While in the first installment in the Beyond Sichuan series I went south, this time I’m going north – to Lanzhou, capital of Gansu Province. This city, a large proportion of whose population are of the Hui Muslim minority, is home to the famous Lanzhou Lamian, a.k.a Lanzhou ‘Pulled Noodles’: fresh wheat dough pulled by hand into long, even strands, and served in a plain meat broth. It is a cheap, filling and delicious meal.

Luckily, I don’t have to go all the way to Lanzhou to eat Lamian, as they are found in cities across China and Chengdu is no exception. My local Lamian joint is run by a friendly family, whose littlest member is particularly cute.

Like most Lamian restaurants, my local is open much later than many other eating establishments, so is particularly convenient for a midnight snack. But the absolute best thing about Lamian is its preparation, which is visually wonderful and usually done within eyesight of the diners. Through a magical and mind-boggling process of twisting, folding, pulling and loud slapping of the dough onto the work-board, the chef creates perfect noodles from raw dough in mere seconds. He also makes it all seem ridiculously easy, which, I am quite sure, it’s not.

Here are some photos of the making of Lamian at my local restaurant. The finished dish itself isn’t that much of a looker – just noodle soup with some sliced beef and fresh coriander; it’s the making of the noodles, right in front of you, and the visual spectacle it involves, that makes Lamian so special.

This is Jiang Zhengyi, a gan za (dry-goods) vendor in my local market, and one of the most charismatic men I have met in China. It is thanks to him that I recently had the opportunity of visiting a local foodstuffs factory to research the making of dou chi (fermented black beans) for my magazine column. To show my appreciation of his help with this, I promised Mr Jiang that I would write a profile of him and his shop, and so here it is.

The first time Cam and I met Mr Jiang, a simple question about soy sauce turned into a lengthy discussion of the many different types and flavors available. So when, last month, I needed to find a dou chi producer near Chengdu, I went to straight to him.

But when I first asked Mr Jiang if he could introduce me to a local maker of dou chi, he flat-out refused. ‘They’re traditional, and their recipes are secrets’, he said. ‘Would you expect a cheese maker in your country to tell you how he makes his cheese?’

‘I don’t want to go into the dou chi business!’ I replied in surprise, ‘I’m just interested in Chinese food.’ I mentioned my trips to Pixian (to see the doubanjiang), and to Qingxi (to see the huajiao), and slowly, Mr Jiang relented. ‘Let me make some phone calls’, he said evasively, ‘then we’ll see.’

A few days passed, I didn’t hear from Mr Jiang, and I began to lose hope. Buying vegetables one morning however, I bumped into him by chance. ‘Come down to my shop’, he said gruffly, ‘and I’ll speak to my contact about arranging a visit to his factory.’ Overjoyed, I did as he said, and less than 24 hours later I was being shown how dou chi, doufu ru (fermented tofu) and many other traditional products are made.

I’ve met many people who work with food in China, but none have been as genuinely passionate about their work as Mr Jiang. He is hugely knowledgeable about food, and says he only sells the very best products. Mr Jiang’s is, in fact, the best dry-goods store I have encountered in China – because in addition to his myriad domestic products, Mr Jiang also stocks many foreign items, including Lea and Perrins, canned coconut milk and olive oil. When I asked him about this, which is, in my experience, highly unusual in China, he said that nowadays many people are experimenting with combining Chinese and foreign ingredients – as he does himself.

Lastly, though it has nothing to do with food, I’ve also got to include something about Mr Jiang’s birthday: the 8th of August, 1958, ie. 08/08/58. Because in Chinese the word for 8, ‘ba’, rhymes with the ‘fa’ of ‘fa cai’ (meaning ‘to get rich’), 8 is traditionally the luckiest number. This makes Mr Jiang’s birthday perhaps the luckiest date in China – which is why, incidentally, it was also the date of the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics.

Cam’s friend Mike is in town at the moment, and comes bearing mouth-watering tales from his current home New York. In addition to veg boxes, the Park Slope Food Coop, and Mexican food, he also showed us this photo of a recent dumpster diving haul. Apparently they got about three times as much as what’s shown in this picture.

When I was a student I also used to dumpster dive with my housemates, and it was amazing some of the goodies you could get – I remember we once got several huge fruit pies (which would probably sell for at least 10 pounds a piece) from a Kosher bakery in North London. Here in China too, where just a few decades ago people were starving, I am often amazed at how much food is wasted. With this recent report revealing the disgusting quantities of food wasted in the UK, and the grim outlook for our planet generally, it makes me mad that so-called 'developed' countries like America and Britain are setting such a bad example to poorer countries like China. I guess I just have to keep my fingers crossed for a more environmentally-aware attitude to food in the future.

