Tonight, I entered a very strange culinary establishment claiming to serve The First Noodle of China. I am half disturbed, half amused by this experience. Surrounded by perplexing posters and a strangely composed hagiography, I slurped and chopsticked, my meal hardly resembling what the true "First Chinese Noodle" must have looked like.
Dining in this restaurant was like entering a Xanadu of old, full of wonders — but with a twisted, sick air about it. Yes, it was if I was admitted to a perverted, half-sick Forbidden City, its grandeur gone, its splendor stripped away as the last Qing abdicated. However, no emperor, no Son of Heaven resided in this palace. No, this was palace was home to a much greater monarch with a hold over our lives — soup.
Much must be said of the strange peculiarities of this particular restaurant. The walls are adorned with factoids about the restaurant — something I normally would not mind; quite honestly, I usually admire the pure gait and confidence to stand behind your broth. Yet, much like a Han Emperor's many epithets, the owners of this establishment were clearly set on making outlandish claims about their prowess. So, my eyes became transfixed on the biography beset upon the entry walls.
I was quite dismayed. Often, when a restaurant has an "Our Story" section at the front, it contains humorous details and a quaint spin. Take, for example, the gold standard of fast-casual dining, Nick the Greek. With a short, two-paragraph biography at the front of the restaurant, the profile humorously tells the story of how three Greek Nicks came together to create gyro cravings, and most importantly, avgolemono soup. But what I encountered at this new restaurant was far different. This establishment, it seems, needed no less than eight or so long paragraphs to tell its story, supplemented by a bevy of pictures which served no real purpose. I was quite taken aback, and quite frankly, thought it below me to read further. But for my dedicated soup-loving subscribers, I decided to swallow my pride.
My worst fears came true. I was met with outlandish claims that should have no place in a soup-centric eatery. An important note: this restaurant is called Ox 9 Lanzhou Hand Pulled Noodles. The restaurant claims to specialize in hand pulled noodles from a place in China called Lanzhou, and this much seems to be true (though to be honest, who knows what to believe). But beyond that, I was flummoxed with a hagiography that was quite obviously false.
The essay claimed that Ox 9 serves "The First Noodle of China". This was printed as it is here, as a proper noun. In all my years sampling soup, I have never crossed a more baffling statement. How does one determine what the first noodle of China was? This is a highly philosophical question. Shall we scrummage the abstractions we can only draw of the Shang Dynasty to pinpoint the origin of the noodle? Surely, nowhere in Confucius's Analects nor Laozi's Tao does it mention this purportedly legendary "First Noodle". One can imagine my confusion and incredulous shock. But then I read the rest of the statement. Please excuse this paragraph break, as I need a moment to collect my still reeling mind.
The founder of Ox 9 claimed that he was a fifth-generation descendant of the man who invented the First Noodle of China. I could not believe what I was reading. I am only an expert of broth, not of demographics, but based on my understanding of Chinese population growth metrics, this would place the invention of the First Noodle of China at around the year 1900.
Now, I am only full of soup, not historical knowledge. However, it is ludicrous to say that the First Noodle was only invented in 1900. People have been eating noodle concoctions (especially in soup) for thousands of years. One area I do excel in is soup history. I do not need to be Sima Qian to know this. To say that the Chinese only invented the noodle centuries after inventing gunpowder (debatably, a more advanced technology), is an extremely outlandish thing to say. I say, this means the noodle was nearly invented at the time of the Qing Empire's collapse.
I collected myself. I would move past this a consider all other aspects of the restaurant. But what else I saw dismayed me.
The owner continued his fallacious rant, going on to say that it was "very difficult to open a noodle shop in China" when he established the first Ox 9 Lanzhou Hand Pulled Noodles in his native land. This is a highly dubious claim. Difficult to establish a noodle shop in China, a land famous for its noodle-loving culture? I imagine the odd noodle shop is like the McDonald's of China. Like the first Portuguese sailors venturing to this mysterious land of Cathay that would later become China, I was lost.
