Zhang Ye can't write Love Poems?

Evening.

His relatives had left.

Only Zhang Ye's family of three was left having dinner together. They ate simply with noodles in soybean paste, Zhajiangmian. This was also specially requested by Zhang Ye. In the South, he could not find anywhere to eat authentic Beijing Zhajiangmian. Especially the brine made by his mother was excellent. Zhang Ye never got sick of eating it when growing up.

"How is it?" Mom asked with a smile.

Zhang Ye sucked the noodles, "It still has the same taste. Delicious."

Mom happily said, "That's it. My cooking can't go wrong. In the future, when you go back to Shanghai, I'll prepare more Zhajiangmian for you, so that you can bring it there."

As Zhang Ye ate, he asked, "What time is it?"

"It's 6:40. Why?" Dad looked at his watch.

Zhang Ye quickly slurped the last two mouthfuls, "I need to head out. I have something to."