Laosunjia

It was rather convoluted, how it came to pass. My father and mother went to church with a couple, of whom the husband’s brother had married a Chinese woman, her niece went to school in Xi’an, she wouldn’t be available, but her friend…

Anyway, we had a lovely tour guide, Toni. As explained by the niece, “She is a very easy-going girl and very friendly, but with a boy’s name.” The first evening together we went to Laosunjia, a famous restaurant in Xi’an. We sat down at a large table, warned by the waitress that we would have to share if others came in. Of course we didn’t mind. The waitress handed us, well, something that could best be described as hockey pucks made of yeast and flour. A heavy, glutinous, sort of thing. Mom, dad, and I stared at Toni; we had no idea what to do. She explained we should tear the bread like substance into tiny bits and place it in our bowls. We tore. And tore. And tore. My fingers hurt from ripping the bread apart.

The waitress came by. And sneered. Evidently our efforts just weren’t good enough.

We picked up the tiny pieces and began tearing more. When none of us could tear any more, our bowls filled with mere crumbs of bread, the waitress whisked the bowls away. We then sat and stared at each other, nothing to occupy our hands.

Only minutes later, the waitress returned. She thumped a bowl down in front of each of us. Steaming, too hot to touch, a bowl of broth. A bowl of thick, noodle filled, meat enhanced, piping hot broth. The small bread pieces had plumped into dumplings of a sort.

We each picked up our set of chopsticks and began. It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. A familiar spice, though I can’t name it, greeted my tongue. Somewhat sweet. And the flavor of the meat. Oh! It melted in my mouth. Literally. The shreds of meat just melted. No chewing required. The noodles, the fine, glass noodles, soaking up the flavor of the meat, so delicious.

We ate in silence.

At one point, three men, heavy set, were sat at our table. This was obviously their first time at the restaurant as well. They tore their bread into large pieces, then called the waitress. She didn’t even give them the courtesy of a scoff. I snickered to myself, glad that they didn’t scoff only at foreigners, but at the locals as well. They continued ripping and tearing, ripping and tearing. A second call. She still wouldn’t accept their bread. They ordered beers and kept tearing.

After our soup, we picked at the extra plates we had ordered. Mushrooms, boiled and flavored. Jujubes, those sweet date-like fruits, drizzled in nectar. Everything, so incredibly good. Could it get any better than this?