowl of stewed beans. The brown -red broth was sticky and steaming, rushing straight to your nose. You took a sip, the beans were salty and fragrant with a hint of pepper. The beans were cooked just right , sticky and glutinous, like a freshly boiled dream. You couldn’t help but take a second bite. The old man smiled and said, “I added beer, otherwise these brats would still want to sleep after drinking.” You saw a worker take out a crumpled newspaper , pour beans in it, wrap it up, and say he was taking it home to his wife. You were moved and asked him why he didn’t let him come to eat. He shook his head and said he was doing needlework at night. There was no extra emotion in his eyes , only the calmness of the working class, like the gears turning on time every day . Eat a mouthful of beans and stay up all night. You suddenly remembered that there is an unwritten legend of late-night snacks among the lowest class people in this city. Who can If you can still eat something hot after work , there’s still hope , so they use all sorts of methods to retain warmth, wrapping bread in scarves and stuffing canned goods into pockets. They don’t eat for enjoyment, they eat to get through it, to have the strength to say good morning the next day. You watch an old lady sitting by a brick wall, holding a small iron bowl , wearing a tattered cotton coat , drinking milk porridge while dozing off. Beside her is a half-sack of coal slag , which she’ll exchange for coins tomorrow morning. He looks up and sees you , smiling like the wind blowing through hay, saying, “This porridge is my most extravagant dream tonight.” You dare not look any further, fearing that a single glance would shatter it. You walk out of the alley, the night wind like a knife blowing from the river, but your stomach is warm, but your heart is a little heavy. You never thought that a midnight snack could have the taste of desperation , and this taste has no tablecloth, no spices , no background music, only life laid out naked in front of you. You walk Across the railroad tracks, you see the old road leading to the docks. You see a few porters sitting at the wheel, drinking beer and eating canned stew with bones in it . They don’t care about chopsticks or forks , just tear it with their hands. Their midnight snack may not be elegant , but it is full of a sense of survival. They take each bite of meat as if they are fighting against a day’s hard work and their spine. You suddenly feel that what these people are eating is not a midnight snack , but the suture of life. A faint gray light appears on the horizon, not dawn , but the reflection of fog lights. You suddenly realize that the night in this city is never completely dark , nor is it truly awake . In this half-asleep, half-wakeful state, so many stomachs are soothed little by little by a bowl of hot stewed beans and a piece of rye lard bread. You continue to walk forward. You step on the wet ground and leave . The aroma of stewed beans behind you still swirls in the wind. The smell is like some hidden emotion following you. Into the next dream, before dawn. It was still dark when you left the factory area. The streets of London were like a cauldron that had just been put out of flame, the steam still lingering from the bottom. As you walked, you suddenly smelled a fragrance wafting from the corner of the street. It was n’t like palace cream , nor like workers’ lard , nor even like servants’ stew. It was a hot, refreshing smell with the aroma of onions, as if someone had used soup to create the outline of home late at night. You followed the smell and saw a wooden cart on the corner. White smoke was rising from the stove, the simple pot of soup was boiling, and the stall owner was a bearded man with a greasy apron . He moved with skill. When he saw you approach , he immediately scooped up a spoonful of soup and handed it to you. It was a bowl of freshly cooked chicken soup, made with real ingredients and no water. You took the bowl, which was wrapped in tin foil. The soup was golden brown , with two or three carrot cubes and a handful of shredded chicken floating on the surface. You blew gently. When you take a bite, you can taste the simple flavor that calms your stomach immediately. It is warm, soft, and has a slight peppery taste to refresh you. You ask him why he is not awake at night to sell soup. He smiles and says that this street is no worse at night than during the day. The night patrolmen from the theater alone are enough for me to cook three pots of soup. He points to the other side and sure enough, there are several middle-aged men in suits and ties standing in the alley, eating soup with bowls in hand . You look at these people. Some look like they have just finished a performance, and some look like they have just escaped from a quarrel in a bar. There is also an old lady pushing a cart who bought two bowls of chicken soup and sat on a stone pier on the street to share them with her two grandchildren. She patted the children’s backs while they drank. The children’s eyelids are almost closed. You find that the taste of that bowl of soup not only warms your stomach , but also your eyes. After drinking it, you feel People feel relaxed and can understand each other without talking. The vendor tells you that he was a carpenter when he was young, but later his leg was injured and he couldn’t do heavy work, so he started to cook soup. He didn’t learn cooking, but he remembered the smell of chicken soup cooked by his mother on winter nights when he was a child . So he started to try again and again, adding more celery, less salt, and more onions until he made this version that even the night shift police said was good. He said that sometimes a spoonful of hot soup is more effective than a night’s sleep. You keep walking forward and find that there is more than one soup stall on this street. There is someone selling beef bone soup on the corner ahead. It is as thick as milk and your mouth will be sealed with collagen after taking a sip. There is also someone selling flying fish soup. It tastes fishy but relieves fatigue. It is said to be a special recipe for dock workers. You see olives floating on the soup bowl. The vendor skillfully handed out a piece of toast for people to dip in. You saw an actress in costume, drinking soup while removing her makeup, her eyes full of fatigue and satisfaction. He said that acting depends on lung soup for health. You thought about it and it really makes sense. Victoria’s street soup stalls are a magical existence. They are not as formal as formal tea restaurants , nor as familiar as the dining table at home. It is the gap in the city. Those who are not qualified to enter the restaurant late at night can secretly stand and eat a warm place. Soup is liquid companionship, no need for many words , just a bowl. You saw a postman in worn boots standing in the shadows, drinking the last drop of soup , then wiping his mouth and turning away. The action was like completing a ritual. You walked back to
