A Taste of Home, Deep Within Memory: Fuling in the 1990s and the Echoes of Childhood | by Yellowbird | Jul, 2025
In the days when Fuling district of Chongqing —or known as River Town, was a city within Sichuan Province, nestled on the higher slopes near its bustling Dadongmen freight terminal, there lay an old alley named Xiangzi Street, or “Box Street.” It earned its name from the myriad shops that once lined it, all purveying an assortment of boxes crafted from bamboo and wood. This was the daily thoroughfare for young Mitch, a path he trod on his way to elementary school.
In the nascent hours of morning, Mitch sometimes found himself a reluctant participant at the breakfast table. He’d scoop a small bowl of sweet youlaozao — a fermented rice wine — break open a soft-boiled egg with its yolk still molten, stir it in, and then, with a few quick gulps, chase it down with a bit of fried dough. Then, snatching up his satchel, he’d bolt out the door, his pace unchecked until he reached the very entrance of Xiangzi Street. There, and only there, would his steps leisurely slacken. Mitch held a fondness for Xiangzi Street. From its threshold onward, the pavement shed its dusty gray concrete, transforming into something far more alluring.
Like other venerable mercantile thoroughfares, the ceaseless commerce that had transpired here over generations — the scuffing of countless goods and the shuffle of myriad soles — had burnished the ground to a luminous, almost translucent sheen. In the early light, the morning sun poured forth like a gentle spring, slowly tracing its way across the street, mirroring the shadowy reflections of the old wooden buildings tightly arrayed along its edges. The distinct silhouettes of passersby swayed and glided upon the path, reminiscent of the fish-backs one might discern from above the Wujiang River on a winter’s day.
Half the shops fronting the street were eateries, their walls stained a deep, smoky black from the constant embrace of wood-burning stoves. Only when a diner, finding the space too cramped, temporarily shifted one of the long wooden tables against the wall, would the faint, pale gray gradients beneath reveal the former brilliance of their fresh white paint from their opening days. Each morning, these establishments would swing open their doors as early as four or five, just as the sky began to hint at dawn. Within countless large woks, white foam boiled and churned, sending spiraling plumes of white mist through the entire street, mingling with a wisp of pale blue cooking smoke that occasionally escaped from the stoves. All waited for a customer to settle onto a stool by a table and bellow: “Boss! Two liang (a standard serving, roughly 100 grams) of xiaomian!”
Mitch loved to stand and watch the chefs in these eateries prepare xiaomian. Long strands of alkaline noodles, tossed into the roiling water, were instantly propelled apart by the furious bubbles in the pot’s center, erupting in a frothy cascade. That soft, yielding mass of noodles would scatter and entangle, swept from the surface to the pot’s bottom, only to swiftly rise again, like the clouds above Beishanping (a prominent hill overlooking Fuling), restless and wind-whipped, before the breaking of a storm.
During this brief, churning interlude, the chef would grasp a noodle bowl, meticulously spooning a small dollop of lard into its bottom. Then, with hands moving with a blur, he’d sprinkle in, one by one, a whisper of MSG, a pinch of peppercorn powder, a dash of white pepper, a swirl of sesame oil, a few drops of chili oil (at this point, some might pause to holler at a customer: “More chili, eh?!”), pour in some soy sauce, and scatter a generous handful of chopped green onions.
By then, the noodles would be nearing perfection. The chef would lift the lid of another pot, filled with plain simmering water, and amidst the rising steam, toss in a handful of pea shoots, already washed and still glistening with water droplets. Turning, he’d seize a large ladle and scoop a generous measure of noodle broth into the waiting bowl.
The aromas of the seasonings, instantly roused, mingled with the melted lard, and a fragrant, spicy, numbing aura enveloped the chef like a halo of light. Then, he’d deftly pluck out the long chopsticks, lifting every single noodle completely from the water in the pot. They’d quiver ever so slightly in the cool morning air, then proudly straighten their bodies, beginning their descent from their tails into the broth in the bowl. The entire process was both swift and precise, barely a splash escaping the bowl. Finally, the vegetables from the adjacent pot were scooped up with a large slotted spoon, drained, and then crowned atop the noodles.
By the time the chef placed the bowl before the customer and declared, “Seasonings are on the table, add more if you like.” Mitch, his mouth watering, was already well on his way to school.
