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.