the chicken soup stall just now. The stall owner was covering the pot Gai was about to close the stall. He glanced at you and handed you a small bag of things wrapped in cloth, saying, “Take it back.” The remaining stewed chicken scraps can be fried tomorrow morning to make a good meal. You took it, and the warmth passed through the cloth to your hands. A feeling of being surrounded by kindness suddenly came over you. You didn’t say thank you, but just nodded. He smiled and said, “The night is still long , don’t catch a cold. ” You turned and left. The aroma of the soup was still lingering on your nose. You suddenly realized that midnight snacks are not just about feeding the body , they can also give people a reason to stay and hold on a little longer, and take a few more steps. Chicken soup is not a life-saving straw , it is the smell of not giving up in a hurry, it is the sound of people persevering in hardship . The gas lamps on the street are still flickering, the moon is hiding behind the clouds and refuses to show its face. You walk in the night and feel a small lump in your stomach The small sun is lighting the way ahead. The pot of soup may have been put away and extinguished, but it remains in your heart longer than the fire. You continue walking on the gradually quiet streets of London. Although your stomach is full , your mind is still churning. You suddenly remember a sentence mentioned in an old book: The nobles who really understand food never say “eat” late at night, they say “continue the feast”. You squint your eyes and imagine the scene. The lights gradually dim, the guests leave, half of the candlesticks go out, but another fragrance begins to fill the main hall . It is no longer foie gras, oysters and champagne , but mincemeat pie, pears stewed in sweet wine , and a little cheese roll that has been secretly leaked. You unconsciously turn around and walk towards the direction of the old noble mansions in the west city. Tonight you want to see with your own eyes the legendary Queen Swallow eating. You go around to a three-story building. At the back door of the mansion , a butler in a tuxedo and with shoes polished to a shine just pushed the door open, holding a tray covered with velvet in his hand. You noticed with your sharp eyes that a small corner of a nut tart was exposed under the tray. The butler glanced at you and didn’t chase you away. Instead, he raised his chin to signal you to follow him. He put the tray down on a small round table in the side hall of the mansion. Two noble men in soft morning robes were sitting
inside . They had just been talking loudly at the banquet, but now they withdrew from politeness , leaving only tired satisfaction. They didn’t speak, but only ate the midnight snacks on the table in silence: a smoked ham sandwich, a raisin cake soaked in rum , and a small glass of port wine. You stood outside the door and watched them eat and yawned. Obviously, this second dinner party, which was held secretly, was the real one. It was a real moment of relaxation . You heard one person say that this was much better than the main course, and the other nodded because no one cared how many bites you took. You suddenly realized that under the layers of social rules, this midnight snack was their rare freedom. The banquet was a performance, and the late-night kitchen was the resting room after the curtain fell. You quietly walked into the kitchen and saw that the table was already piled with leftovers, chicken liver puree, beetroot salad, cream of mushroom sauce, and half a plate of untouched meat rolls. You saw a maid pick up a small dish of creamed onions and quickly put it in her mouth , then pretended to tidy up the tablecloth. Another young male servant hid by the stove and secretly ate the refrigerated jam pudding and licked his fingers. They didn’t talk, only communicated with their eyes. This was not stealing, but a tacit understanding that the spoils were divided equally after distribution. This kind of reunion was not formal or even It is not written into any aristocratic diet manual , but it does exist. It exists in the smell of midnight snacks and exists in a kind of liberation that I finally don’t need to act anymore. You see a piece of parchment casually stuck in the recipe book. It lists a few snacks made with leftovers: dried apples, buttered toast, beer-braised beef tendon soup, and baking soda-baked lemon cakes. There is also a note below that it is only for consumption after the banquet. This casual note is more real than any luxurious menu. It tells you that even the upper class, who are surrounded by halos, longs for that simple midnight snack. You remember an old man who used to be a kitchen assistant in an aristocratic family. He said that they eat champagne and foie gras during the day, but fight for pickled beef with sauerkraut and bread at night. It sounds funny , but you understand that it is a kind of balance of human nature. During the day, you try hard to maintain your dignity. At night, you steal back a bit of reality. You pick up a piece of cold meat roll from the kitchen and are about to take a bite when you hear someone coughing behind you. It’s the cook. She glances at you but doesn’t scold you. She just hands you a tissue and says it’s bad for your stomach because it’s cold. Toast it. She turns around and says, “Although the midnight snack is small, it’s important to pay attention to it.” You smile wryly and nod , placing the meat roll by the fire to roast. The aroma instantly rises, as if lighting up the whole room. You carry the hot meat roll back to the back door. The two noble gentlemen have already left, leaving only an empty wine glass and a napkin. You sit on the small stone bench and take a bite. You find a layer of pepper and butter in it. The taste is salty, fresh, and slightly spicy , just enough to dispel the sleepiness you just felt. The night is getting deeper and deeper. There are no lights in the back alley of the mansion. You lean against the stone wall, and the residual heat from the stove is in your ears. You close your eyes , and everything is silent, leaving only the warmth of the food slowly spreading through your body. You begin to understand that the charm of late-night snacks isn’t just about what you eat , but when you eat. It’s the most honest conversation between a person and their stomach, after all the rituals and identity labels have faded. You stand up, fold the napkin in your hand, and place it back next to the tray. You take a deep breath and walk out the back door. The night breeze is light, as if it knows you’ve just eaten and no longer blows so coldly. You look back at the mansion. The lights are off, but you know the secret of the night is still hidden under a pot lid in the kitchen, slowly cooling and leaving behind its fragrance. It’s almost 2 a.m. when you leave the mansion. The streets are empty, even the cats have hidden in the chimney . Walking in the heavy night, you suddenly hear the sound of wheels approaching from afar, followed by the rhythmic sound of horse hooves. You look up and see a black four-wheeled carriage slowly emerging from the fog. The carriage is not moving fast, as if waiting for someone. You can’t help but quicken your pace to catch up. The coachman glances down at you and, for the first time ever, nods, indicating that you can get in. You open the door and a smell of leather, gunpowder, and bread hits your nose. This is not an ordinary carriage, this is a special carriage for nobles returning