For some travellers to Vietnam, it’s all about the pho. I, however, am not one of them. Though this justifiably famous rice noodle dish is of course perfectly nice on occasion, especially for breakfast, I often find it bland and mushy, and, consequently, am not its greatest fan.

Not so it’s less famous, but for me far more delicious rice noodle sister, bun. Round, rather than flat, and of a texture with a little more bite than pho, bun is used in all manner of noodle soup dishes and a whole bunch of dry ones too; and, unlike its firmly Northern relative, is eaten up and down the length of Vietnam, with infinite varieties along the way. I ate bun countless times in Vietnam; here are a few of the most memorable.

I guess you could say the love affair began in Hanoi, where I fell head over heels for the city’s famous bun cha: patties and slices of barbequed, marinated pork, served in a light broth (sometimes with vegetable slices), accompanied by fresh herbs and of course, bun.

But it was the dish in the opening photo which really opened my eyes to the possibilities of bun. This is bun oc, snail and rice noodle soup. I’d been eyeing this dish up for a while before I had the opportunity to try it, which turned out to be on the afternoon of my 25th birthday, as I was wandering around the Old Quarter. On a bustling shopping street full of people making purchases for Tet, I saw this rather taciturn lady

ladling out a soup whose aroma made me instantly ravenous. I settled down on a teeny stool and waited with happy expectation – but, quell horreur! It turned out she’s just run out of snails!

Though disappointed, I decided that the broth smelled good enough to eat just on its own, and my goodness was I right: richly savoury, with a salty seafood-essence nicely balanced by tomato and the fresh herbs, it was probably the most flavoursome broth I ate in the whole of my stay in Vietnam – and seeing that I was enjoying it so much, the lady sweetly fished out a few stray snails from the bottom of the broth pot for me. They were, needless to say, amazing, but alas, far too few.

My next favourite on the bun trail was in the lovely, modest town of Quy Nhon, which, when I was there, was in full Tet swing, meaning that many eating establishments were closed. This one though,

a little streetside stall near the beachfront, wasn’t, and very lucky for me too, because the bun here (dish name unknown) was fantastic. Packed full of goodies – I wrote down ‘two kinds of sausage, barbequed meat, cucumber, shredded carrot and daikon, herbs, crispy things, peanuts, hard-boiled egg, various sauces’, but I’m pretty sure there was more – this was a bun that punched above its weight, and kept me coming back time and time again.

Finally, we come to the last, and best, stop on the bun tour – Hoi An in central Vietnam, where I ate extraordinarily well. This bun was at a stall just 5 minutes away from my hotel, which again, was so good that I had to keep on going back. The dish was bun thi nuong (grilled pork with cold rice noodles), and though I didn’t get to eat many other versions, I’d confidently say this would beat any competition hands down.

Isn’t that a mouth-watering sight? On top are deep-fried shallots and crushed peanuts; then a luscious mix of various sauces; then the meat (in this case pork); then the noodles and finally hidden away out of sight, fresh herbs and beansprouts. I’m still fantasizing about this one.

Greetings from Vietnam! Yep, here I am in another People's Republic, soaking up the differences in Sapa. Though I've only been in the country less than 24 hours I've already eaten a fantasic snack, which I will write about soon no doubt. But before I do, I want to talk about the noodle dish you see above, which I ate in Kunming the other day.

As I was preparing to cross one border, this dish was crossing another. Served at a restaurant specialising in Tengchong cuisine, I could taste the the proximity of Burma's very different food in every mouthful - and, since I have almost no familiarity with that country's food, I am hard pressed to know how to describe this dish. The noodles were different to any I've had before, and it was served with all manner of mysterious sauces. I have no idea what was in it, but boy it was yummy.

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.

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...

In a small and spotless noodle joint in tiny Qingxi village, two giggly young women make us qiaomian, the buckwheat (aka soba) noodles that are a specialty of this region, about 200km southwest of Chengdu.

First, a chunk of thick, yellowy-brown buckwheat dough is pushed through a press into a pot of boiling water.

Once cooked till al dente, the noodles are drained and added to a bowl already containing some boiled cabbage, broth and other flavourings (such as chilli oil and vinegar), and is topped with some squishy wan dou, a bean product sold alongside the tofu in markets, that is a little like well-cooked chickpeas.

The resulting dish was fantastic – simple, hearty flavours, the noodles just the right side of stodgy but also surprisingly light. A perfect start to our Sichuan Pepper Day (move of still to come…)

PS. The girls who made the noodles also called them ‘Zaza’ noodles, which I haven’t been able to find a translation for, but I think refers to the method of pushing dough through a press. Can anyone out there verify my guess?