More biang for your buck

I would like to think that the 8，000 Terracotta Warriors， or more precisely the hundreds of thousands of workers who painstakingly cast them， sustained themselves on some serious chow. And， after carb-loading on a few Xi’an specialties， I too felt properly fueled to defend the first emperor， or run a marathon， whichever need arose first.

Xi’an， the capital of Shaanxi province and one of China’s four great ancient capitals， has become world famous for its 2，000-year-old life-sized pottery army， and more as President Xi Jinping’s hometown. However， food-wise， it perhaps was most important as the starting point of the Silk Road.

During the 8th century AD， the booming metropolis， then called Chang’an， had over one million inhabitants， of which one-third were non-Chinese. One of the country’s largest Uyghur Muslim populations is still concentrated in Xi’an today， and their influence has spread to the local cuisine， with Middle Eastern spices such as cumin， nutmeg， and cardamom frequently used to flavor dishes.

Noodles， instead of rice， are the staple in this arid climate. These are kneaded and hand-pulled into many varieties， and are made fresh at restaurants like Beijing’s Xi’an Noodle House.

When I first walked into the packed， dingy two-floor joint， I was instantly assaulted with the pungent odor of raw mutton - for me， an instant turn-off. I have never been a fan of the meat of the sheep. Personally， I think it has a bit of a rotten， gamey flavor to it， but， in China， I’m clearly in the minority.

Mutton or lamb is often a feature of Xi’an dishes， particularly in the beloved lamb stew or paomo， which loosely translates as “soaked bread.” The dish is served with a small， round flatbread which you break into your bowl before it is topped up with a rich， oily lamb broth. The bread bits absorb the soup， and you end up with a bowl of savory mush.

Many Silk Road travelers apparently lived off the stuff - the idea was to pack the dry bread and broth separately to avoid rot but also ensure something hot but substantial to eat along the route.

Another ancient favorite offered at the restaurant is the roujiamo， or pork hamburger. It’s quite popular， with an order arriving at almost every table. Diners seem to treat it as a side dish， like a basket of fries， and nibble between bites of their main dishes.

This “hamburger，” dating back to the Zhou dynasty， consists of a melt-in-the-mouth pork filling slow-cooked with a tasty blend of onions and some 20 different spices， enrobed in a fresh， toasted flatbread which adds a complimentary touch to the tender meat.

There were an overwhelming number of noodle options on the menu， with humorous English translations， such as the “dry mixing by hand every time one face” - which was basically， a dry， hand-pulled noodle in sauce.

The Biang Biang noodles came with no English translation， as the complicated 57-stroke ancient character is recognized in China by its complexity and pronunciation， not its meaning. My anticipation built as I heard a chorus of “Biang Biang” from the tables around me.

“Biang Biang” is onomatopoeia for the sound the noodle dough makes as it slaps against the worktop during kneading. Apparently， the hearty thwack contributes to the evening of the dough and helps stretch the noodle into its desired shape.

The noodle’s width is commonly likened to a belt， measuring to about 4-5 centimeters in diameter. Each piece is long， and folds over itself much like lasagne， but with a stickier texture. When it first arrived at my table， I was surprised at how dry and bland the dish looked- a dusting of chili powder， wood-ear fungus， a little scrambled egg and bok choy were the only seasonings for this heap of thick noodles.

However， once you start flipping the noodles， the flavors begin to pop. The noodles are sitting on a delicious mix of hot oil， toasted sesame seeds， loads of spices and chilies， crunchy bean sprouts， and diced up green onion and garlic. The heat from the chilies is fragrant， and very delicate.

It’s a messy dish， the stubborn noodles attempt to escape as you try to stir them into the moreish sauce， and with each flop， oil would end up on either my shirt， on my dining partner， or around my mouth.

The cheap fare - costing me a little under three dollars for the stew， hamburger， and noodles， was enough to feed three people， and kept me fully stuffed for the entire day.

Biangin’.