Of Woks, Worries, and Watery Noodles

There are certain matters in a household upon which one does not invite outside opinion. Politics, for instance. Family finances, naturally. And, in our particular establishment, the preparation of noodles.

I had always believed noodles to be a reasonably uncomplicated article of food. One boiled them, seasoned them, ate them and proceeded with one’s day. This innocent conviction was shattered when I discovered that my family had, over the years, developed several entirely incompatible theories on the subject.

The Family Doctrine: Keep the Wok Hot

My brother, for example, believes that noodles should be treated as though they have been summoned to a culinary military exercise.

The wok must be hot.

Not warm.

Not pleasantly warm.

Hot.

Then come the ingredients: soy sauce, vinegar, dark green chilli sauce, red sweet-chilli sauce, and whatever else the occasion demands. The wok begins to hiss, the sauces make their dramatic entrance, and my brother performs a series of movements which may best be described as toosh-toosh, chick-chick.

In a matter of minutes, the noodles emerge perfectly cooked, properly seasoned and apparently aware of their responsibilities.

I, on the other hand, regard this procedure with the respectful admiration one reserves for stunt performers.

Bertie’s Gentler Approach

I do not cook noodles at high heat.

I have visions of flames ascending towards the ceiling and of myself explaining the incident to the insurance company.

I therefore employ the low-simmer method.

It is a calmer system.

There is no wok acrobatics. No flames. No airborne noodles.

One begins with mustard seeds, cross-sliced green chillies, onion and turmeric. Once the finely chopped onion has partly cooked, I may, depending on my mood, add tricolour capsicum or potatoes and allow everything to come together and soften.

Then comes the water and the tastemaker. Finally, when the water boils, the noodles go in.

The noodles are then allowed to cook gently.

Very gently.

Perhaps a little too gently, according to my sister.

The Soggy Noodle Controversy

My sister has one fundamental objection to my method:

the noodles become soggy.

She says this as though I have committed an offence.

I maintain that the noodles have merely reached a higher state of emotional fulfilment.

I like them soft.

I like them watery.

I like a little liquid remaining in the bowl.

My sister likes noodles which retain their structural integrity.

Thus, while she eats noodles, I appear to eat something which has begun contemplating the possibility of becoming upma.

I would point out, however, that this is not entirely without precedent.

A Matter of Ancestry: Sevai

We are not without noodle traditions.

We have our South Indian rice noodles — sevai and idiyappam — and even possess the portable presser with which one may produce them from scratch.

Lemon sevai, coconut sevai and masala sevai are all perfectly respectable members of the household. Plain sevai, should it come our way, could be persuaded into several further incarnations.

So perhaps my noodles are not entirely misguided.

Perhaps they have simply returned to their ancestral instincts.

After all, the principle is familiar:

Temper.

Season.

Add the starch.

Let everything come together.

The only difficulty is that somewhere along the road, the rice flour became wheat noodles and the lemon sevai acquired a tastemaker packet.

Still, I consider this a minor technicality.

Bertie Has Been Abroad

There is, however, another chapter in my relationship with noodles which must be placed on record, lest anyone conclude that I have no appreciation whatsoever for properly prepared noodles.

Singapore.

I have eaten Singapore noodles there and enjoyed them immensely. There is something particularly satisfying about noodles that have met a properly seasoned wok and emerged from the encounter with their dignity, structure and flavour intact.

I am also rather fond of stir-fried and fried noodles.

There is a little shop near my office which makes them in a way I particularly enjoy, and whenever I go out to eat with my coworkers, I have been known to order them.

This creates a rather awkward contradiction in the evidence against me.

When presented with noodles prepared by someone who knows what he is doing, I am perfectly capable of appreciating the distinction between soft and soggy, between stir-fried and simmered, and between a noodle which has been introduced to a hot wok and one which has been gently persuaded into submission.

I enjoy the proper article.

I simply do not manufacture it.

There is, perhaps, a principle here which Jeeves might approve of: one may admire a method without necessarily attempting it oneself.

I admire the Singaporean wok.

I admire my brother’s toosh-toosh, chick-chick.

I admire the little shop near my office.

I admire the Chinese chef who can make a wok behave as though it were an extension of his own arm.

And then I return home, put mustard seeds into my saucepan and make my noodles soggy.

One must, after all, know one’s limitations.

The Chinese Chef and Other Dangerous Persons

There remains, however, the matter of the Authentic Chinese Wok Chef.

This is where discretion becomes essential.

I have watched enough cooking programmes to know what a proper Chinese chef can do with a wok. I have watched the legendary confidence of a man who can send ingredients flying into a blazing pan and produce dinner before the spectator has recovered from the first whoosh.

One is reminded of the immortal culinary proposition:

If Yan can cook, so can you.

I accept the sentiment.

I merely decline the practical demonstration.

I suspect that if an authentic Chinese chef were ever presented with my noodles, there would first be silence.

Then a raised eyebrow.

Then a question in Mandarin.

Then perhaps a question in Mandarin, to which I would have no answer whatsoever. At that point, I would quietly retrieve my bowl and retreat.

For there are limits to culinary experimentation.

One may add mustard seeds to noodles.

One may use turmeric.

One may make them watery.

One may even admit, without shame, that one prefers them that way.

But one should perhaps not make the mistake of defending the technique before a man who has spent his life mastering the wok.

Bertie’s Saving Grace

There is, however, one saving grace.

I have never claimed that my noodles are Chinese.

They are my noodles.

They are noodles which have encountered South Indian tempering, family habits, a little vegetable enthusiasm, a packet of tastemaker and my deeply held conviction that food should be comforting rather than frightening.

My brother has his chick-chick.

My sister has her standards.

The Singaporean cook has his wok.

The Chinese chef has his.

And I have my mustard seeds.

In the final analysis, therefore, I may not be guilty of murdering the noodles.

I have merely given them a second cultural identity.

And if anyone objects, I shall plead culinary fusion.

Jeeves, I feel, would call that a saving grace.

And if he did not, I should simply offer him the soggy noodles.

He would, I am confident, find some diplomatic way of eating them.

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