home at night. You sit in the carriage and the soft red velvet seat immediately embraces you. The carriage continues to move forward slowly. As you steadied yourself , you caught a glimpse of a small tin box on the seat opposite you, delicate as a jewelry box. You tentatively Opening it, you’ll find several neatly trimmed corned beef sandwiches. The thin slices of bread , slightly curled at the edges , are filled with a bit of pickled cucumber and English mustard. Just as you reach out, a voice rang out from the other side of the carriage: ” Eat it with confidence, I won’t eat the cucumber.” You looked up and saw a well-dressed middle-aged man leaning in the corner with a smile, his bow tie loosened, his expression tired but gentle. The theater was over, and I said 2,000 words tonight. I’m so hungry I don’t want to wait until I get home. He picked up a sandwich and took a bite, like he’d finished a long performance. He said this midnight snack was prepared by his personal coachman, and no matter where he went, he ‘d always leave a box in the carriage. He laughed and said, “Some people say I rely on hot tea to nourish my throat, but actually, I rely on sandwiches to stay alive.” You ate as you went. The beef was thick and not too dry , and the mustard was just the right amount of flavor. Paired with the soft bread, each bite was as comforting as a warm stove at night. He pulled out an unlabeled bottle of port from under the cushions . Don’t worry, you won’t get drunk , you ‘ll just slowly start to feel sleepy. You took the small bottle, sipping the warm liquid as it slid down your throat, warming even your back. The carriage moved forward slowly, and streetlights flickered past the window, naming the night. You were the only student still awake. The man suddenly smiled and said, “Did you know? The midnight snack in the carriage is an escape route for the nobility. You can’t eat too much at home, but you have to eat when you go out. ” This is just right. You nodded, suddenly realizing that the carriage was actually like a mobile private restaurant. When the door closed, all worldly scrutiny disappeared . He was talking about a time when a party ended too late and he was so hungry on the road that he was shaking with hunger. The coachman handed him a small piece of honey cake. He took a bite and fell asleep immediately. When he got home, he was carried into the house. That honey cake later became his standard midnight snack in the carriage and was never replaced. Only then did you realize that there were two pieces of honey lemon cake wrapped in paper towels hidden under the sandwich box. They were small and solid , as if they were specially saved for one last comforting bite. He handed you a piece and said, “Don’t rush to eat it . It’s best to eat it when the car enters the tunnel, which is the quietest.” You smiled but still took a bite early. The cake was soft, as if it had just been baked. The sweetness and the fragrance of lemon peel spread gently on your tongue, like a small light on in your mind. You closed your eyes and leaned against the window. The sound of the carriage wheels rolling over the stone slabs was in your ears. The rhythmic sound is like an old woman chanting a sleeping spell. You think of the high-class celebrities you used to read about in the newspapers, so-and-so attending a dinner at the theater, Viscount So-and-so falling asleep on their way home from a night party. Back then, you always felt distant, but now you realize they were just like you, eating something late at night to get through the journey home. Homecoming isn’t a physical journey, but a psychological one of letting go of your daytime identity, and the carriage is their brief stopover. The carriage slowly stops, and the man pats your shoulder and says, “We’re home, thank you for your company.” You nod. Before getting off, he picks up the last piece of cake and hands it to you. The cold breeze makes the sweetness more pronounced. The moment he closes the door, the wind blows gently into the carriage, and you shrink. You hunched your neck and hid the cake in your pocket. The driver didn’t look back, but gently whipped the whip. The carriage turned a corner and carried you deeper into the night. You looked down at the empty sandwich box in your hand. Suddenly, it felt like everything that had happened all night was a bit like a dream. But the lemon fragrance in your mouth was still there, and the warmth in your stomach was still there. You finally understood that in that era of unstable lighting and trams, a carriage and a box of sandwiches were their most solid home at night. The carriage turned the corner and slowly stopped. You jumped out. The night wind made your face feel a little cold. You rubbed the corners of your eyes and found that the sky was slightly white, but the night of London had not yet fully awakened. The street lights were still on, as if holding on to their last breath. You looked at the palace wall in the distance, and the familiar outline appeared before your eyes again. That’s the palace. You originally thought that the midnight snacks of the nobles were just like that. But there is a legend about the palace’s late-night desserts. You have never personally verified it. The legendary royal chef’s skills that are not passed on to others will only be truly utilized after midnight, and chocolate is the protagonist of that mysterious realm. You quietly walked into the palace kitchen. The small window outside was emitting a fragrance. It was not the ordinary sugar fragrance , but the kind of bitter, sweet , warm and soft smell, like the night and honey entwined together. You approached the windowsill. The kitchen was lit with a yellowish light. A royal chef in a white uniform was carefully stirring a thick liquid in a copper pot. There were tiny bubbles at the bottom of the pot. He suddenly looked up and saw you. He was not surprised or blamed you, but just waved at you. You actually flipped over the windowsill and landed on the ground. You were immediately surrounded by the smell. There were There were several porcelain plates, each holding a different kind of chocolate. There were balls layered with citrus jam, bitter chocolate sprinkled with cocoa powder, cream chocolate rolled into thin leaves, and square pieces coated with rose syrup . The royal chef used a silver spoon to gently scoop a spoonful of freshly prepared liquid chocolate and dripped it beside it, saying that this batch was for the queen tonight. She had been having trouble sleeping lately. You asked him if chocolate really helped you sleep, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he handed you a small piece and said, “Eat it and you’ll see for yourself. ” You took a careful bite. The chocolate didn’t look like street chocolate. Its bitterness was gentle and its sweetness quietly blossomed. Your entire taste buds felt like being gently embraced. Before you could swallow it, your mind quieted for a few seconds , as if some kind of restlessness had been quenched. He explained that real palace chocolate was not about sweetness , but about layered texture . The cocoa beans had to be hand-ground for at least 80 minutes. 