Noodling Around

Shanghai’s late night noodle shops are cheap and delicious

On the city’s sidewalks, especially at night, you’ll often see people crowded around rickety tables eating noodles. They look so satisfied, slurping their la mian, I’m always tempted to sit down, order a bowl and chow down with them. But which small, dirty hole-in-the-wall serves a tasty bowl and which one offers dishwater and doughy noodles? I explored a handful of Shanghai’s top-rated noodle dives to bring you my top two selections.

Greasy, red Formica tabletops, grimy tiles and a tired ceiling fan bear witness to some of Shanghai’s tastiest beef noodles at the tiny, inconspicuous Zheng Zheng Noodle Shop.

A noodle-thin cook and a heavier-set cook stand at a stainless steel counter kneading giant, doughy masses of inchoate noodles. The men throw the entire rocking force of their bodies into the kneading, like dancers leaning into the bulk of other bodies. With visible effort, the slim cook turns the heavy dough over and over again with a “wump, wump”. Zheng Zheng is busy with regulars young and old, each with a special request. Not too much cumin, says a man; more cilantro, says a girl. The efficient yet kind server has a heavy northern accent. Three dishes form Zheng Zheng's classic noodle set: cold, sliced beef with cilantro, curry broth sprinkled wtih scallions (and liberal MSG) and noodles coated in a sticky, sweetish brown sauce. Order all three and scarf them down with the regulars.

Ever wonder how the city’s taxi drivers feed themselves during their grueling 20-hour shifts? They stop here, at the Chun He Noodle Shop. So many cabs are crammed out front that there’s even a parking assistant to direct the taxi landings and take-offs. Inside, find a legion of taxi drivers with their white shirts and dark slacks, cigarettes and Shanghaihua, their tea leaves in glass jars, their exhausted, seen-it-all expressions.

The open kitchen is all rapid-fire action, churning out steaming pots of noodles and wok-fried dishes. In the middle of the summer, the hard-working cooks are showering in their own sweat, kitchen whites clinging to them as though caught in a downpour, their faces flow with perspiration. I watch one shrug the shoulder of his uniform up to wipe at his temples every 20 seconds. But he smiles good-naturedly at the server as he turns around, pouring a heavy wok full of vegetables into a bowl.

Chun He's large dining room has a dirty white tile floor, industrial electric fans, and rows of florescent ceiling bulbs. A better choice is to sit outside on the tile platform in front at one of four wooden tables–it’s neither clean nor filthy, but an ideal perch to watch the taxis as you eat your noodles. I tried the spicy beef noodles, a mountain of pasta in savory chili oil broth with cubes of pressed tofu. It’s enough noodles for about two and a half normal people, or one taxi driver.

Care to try a noodle place only for the brave? Read about the most revolting noodle stand in Shanghai.

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