Regular readers of this blog will note that "the sociology of food and culture" is one of my favorite, and most repeatedly discussed themes. Today, I'm going back to that well to talk about yet another staple of Chinese Islamic cuisine: 拉面 (la mian, or hand-stretched noodles). Though noodles like these have origins in the Northwest region of the country, which includes my current location of Yinchuan (I'll note that living in Yinchuan means that I'm basically on a noodle and mutton based diet these days... not that I'm complaining, mind you), the dish is practically ubiquitous. Go to any Chinese city, in any province, regardless of population, and you're likely to find at least one place that serves up a bowl of La Mian. They're also probably the single most emblematic aspect of Hui culture nationwide, but we'll talk more about that later. First, indulge me, if you will, in a bit of praise for the noodles, themselves.
Ok so here's what is important to note about la mian. While we in western countries think of China as having a rice-based cuisine, the reality is that Northern China eats far less rice than you might imagine. Rather, wheat is the staple grain in areas of the country above the Yangzi River, and it gets eaten in many different forms: as buns, steamed breads, and most importantly, as noodles. There are a wide variety of noodle dishes in northern China, and each province can lay claim to its own specialty, but la mian are arguably the most widely renowned noodle in the country.
So what's so great about them? Well, for one thing, the way they're made. La mian is prepared made-to-order from the dough. They're also made by hand. Unlike Italian pasta which is usually made with egg yolk and cut with a machine crank into uniformly shaped and sized strands, la mian is made solely of wheat, water, oil and salt, and is pulled out by hand. It's a fairly intense process that involves a lot of kneading of the dough, and then pulling strands of it apart into separate noodles by stretching out your arms. Depending on how many times you stretch them noodles can be made to varying thicknesses, from ultra-thin noodles to wide, thick, substantial ones. The process of making the noodles is usually done out in front of the restaurant where you can watch. It looks something like this:
Frankly, it's just fun to watch. In some of my interviews in Jinan, I asked guys who worked in la mian restaurants how long it took them to learn how to pull the noodles well enough to make them in a restaurant. One of the guys I met told me that it took him about a month's worth of practice and working at it every day. It wasn't that hard, he assured me. I politely disagree. As does world-renowned celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay, who failed miserably in his own attempt to make some la mian:
Most importantly than how they are made, however, is how they taste. First, La mian are fresh, and they taste like it. There's not the kind of brittle or stale taste that you can get from dried or boxed pasta. Also, la mian have a pretty wonderful quality to them that you don't get in other kinds of noodles: they're more substantial. They're denser and firmer, and thus slightly chewy, and have a little bit more bite than, say, spaghetti or linguine or any other of their Italian cousins.
The classic verison, shown above, is a bowl of noodles served in a broth made from simmered beef shanks, seasoned with salt, cumin, coriander, and garnished with slices of shaved beef and sliced spring onion and cilantro. If you're going to go for an especially traditional bowl, like the kind you'd get in the northwest, add in ground chili and black vinegar (my own taste is to add these quite liberally... One can never, after all, have too much chili). There are few things that are better suited to taking a bit of the edge off a chilly day like a piping hot bowl of noodles. If the weather is awful outside (and Yinchuan is currently experiencing daily low temperatures in the single digits Fahrenheit), la mian are an absolute go to. But this is by no means the only application for these noodles. Often, on the same menu as the beef soup noodles (牛肉拉面, niu rou la mian) you also find stir-fried noodles topped with chunks of beef or mutton and various vegetables like peppers, onions, leeks, garlic, tomatoes, etc.
And then there are regional specialties. For instance, here in Ningxia, a popular item at noodle restaurants is a brothless noodle dish made with shaved beef, copious amounts of chili paste, raw garlic and spring onion and cilantro called, la tiaozi ban mian (拉条子拌面).
Or saozi mian (臊子面), which places the hand pulled noodles in a tomato-based broth along with chunks of lamb, potato, carrot, peppers, onions and soft tofu.