1. simmer for 12 hours , add sugar in three times , and let it sit for 12 hours to let the flavor become stable. He said this is a royal rule. It ‘s not just a recipe , but also a spiritual ritual. No noise, no chaos , no impetuousness at night . Chocolate must be stable so that people can sleep. You see a note next to it saying “Queen’s Nighttime Use, Do Not Change the Mix. ” Next to it is a plate of freshly made chocolate sauce with a strong aroma that seems to stop time. He whispered that this batch of chocolate will be made by the personal lady at 3 a.m. It was delivered to the bedroom at 12:00 a.m. , accompanied by a cup of hot milk with cardamom. You couldn’t help asking if the queen would also suffer from insomnia. She nodded and said that everyone would, but she just couldn’t admit it. You sat on the bench in the kitchen and watched him continue to make chocolate. Occasionally, the maid pushed the door open and came in with a tray. Her steps were very light , for fear of disturbing the workers who were taking a break. Someone took away a small box of chocolate fudge, saying it was for the queen mother to relieve her nightmares. Someone took away a cup of chocolate milk, saying it was for the little prince to drive away the night chill. You suddenly realized that in the depths of this magnificent and solemn palace, every bite of sweetness was to suppress the little bit of unspoken fatigue in the night. The royal chef suddenly pointed to a corner and said that it was private. You looked over and saw a small plate of darker chocolate blocks sprinkled with very fine cinnamon powder and a little dried lavender. He explained that it was for myself. I stayed up too late and my mouth was bitter. He smiled gently, but his eyes were a little red . You tasted a piece and it tasted like a late-night diary , with tiredness, emotions , but also hope. You stood up, thanked him, and prepared to leave. He handed you a small paper bag and said, “Take it away. You should be able to sleep well tonight .” You took the paper bag, which was still warm. You dipped your fingertips in some chocolate powder and licked it. The sweetness slowly emerged, just like someone whispered, “Don’t be afraid, it’s already passed. ” You climbed out of the kitchen window and the moment your feet touched the ground, you found that the sky began to turn blue. You walked on the cobblestone road. The paper bag in your pocket was slightly warm, as if there was a fire hidden in the night that had not been extinguished. You looked back at the window and the light was still on. The aroma of chocolate was still lingering in the wind, as if it was some kind of silent oath. No matter how late it was , there would always be a little sweetness waiting for you. The sky was already turning pale, but you felt less and less willing to sleep. It was not because you were excited , but because you felt that the night of this city was not over yet. It still hid some quiet and real fragments that you had never seen. You walked on a silent road. On the residential street , there are slates wet by the night dew, and the only sound is your own footsteps. You pass by an old bookstore. There is a wooden sign in the window saying “Closed during the day, reservations at night ” . You push the door open for some unknown reason. The doorbell rings softly, and the smell of books , old ink and matches hits you in the face. You are about to say hello when you hear someone mutter by the fireplace, “Sit down. ” There is tea and hot biscuits on the stove. There is only a kerosene lamp in the room. The dim light shines on the woolen carpet-covered floor. An old man with gray hair and beard is leaning back in a chair reading a book , wearing a sweater that is obviously too big. There is a half-cup of cold milk at his feet. He doesn’t look up, but just pushes the book down. You come just in time. I saw Dickens quarreling. You were stunned for a second and smiled. He pointed to the mantelpiece, where there was a plate of cheese biscuits and two thick slices of dried fruit cake. You picked up a piece and took a bite. The sweet and salty cheese The taste ferments on the tip of the tongue, as if some memory is slowly awakening. All the Victorian writers stay up late at night. He said it’s not that they don’t want to sleep , but that too many things are turning over in their minds. He closed the book and began to talk about the relationship between night reading and midnight snacks . He said that Dickens would make a cup of tea with a piece of cream biscuit with pepper at 10 o’clock every night. It is said that it can help him conceive complex characters. The Brontë sisters like to hide in the attic after turning off the lights in the kitchen to eat a few bites of candied orange peel and rye bread while writing their melancholy and persistent paragraphs. She stood up, and her movements were like the spring of an old clock that had just been turned. He went to the stove and poured a cup of warm milk, sprinkled some nutmeg, and handed it to you, saying that milk is life-saving when writing at night. You took the cup and took a sip. It was warm as if nothing had happened. He took out a tattered recipe book and turned it over to you. It said that writing late at night is sweet. Some suggestions include dried apple stewed with milk, black tea, candied date cookies, cocoa powder, and baked egg tarts. He flipped through the dishes and said, “You think great stories are written with inspiration, not sugar and calories? ” You asked him what he ate. He smiled and said, “I like buttermilk pancakes, a piece as thin as paper, burnt on both sides. One bite can bring back three hours of memories.” He took out a pancake wrapped in oil paper from the bookcase next to him and handed it to you. You took a bite, and the aroma of pancake, egg, and milk intertwined. The taste was not amazing, but it seemed like you could eat it until dawn. He suddenly sighed and said that the night is actually reserved for those who think too much. Only then can they stop explaining themselves. After drinking the milk, you feel completely enveloped by the warmth of the meal. The hangings on the wall The clock has already pointed to half past five and the sky is almost bright. You stand up and prepare to say goodbye, but he suddenly hands you an old book and says you can read it on the way and flip through it when you feel sleepy. You take it and it is a collection of essays with a worn cover. There is a small note on the first page. Night is not the end but the home. You walk out of the bookstore. The sky is already bright. There are footsteps on the street, vegetable carts, milk boys and pigeons that have just woken up. You lower your head to read the book, but in your heart you are still chewing the taste of the cheese biscuit. It is not an amazing taste, but a symbol of some kind of inner order, telling you that no matter how your day goes, at this moment you can still slowly take a bite and walk slowly forward. You look back and the door of the bookstore is closed. The night appointment on the window has also been turned to today. You didn’t knock, just nodded, taking a break. It was like saying goodnight to an old friend who’s still writing at 4 a.m. Go on. You walk through the morning mist, clutching the old book. The oil stains of cheese crackers still remain on your fingertips. