Plain Rice Noodles

Plain Rice Noodles

　　In the rice-abundant south of China, almost every city has an iconic dish that pays homage to this humble grain. Take Guilin, famed as the finest under heaven—its rice noodles are just as renowned as its scenery. Guangzhou’s dry-fried beef chow fun has long been the benchmark for judging whether a Cantonese chef is up to scratch. And in Yunnan, a steaming bowl of Crossing-the-Bridge Rice Noodles even carries a beautiful love story. But these rice-based delicacies all shine with meat. Unlike us in Guiyang, where we celebrate the purity of rice noodles in their simplest, most unadorned form—with nothing but a spoonful of fiery red oil chili sauce.

　　 Jokes about scrambled eggs without eggs or scallion oil rice without scallions are heard almost daily. But even the boldest, most prank-loving foodie wouldn’t dare barge into a noodle stall and shout for a bowl of plain rice noodles—without chili. The importance of chili in Guizhou cuisine goes without saying; many even use one’s dependency on chili as a litmus test for being a “true Guiyang local.” Personally, I think the true measure should be one’s devotion to plain rice noodles.

　　 It’s easy to spot a visitor on a train or plane bound for Guiyang—just see if they don’t yell, the moment the doors open, that they’re off to eat a bowl of plain rice noodles. For a Guiyang native, not having a bowl of plain rice noodles is like not having truly come home. Plain rice noodles encapsulate the deepest homesickness of every person from Guiyang.

　　 And the love for spicy, pungent foods is by no means limited to Guizhou, let alone just Guiyang. For a traditional Guiyang local, having grown up surrounded by the unique fermented aroma of rice slurry, the emotional attachment to this slightly stinky, slightly sour, yet incredibly soft and fragrant rice product runs deep—something even nearby Anshun and Kaili folks can hardly understand.

　　 In the early days, traditional beef rice noodles in Guiyang always used sour rice noodles as the base. That was until the sudden rise of Huaxi Beef Rice Noodles, which finally gave steamed rice noodles—long relegated to the city’s outskirts—a chance to shine. Due to the complex production process of sour rice noodles, which led to low supply and high prices, they were almost nowhere to be found outside the city center in those pre-logistics-boom years. Clearly, the more common steamed rice noodles better suited the palates of out-of-towners, dealing a heavy blow to the dominance of sour rice noodles in the beef noodle market.

　　 But when it comes to plain rice noodles, flavored only with chili, the throne still belongs to sour rice noodles.

　　 Every Guiyang local has a mental map of plain rice noodle spots. From north to south of the city, from the suburbs to downtown, from main streets to alleys, from luxury flagship shops to roadside hole-in-the-walls—everyone has their favorite spot, everyone has their own ranking. As for the top pick, I believe every local would start with their own family kitchen. No old-brand shop can surpass Mom’s cooking, no chef can beat the woman at home.

　　 As for the red oil chili sauce, every housewife has her own secret recipe. Take my great mother, for example—she typically mixes Huaxi chili peppers with Zunyi chili peppers in equal 50/50 proportions. She highlights the fragrance of Huaxi chilies while emphasizing the intense spiciness of Zunyi ones, adding a proper amount of ginger, garlic, and salt, then grinding them all up in a stone mortar. The cooking oil used is traditionally pressed, and the moment you open the oil jar, the rich scent of oil fills the entire kitchen. Once the oil hits the wok, red-skinned peanuts go in. One reason is that fried peanuts are an essential side to any bowl of plain rice noodles; the other is that frying the peanuts infuses the oil with their aroma. With this oil, slow-cooked over a low flame, seasoned at the end with salt, Sichuan peppercorns, and—if the mood strikes—a sprinkle of sesame seeds, the resulting red oil chili sauce boasts a crystal-clear, glossy red hue and an intoxicating aroma. For such an enchanting chili sauce, out-of-town foodies who’ve only ever known Lao Gan Ma simply can’t imagine.

　　 And every morning or late night, in pots of steaming, rolling water, rough, calloused hands toss in bundles of sour rice noodles. Just as they begin to float, a handful of mung bean sprouts is added, then quickly scooped out and placed in a bowl with the right amount of MSG, soy sauce, along with pre-prepared scallions, pickled vegetables, and peanuts. Finally, a ladle of exquisitely prepared red oil chili sauce is poured over the top. This scene plays out daily at old shops, mobile street stalls, and home kitchens alike.

　　 A bowl of plain rice noodles marks the start of a Guiyang local’s day—or perhaps its end. To borrow a cliché: if you haven’t eaten plain rice noodles, you can’t really say you’ve been to Guiyang. So, I must offer my humble praise to plain rice noodles—this animal-fiber-free delight is my most inseparable bond with this city, bar none. (By Lou Xin)