In a leafy backstreet in the Sichuanese capital Chengdu, where retired people sit around playing mah-jong on warm afternoons, there is a heavy, unmarked wooden door. Behind it, chef Lan Guijun is making noodles for the evening’s dinner. He stands at a long wooden bench, slicing sheets of yellow dough into hair-like strands with a knife the size of a woodsaw; his movements have the graceful control of a t’ai chi master. “There is no water in this dough,” he says. “Only the yolks of free-range duck eggs.” To prove it, he holds up a bunch of the noodly strands and ignites them with a cigarette lighter: they burn up immediately in a frizz of oily richness.
來到四川省會成都市區(Chengdu)一條綠樹成蔭的偏僻街道，退休的市民在煦暖的午后正圍坐在那兒玩麻將，眼前有一扇厚實、沒有門牌號的木門。推開它后，只見大廚蘭桂均(Lan Guijun)正為晚上的客人制作面條。他站在一條長條木凳上，用木鋸般的大刀把疊起來的黃色面皮切成金絲面條；整套動作就象太極高手那樣行云流水、游刃有余。“和這種面不用水，”他解釋道。“只用土鴨蛋黃。”為證實自己的說法，蘭桂均隨手拿起一把金絲面條，用打火機點著：面條很快就吱里巴拉地一燃而盡。