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but the sky is no longer dark. You step over a puddle of water and suddenly smell something very un-Londonish: the smell of the sea, mixed with a hint of smoke , and a subtler aroma of basil. The scent is strange yet familiar. You try hard to recall it , and soon you recall a little story that’s almost been buried by history. In the Victorian era , there was a popular late-night snack nicknamed the Victorian Seaweed Roll. You follow the smell into an alley and see an unassuming storefront with a wooden sign hanging diagonally that reads “Ada’s Night Food.” The door is slightly ajar. You push the door open and walk in. A puff of steam hits your face. The air is as hot and humid as a kitchen that has just finished a shower . The shop is not big, with only three tables. There is a large wooden steamer against the wall that is bubbling with steam. A woman with curly hair is steaming something. She doesn’t even turn her head when she hears the door open. She just says it’s a little late and there are only seaweed rolls left today. You sit down. He uses tongs to pick up two rolls of freshly steamed food and puts them in front of you. The surface is dark green dry seaweed, slightly shiny. Inside is shredded carrots, pickled cucumbers, chopped chicken , and a little bit of caramelized onions. The outside is wrapped in a thin layer of baked egg. You pick up a roll and take a bite. The first bite is a bit confusing, but the second bite is addictive. The seaweed is crispy like frost just formed at night. The sweetness of onions slowly emerges and mixes with the fragrance of eggs. Mixed together, you couldn’t even tell for a moment whether it was rice or snack . He came over and sat down and said, “It’s delicious, right? Guess who invented it first?” He took a sip of hot tea and smiled and said, “It’s my grandmother. She was a Scottish woman who married a sailor from Hong Kong, China. He often brought back seaweed . His grandmother didn’t know how to eat it , so she wrapped it in eggs as a midnight snack . His eyes fell on the steamer on the table. Once a sailor’s friend came to eat at home and said that it tasted like Japanese rice. The next day, it went viral at the dock. He named this product of cultural collision Victoria Seaweed Roll. It has never been served at aristocratic banquets, but it has quietly become popular among the night shifts in the alleys of the dock theater and the hospital. You listened in a trance, but he said lightly that no one wrote it in the newspaper , but it is very Many people remember this taste, especially late at night. He stood up, put the remaining two rolls into a paper bag, and handed it to you. ” Here, take it. It’ll taste better if it’s not cold .” You looked down at the paper bag. There was a stamped pattern on it: a steamship and a five-pointed star. In the middle was the phrase “Late night does not belong to any national boundaries.” You asked him if anyone would still come to eat there. He nodded. Some people always look for something familiar to eat in the middle of the night. They find those that are too watery too sweet and too hard too hard. This flavor, stuck in the middle, that you don’t know who it belongs to, is just right. He suddenly paused, his eyes a little distant. Don’t you think midnight snacks are best used to remember vague things? When you left the shop, the still-warm seaweed rolls were in your pocket, but your mind was filled with that mess. Shadow of Blood Grandmother The Victorian era was a time of strict rules , but there were always gaps for life to sneak in. Seaweed rolls are not orthodox cuisine, but they remain in the memory of the night with their taste and practicality. You think of those who rush home from the night shift, those drifters who do not belong to any class. They have no identity to rely on, and only their stomachs can find a temporary belonging. You sit down on the bench and unwrap the second roll . It is already bright when you eat it. The sun shines on the tip of your shoes. It seems that London last night never existed, but the taste is still there while chewing. It is still that era that emphasizes unreasonableness and silently tolerates everything. You gently fold the paper bag and put it in the book, like saving a ticket to the past. You get up and walk away . The store door has been closed and the steam is It is still slowly emerging from the gap , just like the snack itself, not talking or fighting , just quietly waiting for you to need it and then remember it. You put the paper bag in your arms and walked through the gradually awakening streets , chewing the salty and fragrant aftertaste in your mouth as you walked. The sun began to shine through the thin clouds on the buildings, washing the night of the entire city. You thought that Victoria’s midnight snack would end here, but suddenly a picture emerged in your mind. A greenhouse full of green plants, the air was filled with humid heat and the fragrance of fruits , and there were several housekeepers shuttling between them. The trays were filled with peeled grapes, chilled pear slices, and diced citrus. You immediately turned around and walked in that direction. You pushed open the door of the greenhouse, and a heat wave with the fragrance of soil and fruit hit you in the face. The sun shines through the glass onto the palm leaves. Tiny water droplets float in the air. What ‘s in front of you is not a flower market but a fruit and vegetable greenhouse exclusively provided by the royal family. At this moment, there are still three or five gardeners pruning vines and wiping fruit peels. An old gardener in the corner glanced at you without asking any questions. He just said lightly, “The strawberries are a bit sour today, and the grapes are just right .” You nodded at him and walked into the deepest part of the glass dome. It was the warmest place and also the legendary secret base for nobles to steal fruits late at night. You saw a copper plate with several bunches of seeded white grapes neatly arranged, each of which was so full that it almost burst. Next to it were a few pieces of cantaloupe that were cut into small cubes and put into a bowl of ice water. There was a slight chill. You tentatively picked up a piece and put it in your mouth . The sweetness was about to burst out, like a smile, and patted the back of your head. The gardener smiled and said that these fruits are not for daytime consumption. It’s too hot and messy during the day. It’s eaten late at night. The best for your stomach. Only when your mouth is quiet can you feel the sweetness. It turns out that in the Victorian era , the rich had a late-night habit called a bedtime fruit plate. It was not for health , but for taste. The fruits served to the table during the day had already lost their temperature and their sweetness became dull. Only the fruits that were picked from the greenhouse at night and immediately peeled and chilled could be considered timely and appropriate. Noblewomen often ordered a small bowl of seedless grapes dipped in honey or rose water at midnight and ate them before dreaming , saying that only in this way could the fragrance appear in dreams. You heard that there was a duchess who was obsessed with