A Noodle Master Gets in the Swing

By Diana Kuan

Globe Correspondent

Ken Zhang stands behind the window at Chinatown’s Noodle Alcove and swings noodles through the air like a child playing jump rope. Newcomers to the restaurant and a few passersby stare as Zhang stretches and folds the elastic dough until he has thousands of thin strands.

Almost all the noodles served in Chinese restaurants in the United States are machine-made. That makes Noodle Alcove, which has kept the handmade tradition, something of an anomaly. Diane Ly, her husband, Joe Zhang, and his younger brother Ken immigrated here from the Fujian province in southwest China, where their family members owned restaurants specializing in hand-pulled wheat noodles. The couple opened Noodle Alcove in 2002 after they discovered that most noodles here are factory made. Ken Zhang, who had studied noodle-making in Fujian, became the restaurant’s “shifu”, or noodle master.

At the Chinese New Year, which begins Sunday, noodles are an important part of the holiday. The long strands symbolize longevity, and for that reason, they’re a part of many celebrations, including dinner on the first day of the New Year and birthday parties year-round.

In the same way that many people consider fresh pasta superior to dried, fresh Chinese noodles are also revered. “The texture and taste of fresh noodles is so rich and distinct,” Ly explains in Mandarin. 

Rice may be China’s most important staple food, but noodles are often served as a single-dish meal for lunch, or as part of a multicourse dinner. In the northern regions, where wheat is grown, noodles play an important role. They often replace rice in a meal. 

Hand-pulled noodles, called “la mian” in Chinese, originated in Langzhou, a city in northwest China. The technique of hand-pulling soon spread to other parts of China. There are other ways to prepare fresh noodles, including slicing sheets of dough, but hand-pulling is an advanced technique that requires years of intensive training.

Zhang says he learned how to “coast the dough when the air is too wet or dry.” He does all his work in a galley-size space in the front of the restaurant, where there are two counters and a large pot of boiling water on a burner. To make a fresh batch of noodles, the noodle master starts with a lump of wheat flour dough about the size of a loaf of bread. He kneads the dough for a few moments to make it pliable, then pats flour on the dough to prevent it from sticking when he twists. Next, he pulls it out to arm’s length, then folds the dough and pulls again and again. The noodles multiply and become thinner with each pull and fold; a theatrical swing — in which the noodles are tossed in the air — keeps them twisted. As many as 4,000 strands can be made from a lump of dough.

As orders come in, Zhang dunks handfuls of uncut fresh noodles into the boiling water and cooks them for three to five minutes. In large soup bowls, he adds broth to the noodles, along with vegetables, and roast duck, pork, beef brisket, or other meats. For diners new to fresh noodles, the long strands seem endless and require some patience. The noodles might also appear in a fried dish, in which case they are tossed in a wok in the back kitchen and returned with chicken, seafood, or vegetables on top.

The restaurant also makes knife-cut noodles, or “dao xiao mian.” They aren’t offered on the menu but can be requested instead of the la mian. For the knife-cut version, Zhang kneads the dough only briefly, then holds the dough over water and uses a metal baker’s spatula to shave pieces right into the pot. The shapes, similar to German spaetzle, are irregular and 2 to 3 inches long. They’re slightly chewy in texture and are popular with regular patrons.

Zhang knows how entertaining his noodle making can be, and he’s used to having people watch from the street.  For now, getting hot soups to customers is his priority, but he’s aware of the performance side of his craft. “The window makes my work area feel like a stage,” he says.