I must take issue with the name of the restaurant. Apparently, in 2022, the owner changed the name of the eatery from "Lanzhou Hand Pulled Noodles" to "Ox 9 Hand Pulled Noodles". The restaurant's exterior reflects this strange and seemingly arbitrary change, having shrunk the "Lanzhou Hand Pulled Noodles" part and placing it aside an enlarged "Ox 9". I believe this to be a serious mistake and quite baffling decision. As a seasoned soup blogger, I know a little something about burying a lede. Isn't the draw of the restaurant the supposed "Lanzhou Hand Pulled Noodles", the falsely-professed First Noodle of China? Why would you put the quite incomprehensible phrase "Ox 9" in larger characters? The owner claimed that the name change was to better represent the character and mission of the restaurant. I found this even more strange. For the soup-loving life of me, I could not decipher what "Ox 9" has to do with this restaurant. Perhaps it is because the serve beef. But what does the 9 represent? Sadly, I may never know the answer.
But like a Portuguese sailor, I forged on. I next glanced at the opposing wall, which displayed a larger-than-life mural of the restaurant's signature soup with details about its contents serving as annotations. Usually, I would be happy to see soup with its name in lights, dominating the scene. But frankly, I was put off by the claim that the broth was "simmered for six hours to attain a clear soup".
I struggled to comprehend how this made any sense. First off, to me, a clear broth is not ideal, as that usually means it lacks flavor and its water content is disturbingly high (sadly, foreshadowing). I also do not understand how six hours of simmering helps a broth become more clear. My dining partner mused that this means that the impurities of the beef have been removed. But would that not happen during the straining process? Quite puzzling indeed.
It was unfortunately time to inspect the table. I was sickened to see that the menu could only be accessed via a QR code. I truly despise this practice and it should be banned by law. It is discrimination against people who cannot use phones, but far worse, an inconvenience to me. I like to have a physical menu in my hands, a doting waiter to attend to me and my broth requirements and needs.
Next I noticed that every table at the restaurant housed chili oil, a mystery vinegar, and soy sauce. This very much disappointed me. If a restaurant truly stands by its soup and the quality of its broth, it should not offer broth-altering condiments at its tables for culinary byzantines to use haphazardly. Stand by your soup, I say! If your broth is truly worth trying, it should taste scrumptiously without the need of condiments. Frankly, this is a soup law, and I will not stand for it.
But onto the soup. I ordered the restaurant's signature dish, a beef-based soup containing the false First Noodle of China, beef slices, pieces of white radish, an array of cilantro and onions, and copious helping of chili flakes. I daresay, I was impressed with the amount of food served, justifying the middling price I had paid for the meal. But upon plunging my spoon into the clear broth and filling my broth-craving belly, I realized something was amiss.
I am aware that a soup is the sum of its parts. But as a broth reductionist, I believe that a soup can only be as good as its broth. The quality of the soup can only be judged by its broth. And this soup's broth was too watery, non-viscous, and flavorless. The broth was merely a vessel for presenting the noodles, which were far more delicious than the liquid surrounding them.
I cannot stand for this. Noodles should not taste better than broth. I found my liquid-longing self enjoying the solid part of the meal more. It unnerves me to reflect on this unfortunate eating epiphany I experienced.
I was not impressed by the beef or any other facet of the soup besides the noodles. The beef was fatty and low-quality, the greens and chilis adding nothing but spice itself. The noodles were, I must say, worthy of their fallacious title of the First Noodle of China, but that cannot redeem the soup. As this sad connoisseur exited the premises, I was left to wonder what philosophical reckonings about the soup the owner of Ox 9 must hauntingly come to terms with when he enters his old age, health declining, as he craves a tasty, warm soup soup but is unable to concoct one.
Soup Score: 5.8/10 Noodles great soup not
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