lychees. She sent servants to guard the greenhouse every morning just to get the first batch with dew on it. Some people insisted on eating only lime slices with skin at night with salt to stimulate the taste buds. After that, drinking a sip of hot water was said to make the memory clearer. The gardener said while peeling a guava for you that the stomach of the nobles was stronger than their noses. The child is still proud. Once you get used to eating late-night fruits, no matter how sweet they are during the day, you will find them noisy. You nodded and lowered your head to take a bite of the orange slice. The flesh is smooth like silk. It unravels on the tip of your tongue. You can almost hear it click in your mouth. You asked it if this greenhouse can still bear fruit in winter. He nodded and leaned against the boiler and the glass cover. This is the warmest place in London. He said that there was a year when it snowed so heavily that people were freezing to death outside, but they were still growing strawberries in the greenhouse. It was a winter night comfort prepared for the little prince of the royal family. You listened in a daze. While picking up a piece of mint candied pineapple slice, you thought that the world is so layered that even the time to eat fruits is particular. You asked him if he had any fruit to help you sleep. He thought for a while and pointed to the pot of boiled apple slices in the corner. Boiled apple slices with cardamom and licorice are more effective than drinking hot milk. You tried a bite and it was indeed that the sweetness was soft, like a blanket that slowly wrapped you up. You lean on the bench and feel your eyelids sink slightly. That drowsiness is not fatigue but relaxation after being full. It is the mild signal from the fruit’s body temperature that quietly transmits to your blood. You stand up and say goodbye to the gardener. He picks a kumquat from the basket and hands it to you. Eat it before going out to keep your mouth awake and not doze off on the way. You bite it and frown because of the sourness , but then a smile wells up on your face . It is indeed a smart farewell gift. You walk out of the greenhouse. The sun has already covered the streets, but the dampness and sweet fragrance on your body seem to have not faded yet. You can feel yourself like a freshly washed grape, soft, awake, full of moisture, ready to welcome a brand new dream. You come out of the greenhouse. The sun has completely dispelled the night fog. The number of carriages on the street begins to increase slowly. As you walk, your steps unconsciously turn into the familiar alley in East City. You have heard people mention that every night at 3 a.m. After 12:00, there is a figure squatting on the street corner , slowly cooking a pot of beans over a low fire to feed London’s most neglected group of night walkers, the newsboys. When you arrive, you see a thin figure sitting at the alley. He is wearing a shabby wool coat and his messy hair is tucked under his cap. He is holding a small iron pot in his hand. The beans are bubbling in the pot. He notices you and nods at you. You reach out without chopsticks. You squat down and pick up a dented porcelain bowl next to you. You scoop a spoonful. It is a sticky mixture of soybeans, onions, butter and brown sugar. The first bite is more layered than you imagined, like digging out a pinch of sugar in the mud. He calls himself Charlie At the age of 10, he was delivering newspapers. In his third year, he left home at 2:30 a.m. every day and finished delivering all the orders at 5 a.m. You asked him why he didn’t wait until dawn to eat breakfast. He asked you in return, “Have you ever tried to deliver newspapers on a freezing day relying only on the air?” He pointed to the pot of beans. This is the secret recipe left by my mother. He said that as long as the beans keep stewing, I won’t freeze to death . He smiled calmly, as if this was not fate but just a daily routine . You saw him eating very slowly, while drinking soup, he took out the wet newspapers and folded them neatly. He said he didn’t like others to help him deliver newspapers because others couldn’t fold them well. They didn’t understand that the newspapers had to be rolled like donuts so that they wouldn’t fall apart. You listened to him chattering about one day stepping into One day, a dog chased him for three blocks. There were bean stains on the corners of his mouth, but his face was steady and self-sufficient. You noticed that his bean pot was not made with a stove , but with bricks surrounding a ball of red-hot charcoal. The bottom of the pot was supported by three iron nails, as stable as a totem carved on the ground. He said that the charcoal was given by the coal delivery uncle and the pot was donated by the church. He picked up the beans from the leftovers in the market at night. You asked him if it was troublesome, and he licked the spoon and shrugged his shoulders. His stomach growled more noisily than the trouble. He covered the pot and said that the day’s work was not over until I finished the last mouthful of beans. You stood up and suddenly felt speechless. There was no dessert or exquisite porcelain plates in his world, but The pot of beans was like an all-round safe haven, allowing him to take a breath from the cold wind in the early morning, and also allowing him to find some proof that he was still alive in the lonely footsteps. He finally handed you a small package wrapped in old newspapers, which contained two bean pies he made himself. The flour was mixed with bean dregs and syrup. He said it was a spare one. He felt hungry when he was delivering newspapers, so he ate a piece . You took it and tried a bite. It made a strange crunch but was not unpleasant. It was like a compromise between sweet and salty, just like life itself. It was not always satisfactory but could still be swallowed. Before you left, he suddenly asked you if there was food in your dream. You were stunned. He smiled and said, “My mother said.” People who eat well can go far in their dreams. You nodded but were speechless for a moment. You left the alley and looked back at him. He squatted down again and lifted the lid of the pot and continued to simmer on a low fire. He continued to fold newspapers as if nothing had happened. You walked in the morning light, holding the bean dregs biscuit in your hand. You walked slower and slower. You suddenly realized that the meaning of this pot of beans was not in the taste but in its existence. The quiet and real existence without complaint or sorrow, just like this, it maintained a tired life warmly. When you left Charlie’s alley, the sun had risen to the edge of the roof and the street turned from gray to bright. You should have ended this Victorian midnight snack adventure, but there seemed to be road under your feet and there seemed to be room for something in your stomach. You seemed to be trapped by something . I held your hand, walking past the old church, the water tower, and the stone bridge to the back street of the market in the south of the city. There was a small shop with almost no sign. The window was blurry, but there was a string of strange spice bags hanging on the door . A familiar yet unfamiliar smell floated in the