Shanghai Yangchun Noodles

Shanghai Yangchun Noodles

　　Shanghai Yangchun Noodles

　　Yangchun Noodles, also known as "clear soup plain noodles," are a distinctive specialty of Shanghai with a long story behind them. This “long” story goes all the way back to the time of Emperor Qin Shi Huang. While we know he standardized weights and measures, few realize he also unified the calendar, designating the tenth month of the lunar calendar as the first month of the year — a month also referred to as "Spring." The relationship between this October and the term "Yangchun" was later adopted in Shanghai slang, where "Yangchun" came to mean "ten." In the past, these noodles were sold for ten wen per bowl, making them food for the common folk. Because "plain noodles" sounded unappealing, the price was used to name the dish, thus becoming "Yangchun Noodles." Another theory suggests the name comes from "Yangchun Baixue" (literally "Spring Snow"), as both the noodles and snow are pure and seemingly devoid of anything — hence the name.

　　Being a specialty of Shanghai, Yangchun Noodles are as deeply intertwined with the lives of Shanghainese as the “Four Great Staples” — mantou (steamed buns), youtiao (fried dough sticks), soy milk, and cifan (glutinous rice). Though Yangchun Noodles are the cheapest type of noodle dish, they still retain the style of Jiangsu and Shanghai cuisine, embodying the principle of moderation — neither too close nor too distant, neither biased nor extreme. This is so well exemplified that a friend who had lived in the United States for eleven years said he didn’t feel truly back home in Shanghai until he found Yangchun Noodles at a roadside eatery.

　　So, is Yangchun Noodles really “nothing”? It’s both yes and no. To say it’s nothing is not entirely wrong — it’s just a bowl of plain noodles with a few scallion sprinkles. The white noodles and green scallions look strikingly fresh, which is why some poetically call it "Green Dragon and White Tiger Noodles." But to say it has something would also be right — it uses premium broth, infused with the essence of various ingredients, exuding a delicate fragrance and rich umami. It also carries the essence of Shanghai, a unique open port with over a century of history, reflecting a touch of reserved nostalgia and self-appreciated elegance.

　　These Yangchun Noodles are "clear soup plain noodles," but they are absolutely not "plain water noodles." Originally, they were indeed served in plain water, but after improvements made by renowned establishments like Laobanzhai, chicken and fish broth were used, giving Yangchun Noodles a whole new meaning.

　　Speaking of broth, there’s quite a bit of finesse involved. I often receive messages from readers asking me what exactly broth is. I tell them, "Broth is the kind of soup that turns into a gel when frozen." Broth is an essential element in cooking. Generally speaking, wherever water can be used, replacing it with broth will make the dish much more flavorful. For example, when cooking gluten, using water will do, but using broth infuses the gluten with a richer taste. As for shark fin, abalone, and similar ingredients that aren’t particularly flavorful on their own, broth is essential to bring out their taste — a process called "lifting the flavor." Methods for making broth vary among households, but the best might be a mix of old hen and soft-shell turtle. A slightly inferior version uses chicken carcasses and meat bones. The most basic, and also the most commonly used in local restaurants, is made from pork offal and pig blood. It’s said to be quite tasty, but I always feel that kind of flavor is rather "ferocious" — like giving extremely weak patients overly potent medicine — and thus not recommended.