There are myraid versions of noodles to be had, and each are assuredly delicious in their own right. But don't be fooled here, the star of the show is not what goes on top of the noodles. The star of the show is the noodle. And with good reason. On top of all of this, la mian have the added advantage of being cheap and quick to make. It's a meal you can have on your very brief lunch break, or that you can afford if you're a poor college student. Restaurants that specialize in the noodles are freuqently found around train stations, appealing to travelers trying to squeeze in a pre-departure meal. Unsurprisingly, they're also often found next to college campuses.
But la mian are interesting for sociological reasons beyong their delicousness. For one thing, they're perhaps the most successful example of ethnic branding I can think of. The noodles are pretty exclusively a Hui specialty (though there is a Uyghur version, laghman). Signs for restaurants selling la mian are frequently green and white or yellow (colors associated with Islam), and contain symbols related to Islam, like stars and crescent moons, Arabesuqe domes, minarets, etc. They're also always emblazoned with the Chinese characters 清真 (qing zhen), or halal, and often are accompanied by Arabic script. It's an incredibly distinctive brand, and it's not difficult to spot a restaurant that serves la mian.
Further, the noodles have become and even more succesful branding project for the city of Lanzhou in western China's Gansu province. Despite the fact that la mian restaurants are popular nationwide, and that la mian is a specialty common to a number of cities (Yinchuan, Linxia, and Xining, to name a few), the noodles are frequently adverstised as Lanzhou La Mian, as if they belong to Lanzhou exclusively. In fact, many of the workers in la mian restaurants in Jinan came, not from Lanzhou, but from small communities in neighboring Qinghai Province. That Lanzhou has so thoroughly cornered the market on these noodles is impressive, indeed.
But beyond matters of branding and regionalism, la mian also have a great deal of socio-economic impact as well. In part, the noodles are emblematic of northwest China because they have been exported throughout China from the northwest, which means that a large number of Hui migrants from places like Lanzhou and Xining (and other more rural communities) come to eastern cities like Jinan or Beijing precisely for the purpose of making la mian. The influence of la mian is therefore not only that it has shaped the consumer tastes of eastern China's diners, but that it is responsible for the movement of large numbers of migrants from west to east. These migrants impact not just local markets, and a community's ability to provide social services to residents, but this influx of western Hui into eastern communities like Jinan spurs new discussion and debate about what it means to Muslim and what it means to be Hui. As I've noted before, with migrants come different approaches to Islam, different strains of Islamic theology, and different levels of devotion to the faith and conceptions of orthodoxy. In some senses, Jinan's Islamic community has felt a renewed interest in faith with the arrival of these western Muslims.
The impact of la mian on identity is not just a matter of internal debate within the group. There are also important consequences for the outward image of Hui identity as well. Going to eat la mian may be the most frequent and most significant form contact with Hui identity that many majority Han Chinese have. What little insight into Hui culture or Hui identity some of these Han possess may, indeed, come through hand-pulled beef noodles. Such circumstances point to two very different possibilities. First, it might suggest that food may be the best vehicle for inter-ethnic understanding and interaction. If Han Chinese frequently eat la mian, they may be able to get a better sense of what Hui culture is about. Facets of Hui identity previously unknown to Han patrons may become more clear. However, there is also the possibility that if the only contact that Han Chinese have with Hui culture is through la mian, Hui will be reduced to caricature in the popular Chinese imagination. The idea that the Hui can be pigeonholed in this way can be seen as having a potentially negative net impact on inter-ethnic relations, writ large. After all, it's not difficult for marketing and branding to use la mian to reduce Hui identity to this:
So, when all the analysis is over and done, it's obvious that the societal impact of a simple noodle dish can be quite profound indeed. Most important, however, may be finding out how this kind of deliberate ethnic branding influences the self-images of Hui identity, and how it impacts where the boundaries of that identity are set.