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.
来到四川省会成都市区(Chengdu)一条绿树成荫的偏僻街道，退休的市民在煦暖的午后正围坐在那儿玩麻将，眼前有一扇厚实、没有门牌号的木门。推开它后，只见大厨兰桂均(Lan Guijun)正为晚上的客人制作面条。他站在一条长条木凳上，用木锯般的大刀把叠起来的黄色面皮切成金丝面条；整套动作就象太极高手那样行云流水、游刃有余。“和这种面不用水，”他解释道。“只用土鸭蛋黄。”为证实自己的说法，兰桂均随手拿起一把金丝面条，用打火机点着：面条很快就吱里巴拉地一燃而尽。