　　When simmering broth, use cold water to cover the ingredients, add wine to eliminate the gaminess of meats, but avoid adding scallions or ginger, which can overpower the dish’s natural flavor. Once the water boils, skim off the foam, then reduce the heat to low and let it simmer until the bones are soft and the meat falls apart. Simmering broth must be done with gentle heat; too high a flame will make the broth cloudy. Even that’s not enough — once done, the liquid must be strained to remove impurities, then cooled and the layer of solidified fat skimmed off the top. The broth is then brought to a boil again, and beaten egg whites are added. When pouring in the egg whites, stir continuously so they trap any remaining impurities. Once the egg whites coagulate, remove and discard them. What remains is a clear, clean broth that can be used like water. The art of achieving such clarity is something most people don’t know — they simply boil a chicken, then scoop out a ladleful to add to dishes. That kind of broth is neither clear nor free of grease, and it’s better not to use it. Moreover, not all dishes suit the use of broth. For instance, tofu skin shouldn’t be cooked with broth to preserve its pure taste. Likewise, seafood is better paired with chicken broth than meat broth. There are many nuances. Cooked broth can be stored in plastic bags and frozen for later use. If you’re too busy to make soup after work, just take out a pack, heat it, add some vegetables, and you’ve got a delicious soup. Broth is fundamental in cooking, so even vegetarian dishes have their version — vegetarian broth, usually made from carrots, soybean sprouts, celery, and mushroom stems. I once made vegetarian broth using only mushrooms and fungus, and it turned out incredibly delicious, with an aroma that had a refined elegance beyond that of meat-based broths.

　　Yangchun Noodles also require one more key ingredient: lard. What? Lard?! Yes, indeed — lard. Shanghai-style Yangchun Noodles must be “touched” with lard to achieve a smoother, more luxurious mouthfeel. The word “smooth” perfectly captures the essence of Yangchun Noodles — that subtle presence of something, yet nothing; nothing, yet something. And it’s all thanks to that spoonful of pork fat. I remember ten years ago, when Shanghai’s reform and opening-up had already achieved notable success, even lard was becoming less common. Back then, a group of us went to Yangzhou for fun. At a noodle stall in front of Taiping Hall, we ordered several bowls of noodles. One girl noticed a white lump in her empty bowl and asked what it was. We were told it was “lard.” Our female classmates specifically instructed the old lady not to add lard. The old lady looked up at them, eyes wide with disbelief, and asked, “Not even the meat fat?!” Her expression spoke volumes of resignation and lament. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. Lard is rendered from pork fatback or pork belly — the former yields less oil and more residue, while the latter gives more oil and less residue. When rendering lard, add a bit of water to prevent the oil from overheating, turning yellow or breaking down — which would not only affect the aroma and color but could also produce toxins. Water helps maintain the temperature at around 100°C, ensuring the rendered oil is fragrant and white. When the lard is nearly done, a layer of cracklings will float to the surface — a delightful treat. As a child, I loved watching my grandmother render lard, mainly for those little cracklings. They’re best eaten hot, and back then, without powdered sugar, we’d just sprinkle some white sugar on them. They were crispy and fluffy, with a comforting warmth — a sweetness and aroma I haven’t tasted since indulging in too much fish and meat.

　　Now, with the broth and lard ready, the scallions also matter. You must use Shanghai’s small, fine scallions — the very thin ones. These delicate scallions aren’t picked from a bunch of thicker ones — those would be imposters. These small scallions are naturally slim yet sturdy, and especially green — a refreshing shade of green that’s truly pleasing to the eye. When chopping scallions, remove the roots and use only the all-green stalks, slicing them into two- or three-millimeter pieces, also called scallion greens or scallion flowers.

　　Then, take a bowl, scoop in a spoonful of lard, and add a bit of salt. On one burner, boil water; on another, heat the broth — and you’re ready to cook the noodles. The noodles should be fine, silky threads, kneaded and stretched to perfection. Only such noodles can achieve the ideal texture: soft but not mushy, firm but not tough. Cooking the noodles may seem simple but is actually quite tricky. Use plenty of water and high heat. Once the water boils, add the noodles. When they float to the surface, scoop them out and place them in a bamboo colander, rinse them under cold water until fully cooled, then transfer them to the boiling broth. Add the pre-cooked, cooled noodles to the hot broth. When the noodles rise again, use long chopsticks to lift them high, placing the bottom ends into the bowl first, then neatly folding them — the result is beautifully arranged and very pleasing to the eye. Then pour in the broth. Don’t overdo it — just enough to slightly submerge the noodles. Sprinkle on the scallion greens, and you’re done.

　　This is what is meant by refinement. Eating refined isn’t being pretentious (pronounced “jiao qing” in northern slang). Sometimes, refined eating is about taste, other times it’s just habit.