I was possessed by a desire for hand-pulled noodles. The ones at Xi’an Famous Foods are good, but I wanted better. I wandered the streets of Chinatown in Manhattan looking for something more organic, less sanitized. Somewhere that hasn’t trademarked the onomatopoeic “Biang!” in biang biang noodles (made by slapping a strip of dough against a counter to pull the noodle from both ends). My search brought me to Spicy Village.
The restaurant’s wide awning is faded pink by the sun, along with pictures of food on the outer wall. Two elderly Chinese women chatted next to the front door. Folding tables and stools were stored outside, enough to offer overflow seating out into the street. Walking in, I was greeted by no one.
The interior walls are covered in wood paneling, the floors a gray linoleum. On the night I visited, decorations for the Chinese New Year still hung from the drop ceiling. I realized I needed to seat myself, and chose a table for two next to the front door. I read their takeout menu and decided on a pork pancake and the seafood hui mei. The woman making dumplings at the opposite table took my order. My table wobbled.
The fabric of the back of the chair in front of me was darkened at the top, where many people previously grabbed it to pull it out. The wood on the other chairs had the same wear mark. I got a can of soda from the drink fridge opposite my table. Occasionally, Chinese pop music would come on the radio, but only for a song or two. Except for the New Year decorations, the place felt like everything was set out on opening day and never moved again.
After a shorter than expected wait, I received the pork pancake: minced meat wrapped in a pocket of freshly baked bread. The bread was crisp, with grill marks on both sides. I let it cool before handling. The crunch of the pancake was a perfect textural contrast to the soft pork. The meat was rich and savory, its warm spices cut by the occasional cilantro leaf. It felt like curling up next to a fireplace in winter, though it was an unusually warm November day.
Halfway through the pancake my seafood hui mei arrived: hand-pulled noodles in a seafood broth covered in more seafood. Crab meat, shrimp, scallop and mussels with assorted vegetables and a small pile of cilantro on top invited me in. Finishing the second half of the pancake, I began to uncover the noodles buried beneath.
The issue with the seafood was inconsistency. The mussels were fresh, tender, and served with their shells still attached. It was a good first impression, but. I couldn’t tell if the crab was imitation or not–its texture was like uncooked flour rather than the little strands of processed fish typical of imitation crab. It clung to my teeth and had no flavor. Nothing produced by land or sea has matched whatever that was.
Between the best and worst were the fish balls, shrimp, and scallops. Each was tougher than expected, but still pleasant. The shrimp’s texture was rehydrated, chewier than it should be, and lacking the bounce of the fresh meat. I hesitated each time my chopsticks pinched a new part of this seafood medley. The lesson from this, for me, was to stick to the land animals.
The hand-pulled noodles were long, thick, and soaked in broth. I moderated the speed with which I slurped the noodles; if I ate them as fast as I wanted, I’d have needed to wear a bib.
Halfway through my slurping, I was presented with the check, scribbled on the same sheet as my order. I felt rushed. I would have liked to have at least lifted my face from my bowl of noodles first.
Throughout the dining room, a sign announced “CASH ONLY.” I approached the counter just before the kitchen and paid. I was given exact change, and with no tip jar on the counter, I glanced at the Buddha statue, turned towards the door, and left.
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