air, warm, sweet, and herbal, like a cup of freshly brewed dreams. You pushed the door open and the air immediately became humid and heavy, mixed with the scent of cloves, nutmeg , chamomile, and a hint of tangerine peel, like time that had just been stirred. Behind the counter stood a woman wearing a dark green shawl, with no expression on her face , but her eyes seemed to be able to see through what time you went to bed last night. She didn’t ask you what you wanted, but only pointed to a small round table covered with velvet in the corner and said, “Sit down. You need a little gentleness tonight.” As soon as you sat down, he brought a small pot of hot drink and a ceramic cup. The tea was slightly darker in color with a little foam. You took a sip and your mouth was immediately touched by tenderness. The fragrance of cardamom and the softness of chamomile wrapped the root of your tongue. It was like someone gently pressed your shoulders and said that you could relax. You looked up and he said that people in the Victorian era did not rely on milk or hot soup to fall asleep. Those who really know the tricks can come to me. She is known as the Spice Witch. It is not witchcraft, but she has her own understanding of the relationship between spices and sleep. He said that people who can’t sleep are usually not lacking in nutrition , but their brains are too noisy, so the drinks he mixes never make you full , but make you slow down. You look down at the pot of tea. The more you look at it , the more you feel that the color is like amber, like liquid night. He began to tell a story about a widowed baroness who had trouble sleeping every night. She took tranquilizers prescribed by the doctor but they didn’t work. Until one night she came to his shop and drank a cup of bay lemon tea. Not only did she fall asleep that night, she also dreamed of herself running on the grass when she was young. You laughed out loud, but he nodded seriously and said it was not a dream. It became beautiful because his mind was finally quiet. You looked around the shop. There were many medicine bottles and small cloth bags hanging on the wall. Each bag was embroidered with a strange pattern, a cat with closed eyes, a vanilla flower with four petals spread out, and a sleeping moon. He said that each pattern corresponded to a formula, like a code. As long as you tell him what’s bothering you , he can mix a dream that suits your condition. You asked him where I was tonight . He thought for a while and said, “You were gone all night and your eyes were closed.” God is tired but still bright. I will give you a quiet ending. You lowered your head and took another sip. This time the taste has changed. There is a little more lavender coolness, like the night slowly receding on your tongue. He handed you a small piece of soft candy, sweet enough to seal the taste buds. The dream will be smoother. When you eat it, the candy is not as sticky as usual , but melts in your mouth. It’s like a sentence that is understood before it is finished. He said that the ladies of the Victorian era had actually been here. He just wouldn’t admit it because in that era that emphasized control and rationality and etiquette, insomnia was a kind of emotional disorder, so the name of his shop was never written out, and it was only marked with a string of spice pendants. People who understand will come naturally, and those who don’t understand will pass by. It doesn’t matter. After you finish your tea, he Handed a small bottle of spice mix to take by your pillow Tonight you should dream of the sound of rain in the kitchen and a laughing cat You smiled and asked him if he would charge, he shook his head The slowness of your drinking is the best reward You stood up to say goodbye He didn’t see you off, he just gently closed the door, as if afraid to disturb the dream that just emerged in your mind You stood at the street corner with the warm aroma still in your nose The sun rose completely The whole city began to turn over, but you felt like you had just put down the weight of the day You silently recited the taste of the cup of tea in your heart Not for recollection but for remembrance Even if the reality is scorching, there are always people in the alley boiling a pot of warm night drink that can comfort the soul Quietly waiting for you to come When you leave the spice witch’s shop, the sun The light shines into the alley obliquely but it is not glaring. The air is still filled with the faint warmth of lavender. You take a deep breath and feel as if your whole body has been softened. You originally planned to go home, but just as you walked to the bridge, you suddenly heard a whistle rumbling in your ears , as if an iron beast had come through your dream. You looked in the direction of the sound and saw a steam train slowly pulling into Victoria Station. It did not belong to the early morning, but to the time that had not yet ended late last night. You walked over as if possessed by a ghost. There were still passengers in the station carrying boxes and yawning . You followed the flow of people into a train compartment. As soon as you stepped in , you were hit by a familiar aroma. It was the smell of beef stewed with onions mixed with red wine and A hint of black pepper. You look down and see the train’s exclusive midnight snack car. There are a few narrow tables, a row of small sofas, and landscape paintings on the wall. The light is dim . You find a seat and sit down. Just as you steady yourself, the conductor comes over and hands you a tin box, the last portion of beef stew. You open the lid before dawn and the hot steam hits you in the face. Inside is a piece of beef that has been slow-cooked all night, so soft and rotten that it almost falls apart at the touch. There is mashed potatoes underneath and a handful of red cabbage pickles next to it. It looks ordinary , but it instantly makes you quiet when you take a bite. You take a bite. The fragrance of the meat, the thickness of the wine, and the sourness of the vegetables meet on the tip of your tongue. A feeling that you can finally stop spreads along your throat into your body. This is not a meal to welcome the journey, but the taste of a night of farewell. Opposite you sat a middle-aged man in a military coat, his hat pulled down low. He stirred the hot tea while muttering, “I must eat this dish every time I take the night train. If I don’t eat it, I always feel like something is missing on the road.” He said he came to London for business, and it was always midnight when he came back after negotiating a deal. What he looked forward to most was not the contract, but the meal on the train. He took a sip of tea and said that the longer it was stewed, the deeper the flavor. Just like people , they know how to walk only when they are not in a hurry. As you listened, you wiped up the remaining soup in the West River with bread . Outside the window, the train began to slide slowly. You saw the street lights retreating, the roofs disappearing, and the whole of London turned into a flowing watercolor painting. The night was still light, but it had already come. You leaned against the window and swayed gently, feeling a little sleepy from the soles of your feet to your body. You suddenly realize that