Xiangru Ancient Town Twist

Xiangru Ancient Town Twist

　　Golden, crispy, fluffy, and fragrant, the freshly fried Xiangru Ancient Town Twist on Xihe Street in Peng’an is an absolute delight.

　On Xihe Street in Xiangru Ancient Town, there is a family surnamed Yao who have been making twists for generations. In front of their storefront, two benches are placed along the street edge, with a wide, long cutting board set up. Next to the board is a half-person-high bamboo and mud stove, on which sits an iron wok with two handles. Beneath the stove, thin firewood is stacked in piles. Once the fire is lit, the wok is cleaned and heated, then filled with a large pot of cooking oil, which is left to simmer as the flames lick the bottom greedily.

　Master Yao sits at the cutting board, hunched over as he slowly and methodically kneads the dough. The dough was actually prepared the night before—golden, shiny, fluffy, and soft, smooth as egg whites. In fact, Master Yao often mentions in idle chats that the dough must be kneaded the night before, with the addition of "baking soda" and old dough. The baking soda helps with fermentation, while the old dough gives the twist its chewiness. This way, the finished twists are both fluffy and crispy, yet hold together well, making them easy to store and sell for a long time without going stale.

　Next, Master Yao takes the large dough and rolls it into a long, wrist-thick strand, laying it flat on the board like a long snake. He then uses a kitchen knife to cut the strand into evenly sized, two-finger-wide pieces. One by one, he picks up these small pieces, gently stretches them, and in an instant, each turns into a slender rope about a foot long. He then twirls his wrist, swiftly folding the rope in half with his right hand above and left below, rolls it on the board, lifts it again, folds it once more, and twists it into a figure-eight shape. Finally, he threads the end of the rope through the looped gap like threading a needle. And just like that, a twist is formed.

　Meanwhile, the oil in the wood-fired stove has come to a rolling boil, filling the air with an irresistible aroma. Master Yao stands up and begins dropping the twists into the hot oil, one handful at a time. The twists tumble and bob in the oil, sizzling and bubbling, until after several rises and falls, they float to the surface. He then deftly scoops them out with a pair of long bamboo chopsticks and drops them into a large bamboo colander on the cutting board. Compared to the uncooked twists, the fried ones have doubled in size, turned golden in color, and resemble a chrysanthemum in full bloom in autumn—or a giant figure eight—both captivating and magical. Onlookers can’t help but click their tongues in admiration, unable to wait any longer, and rush to buy. Often, the twists are sold as soon as they’re fried. By mid-morning, the colander is emptied by the long queue of eager customers.