Sichuan people like their Sichuan food. On Chengdu’s mean streets, Chuancai dominates, and it’s sometimes difficult to find any other Chinese cuisine. A few, though, are readily available, and so over the next few weeks I’ll be introducing you to some of my favourites in my neighborhood. First stop: Yunnan, and the famous ‘Crossing the Bridge Noodles’.

Legend has it that this dish was created during the Qing dynasty, by the wife of a hard-working scholar. The scholar liked to work on an island on a lake, and everyday his wife would bring him a bowl of rice noodles for lunch; but by the time she had walked from their home and crossed the bridge to the island, the noodles would be cold.

Eventually, however, the scholar’s wife hit upon a clever idea: a layer of oil on top of the broth. This little trick kept the heat from escaping, and ensured that the noodles arrived at her husband’s table still hot and delicious. Thus, the dish was named 过桥米线 (guo qiao mixian) – ‘Crossing the Bridge Noodles’.

Today, Crossing the Bridge Noodles are perhaps Yunnan’s most famous dish, and specialist restaurants can be found on almost every street in the capital, Kunming. They’re are also quite popular in Chengdu, and accordingly, my local Crossing the Bridge Noodles restaurant is run by a family who used to live in Yunnan. Here, the layer of oil isn’t very thick, but I don’t really care about that anyway, because what really make Crossing the Bridge Noodles fun are all the things you add to the broth: quail’s eggs, tofu skin, bean sprouts, spring onions, tomato, lettuce, a couple of different meats, and of course, the rice noodles.

First, a plate laid out with all these goodies arrives at your table, along with a generous bowl of rice noodles.

Next comes a huge claypot-ful of broth, to which the waitress adds all the other ingredients.

Finally, you mix it all together with your chopsticks, add any extra flavourings you may desire (such as vinegar or chili oil), and it’s ready – as seen, in all its glory, in the photo at the top of this post. Crossing the Bridge Noodles are perfect in cold weather, when the hot broth is wonderfully warming. It’s also particularly good when you’re feeling a bit unwell, for not only is it full of fresh, lightly cooked vegetables, but it also has many of the qualities of that universal cure-all, chicken soup.

Keep your eyes peeled for more in the Beyond Sichuan series, coming soon…

ps. I recently learnt that, according to Traditional Chinese Medicine, you shouldn't eat chicken when you've got a cold - the complete opposite to Western medical wisdom! I wonder which one is right...

While I was in France this summer, helping out on the singing course that my mum organises, I was entreated many times to cook a Chinese dish. Though at first I was enthusiastic about this idea, I began to get cold feet when I realized that, being in deepest rural France, I could get very few of the necessary ingredients. I worried that anything I produced would be inauthentic, and thus no good.

After much cajoling, however, I gave in, and decided to cook a cold aubergine dish. This was a dish I’d made many times in China, but it needed some serious adaptation for cooking in France. I did have with me some of the authentic Chinese ingredients, such as ground chilies and fermented black beans, but everything else was just whatever I had to hand.

The result was a somewhat odd, Asian-European fusion dish, which surprisingly, actually ended up being quite good. Given the improvisational nature of its creation, writing a recipe for this dish is, I know, a bit contradictory in spirit. Nonetheless, I thought I’d write it up for those occasions when one wants Asian flavour, but may lack a few of the ingredients.

Sichuan-en-France Cold Aubergine

1 aubergine
Cooking oil
1 tablespoon of any Asian soy sauce (Tamari and Shoyu are both fine)
1 tablespoon cider, wine or fruit vinegar
1 tablespoon chili oil (see below)
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon fermented black beans (dou chi), rinsed and drained
Salt to taste
Fresh mint leaves, roughly chopped

1. First, make the chili oil by heating a jarful of cooking oil in a frying pan or wok, and once smoking hot, adding it to a bowl containing 2-3 tablespoons of ground chilies. Mix well, and allow to cool before using.
2. Chop the aubergine into finger-length chunks, toss in some cooking oil, and then roast in a hot oven until thoroughly cooked.
3. Make the sauce by combining the soy sauce and vinegar with the sugar in a small bowl. Mix well so as to dissolve the sugar in the liquid, and then add the chili oil, fermented black beans and salt.
4. Once the cooked aubergines have cooled to room temperature, place on a serving plate. Drizzle with the sauce, garnish with the mint leaves, and serve.