this midnight snack car is not for people in a hurry , but for those who don’t want to wake up too soon. You see the woman in the next seat eating a cream of mushroom soup with cheese crisps. She moves slowly , as if she is afraid of disturbing the taste of the soup. She leans her head against the window with an expression of having just eaten but not wanting to talk. The conductor picks up the empty plates lightly, his footsteps lighter than the music, afraid of disturbing this space that belongs to the afterglow of the late night. You close your eyes, and a picture emerges in your mind. A certain writer also sat in this car in the early morning of 1892, eating and writing, his pen scratching on the paper. A certain female student ran away from home and finally died after drinking a cup of thick soup. With determination to return to school, an old man sat in a corner, ate a piece of stewed meat, and slowly closed his eyes. He said in his heart, “I don’t regret it.” All this may have happened because this carriage is not an ordinary dining car , but a secret port at the junction of night and morning. It is the end of some stories and the beginning of other stories. You opened your eyes again. The conductor was gently covering your knees with a blanket. He didn’t say anything , but pointed out the window. You looked out. The fog had dissipated. The sunlight passed through the branches and fell into the carriage in patches . The stream in your hand was already empty, but it still carried the residual warmth. You know that the meal was not just about meat , but the fatigue of the whole night , the fragments of the city , and a reconciliation between you and yourself. The train continued to move downward As soon as you stand, you lean against the window, your heartbeat slows, your breathing becomes light . The night is almost over, but the taste of the late-night snack is still hanging on the corner of your mouth. You lick the corner of your lips , as if to confirm, yes, I’m still here, I’ve eaten , I’ve walked, I’m awake and about to fall asleep. You slowly step down from the train compartment, your feet landing on the stone floor. A slight sense of difference from dream to reality passes through your body. The sun is high, the streets are completely awake, the carriages, newsboys , and shoe shiners have all started a new round of noise. In your body, it seems that the warmth of the whole night is still lingering, wrapped layer by layer in your stomach , wrapped in your thoughts , wrapped in the emotion of just being filled but not wanting to fall asleep. You walk slowly with your hands in your pockets, not in a hurry to go home, but want to find a place to sit down and reminisce about something. You go into a There is an antique shop on the corner of the street. The air smells of dry paper, old wood, and tin toys. Behind the counter sits a thin old man with half a broken eyeglass , concentrating on wiping a glass sugar jar. He looks up at you and doesn’t ask any more questions , just points to the small drawer in the corner. When you come, the menus haven’t been returned yet. You are confused , but you walk over obediently and open the top drawer. Sure enough , you see a stack of yellowed pages with curled edges and blurred handwriting. They are Victorian supper menus. You carefully pull out one and see it. It says on it: April 12, 1878, Dr. Wang recommends a dinner of stewed pears, caramel pudding, baked oatmeal cookies, and a cup of black tea. In the lower right corner, it says in cursive: “Only for late night wine . ” You continue Turn over the next page and it says “Specially for reading in front of the Queen”, one is marked for gentlemen in the back hall of the theater, and there is another page that is circled in red and says “No wax allowed”. Below it is written “Once cured ear heat and irritability affecting dreams “. You look at these words as if you can hear the whispers of the night. You turn the paper over and over again. The owner comes over and sighs and says, “Do you know? These menus should have been thrown away after the banquet, but some people kept them. They think what they eat at night can better reflect a person’s true self than the daytime rituals. ” When he said this, it was as if he was talking to you and to the long-gone era outside the window. He took out the bottom page and handed it to you. The paper was thinner than the others, almost transparent , and there were only four small words on it: “Apple” A Piece of Pie You gently hold the paper, and your heart trembles. It is these four simple words that pull you back to the streets of London late at night , back to the small bakery with hot aroma floating in the mist, and back to the first scene when you stepped into this story. You suddenly understand that no matter whether they are nobles, servants, workers, women or newsboys , what they eat at night is not just food , but themselves beyond their identities. In those few bites of midnight snacks, they briefly have the choice , the right to fight against the rhythm of the day, and a little privacy of their own. At night, you sit in a soft chair in the corner of the antique shop, holding the old menu with A Piece of Apple Pie in your hand, as if holding a ticket to the past. The street sounds outside the window begin to become lively. But you seem to still hear the gurgling sound of the stove, see the steam coming out of the stewed beans , and bite into the mustard-flavored beef in the sandwich. You slowly close your eyes and slow your breathing. You no longer think about how the story will end, nor what to eat for breakfast. You only know that you will sleep deeply tonight and dream for a long time. Your stomach is warm, and your heart is also the night. The sky outside the window is completely bright, but you seem to still be sitting in the deep night of old Victorian London , slowly biting into a hot apple pie or sipping a cup of milk tea with cardamom. All the sounds slow down and the lights soften. Those who have walked all night, cooked all night, and talked all night have quietly dissipated, leaving only a little taste. Bits of memory, bits of warmth slowly flowing through your body. Now you can slowly lie down, cover yourself with the quilt, and don’t think about anything. The streets you walked on, the soup you drank, the snacks you smuggled in, the kitchen where you wiped the table, have all opened the door to your dreams. You’ve walked far enough to stop. Your stomach is resting, and your heart can too. Close your eyes and let the night colors and aromas take you into a dream where there’s a fire baking pies , a cat jumping onto the windowsill , and the soup is freshly cooked.

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今晚的你，準備好進入十九世紀的倫敦夜晚了嗎？
在這部1小時20分鐘的深度敘事中，我們將一同漫步維多利亞時代的深夜街頭。從皇宮內女王專屬的「夜后之蜜」、劇場馬車裡的三明治、到工人階層的黑麥豬油麵包與報童的炖豆，每一道宵夜不只是填飽肚子，更是那個時代人們對抗孤獨、寒冷與現實的微光。
這不只是助眠故事，更是一場味覺與歷史交織的沉浸式旅行。
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00:00 – 進入倫敦霧夜：濕冷小巷的熱派香氣
07:28 – 馬夫與劇場人最愛的午夜麵包鋪
15:16 – 維多利亞女王的夜宵：甜點、腳步聲與哀思
22:55 – 御廚與仆人的宵夜江湖：剩料的創作饗宴
30:49 – 工廠工人的豬油黑麵包與豆子攤車
38:21 – 雞湯流動攤與劇院後門的宵夜聚落
45:33 – 富人宅邸的續宴與偷偷吃的三明治
52:40 – 巧克力御廚：深夜製作的皇室睡眠處方
1:00:10 – 文人與書店老爺爺的夜讀餅乾與奶茶
1:08:05 – 最後一站：維多利亞夜宵的記憶總結

#睡前故事 #深夜宵夜 #助眠 #ASMR #冷門歷史 #奇聞軼事 #失眠治療 #不眠電視 #壁畫太多