A Nation of Noodle Addicts

Superior Zha Jiang Mian, inferior bowl

by Ernie Diaz

It’s a question that has defied scientists and philosophers alike. Why must the rice always come last in Chinese restaurants, long after the dishes they were meant to complement have been devoured? Mi fan, orders the hapless foreigner, again and again, first to the waitresses (Ey! Xiao deng yi xia they lie), then to errant busboys, beer girls, anyone who might know the secret location of the rice pot.

A popular explanation holds that in China’s past, when all food besides rice was dear, a host would trot out the good dishes first, only serving the humdrum filler after the meat and vegetables were being digested. Like most Chinese custom-lore (“Chinese people never swear; it’s considered very impolite,”) the story is a fabrication. The truth is that you’re supposed to order noodles. Who in their right mind eats rice when noodles are an option? Try ordering a burger with carrot sticks instead of fries at Fuddrucker’s and see how long they take to arrive.

You’ll never see Chinese eyes sparkling brighter than when they’re two inches from the edge of a brimming bowl of noodles, watching them disappear with the style and noise of a python being flushed down an airplane commode. It’s a simple pleasure, rivaled only by watching foreigners sing Mando-pop, or perhaps your feeble attempts at eating noodles sitting upright, twirling them awkwardly around your chopsticks, only to fumble millimeters from first down.

You may brag about dining on abalone and shark fin, silkworms on a stick, sea cucumber salad, and the like. But until you’re on a slurping acquaintance with China’s many noodle varieties, the multi-cultural gourmand act rings hollow.

Start with zha jiang mian, family sauce noodles, the favorite dish of any real Beijinger. Traditionally, family sauce coalesced from anything lying around the larder, tossed in the wok with ginger, scallions, and plenty of soy sauce. Ordered today, your family sauce will arrive a rich blend of minced pork, seasonal vegetables such as bean sprouts in spring or hyacinth beans in summer, as well as the aforementioned ginger, scallions, and all important soy sauce.

Thicker than an out- of -town cabbie, more fortifying than the Great Wall, zha jiang mian is at least half the reason behind the Beijinger’s trademark optimism and courage. Naturally, you’ll find the best zha jiang mian in authentic Beijing-style restaurants. You’ll know you’re in one when the door staff announce you at a volume usually reserved for directing cannon fire.

Northerners dismiss Sichuan noodles as weak and ineffectual fare, unfit for a truly hungry belly. As if you could tell. Like everything in Sichuan from breakfast to baby pacifiers, the noodles are soaked in an emulsion of peppers calculated to leave you too tongue-scorched to argue over the bill. There should be a dusting of minced meat swimming around with your Sichuan noodles, some diced green onion, pea sprouts, minced garlic, odd pickled veggie bits. To no avail. As with all genuine Sichuan cuisine, your first and last impression will be of pain thinly masquerading as eating pleasure. One wonders why Sichuan folk don’t just dispense with the formalities and eat with a jalapeno in hand, like the pragmatic Mexicans.

The people of Hubei enjoy a fair bit of spice in their cooking, yet have the sense to keep it out of their noodles, and the innovation to add a local touch. Their noodles are made of soda flour, boiled, mixed with oil, then allowed to sit and cool. Boiled again, they are garnished with dried radish, sesame paste and other earthy flavors. The slick, chewy texture of twice-boiled noodles banishes dismal memories of mushy, overcooked instant noodles.

Xi’an noodles do much to assuage the let down of having traveled two days for a gander at a giant pit full of terra cotta. These broad, hearty noodles get mixed with scallion and meat, then covered with a thin dusting of pepper powder (Hear that, Sichuan? Thin.) before getting drizzled with boiling peanut oil. The chemical reaction fills the air with earthy savor, giving heart to tourists facing a night without cable television.

While in Shaanxi, a noodle-lover shouldn’t miss the offerings of Qishan. Thin as cicada wings, Qishan noodles are served in a vinegar-based broth, with tofu, dried lily, and black fungus mixed in. Their delicacy guarantees that Qishan noodles absorb the flavor of their environs, a concept the rest of China has yet to pick up on.

Next door, overlooked Shanxi compensates for its lack of warriors by making a spectacle of noodle preparation. Holding a chunk of dough in one hand and a knife in the other, a Shanxi chef will whittle chips into vats of boiling water from distances of up to five meters. Local legend has it that super chef Wang Wei could chip dough accurately from twenty paces, but he had lost both thumbs by the time Guinness Book arrived to confirm.

Yet if it’s noodle theater you want, hie on over to dusty Lanzhou. There the noodle maestros broaden the concept of hand-pulled to culinary ballet. Stretching a length of dough to arm-span length, the Lanzhou noodle chef commences a noodle dance as macho as Roy Rogers spinning his lariat, yet as graceful as an Olympic synchronized ribbon twirler. Passive-aggressive fun ensues when the chef inevitably snaps his dough lasso a hair’s breadth before a customer’s nose. The process of making the noodle broth in Lanzhou is all business, however. Beef, bones, liver and marrow simmer for at least a full day before being considered worthy of the chef-dancer’s prop, making Lanzhou noodles the only serious contender for the true king of all noodle dishes – sorry, China – Vietnamese Pho.

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