Noodles hold a special place in many cuisines.
Stewed noodles.
Hand-pulled noodles.
Beef noodle soup.
Xiao mian.
Hot dry noodles.
Each of these dishes carries its own distinct flavor, history, and reputation, some even reaching international recognition. Among them, stewed noodles might seem unassuming—less uniform in preparation than Lanzhou beef noodles, less iconic than hot dry noodles—but for those returning from a long, exhausting day, nothing is more comforting than a steaming bowl of rich, aromatic stewed noodles.
Crafting the Perfect Bowl
To make authentic stewed noodles, the process begins with the dough.
It must be kneaded with precision—not too soft, lest it becomes impossible to shape, and not too firm, or it will resist stretching after fermentation.
As the saying goes:
"Those skilled in painting are many, but true masters of stewed noodles are rare."
A skilled stewed noodle chef isn't just a noodle expert; they master multiple techniques—cold mixing, deep frying, stir-frying—proving their versatility in the kitchen.
First, Zane measures an adequate amount of alkaline salt, mixing it with warm water to create a supple, elastic dough. After resting for twenty minutes, he rolls it out into wide strips, each four fingers in width. A thin layer of vegetable oil coats each piece before they're stacked in a porcelain bowl, covered to prevent drying.
Clack!
Clack!
Clack!
The rhythmic sound of Zane's knife against the cutting board echoes through the quiet tavern.
He swiftly shreds soaked black fungus and tofu skin into delicate threads, then moves on to dicing the lamb with practiced precision.
The lamb broth simmers in a deep pot, its aroma filling the air. Once boiling, Zane stretches a sheet of dough, pulling it into long, thin strands before dropping them into the bubbling broth. As the noodles cook, he adds diced lamb, shredded kelp, tofu skin, yellow chives, and black fungus—each ingredient blending harmoniously into the rich, savory soup.
Finally, with a practiced motion, he ladles the steaming mixture into a bowl and finishes it with a fragrant sprinkle of fresh cilantro.
The dish is complete.
A Symphony of Flavors
As the fresh bowl of stewed noodles reaches the table, its colors stand out—vivid green vegetables, delicate white noodles, and a striking splash of red chili oil.
The hungry diner wastes no time, lifting a bundle of noodles with their chopsticks, inhaling the intoxicating aroma before taking a deep slurp.
At the first bite, the broth's richness takes center stage.
The tender lamb, infused with bone broth, creates a deep umami flavor, enhanced by over a dozen carefully selected spices.
Yet, the true star is the noodles themselves.
Made from high-quality flour and eggs, kneaded and rolled to perfection, they are delicate yet chewy, soaking up the flavors of the soup and side ingredients.
Each bite carries a soft, smooth texture, bursting with taste.
The accompanying toppings provide a satisfying contrast:
The crunch of shredded kelp.
The firm bite of black fungus.
The chewiness of tofu skin.
The fresh sharpness of yellow chives.
Each element blends seamlessly with the soup and noodles, creating a symphony of flavors and textures.
The diner lets out a satisfied sigh.
"This is incredible!"
"Only a tavern like this could serve such a comforting bowl of noodles!"
Without hesitation, they eagerly order another.
More Than Just a Dish
For many people, food is more than sustenance—it holds memories, emotions, and nostalgia.
The taste of a dish can transport someone to a different time, evoke forgotten feelings, or provide a sense of warmth and belonging.
Zane's tavern, open from 7 PM to midnight, isn't just a place for dining. It's a refuge—a space where people can momentarily set aside their worries, escape the stress of daily life, and indulge in a simple pleasure.
Here, there's no pressure to impress customers, no need to think about work, no nagging responsibilities.
All that matters is a glass of sake and a satisfying dish.
At the next table, Sonoka watches the diner beside her, observing their pure joy as they eat.
And at that moment, something clicks.
Zane's words from earlier suddenly make sense.
She finally begins to understand.
A Simple Rule, A Profound Impact
"What's wrong?"
Zane's voice pulls her from her thoughts. He sets another bowl of steaming noodles in front of a customer before turning toward her, noticing her distant expression.
"Surprised to see me making stewed noodles?"
Sonoka blinks and shakes her head.
"No… I was just thinking," she replies. "The rule here—where customers can order whatever they want—is really nice."
She smiles, though a trace of admiration lingers in her eyes.
This rule, simple as it sounds, is the tavern's greatest strength.
At night, when the day feels unfinished, when people search for closure, they long for a place to go—even if they're not hungry.
Zane's tavern provides that place.
But to uphold such a rule, a chef must possess extraordinary versatility. If a diner requests something and the chef can't make it, then the promise of "ordering anything" becomes meaningless.
Yet Zane never fails to meet expectations.
His skill transcends specialties.
His food carries emotions.
His dishes bring people happiness.
For the first time, Sonoka truly respects him—not just as a talented chef, but as someone who understands the soul of cooking.
Running a restaurant like Shunkatei is no easy feat, and she knows firsthand the challenges of making diners leave with a smile.
But Zane makes it seem effortless.
A New Guest Arrives
As night deepens, the city glows softly under twinkling stars.
At exactly 10 PM, two hours before closing, a woman with long dark green hair enters the tavern.
Sonoka's eyes widen in shock.
Anne.
A first-class WGO executive.
The very same Anne who had inspected Shunkatei earlier that day.
"Phew… I'm exhausted," Anne mutters as she takes a seat. "Owner, bring me a bottle of sake first."
She sets aside a thick, leather-bound volume—THE·BOOK, WGO's revered food guide—and casually scans the tavern.
After a brief moment of quiet observation, she nods slightly, seemingly satisfied.
As Zane pours the sake, a delicate fragrance fills the air—fresh, smooth, with a subtle hint of rice fermentation.
Anne takes a sip, her eyes drifting shut.
The exhaustion weighing on her shoulders melts away.
"Nice," she murmurs. "This sake is excellent."
A rare smile tugs at her lips.
For someone in Anne's position, dining at top-tier restaurants is routine. But few people understand the reality of her job.
Hundreds of meals at different restaurants each year.
Dozens of nights spent in unfamiliar hotels.
Constant travel—nearly 30,000 kilometers annually—just to evaluate the world's best chefs.
It's a prestigious role, but an exhausting one.
She sets her sake cup down and fixes her gaze on Zane.
"Are you the owner? And the chef?"
"That's right. It's just me running the place."
Anne raises an eyebrow.
"Impressive. This street is only 800 meters long, yet over a hundred restaurants compete here. And right next to you is the one-star Shunkatei… For someone so young to establish themselves in this spot—"
Her lips curl slightly.
"—I'm quite impressed."
Zane remains unfazed.
"Age has nothing to do with ability," he replies casually.
Anne chuckles.
"I agree."
Her interest in this small tavern grows.
After a moment's thought, she makes a request.
"I don't know what I want to eat. Recommend something for me."
Zane doesn't hesitate.
"Classic tofu."
Anne blinks.
"A Huaiyang dish? A test of knife skills?"
She had expected something simple—maybe yakitori or oden.
Instead, he chose a dish only true masters dare to attempt.
Intrigued, she leans forward.
"Alright. I'll take your recommendation."
And with that, Zane moves to the kitchen, ready to put his skills to the test once more.