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| Noodles, pulled into thin threads by chefs such as this one in Beijing, are an inexpensive meal for factory workers. Thorn Birds/ CNImaging /Newscom |
China's beef with 33-cent soup
Forced by a price cap to keep the staple meal cheap, owners are accused of skimping on meat.
from the August 21, 2007 edition
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Lanzhou's beef noodle business is dominated by ethnic Hui, Muslims who once plied the famed Silk Road that led here. So when noodle shops began to raise their prices, they were accused of operating a cartel. Restaurant owners deny this and say it was simply a common reaction to declining profit margins. Some have defied the price cap, without being penalized, but most appear resigned to the policy.
The key to the dish, say aficionados, is the spicy broth, whose exact ingredients are usually a closely guarded family secret, and the thick noodles, which are pulled by hand into long strands, slapped on a table, and thrown into a bubbling pot.
The server scoops the noodles into a bowl and adds a generous pouring of reddish-brown broth. A handful of chopped herbs, onions, and a pinch of beef, and it's ready to go.
Across town at the city's most storied noodle shop, the line stretches into the street. Run by the grandson of its founder, Ma Zilu charges the princely sum of 46 cents per bowl of beef noodles, and isn't short of takers.
Behind the counter is a silver placard from the Lanzhou Beef Noodle Restaurant Ratings and Inspection Committee that certifies this as a "super-level" restaurant. That allows it to ignore the cap and set its own prices for its clientele of regulars and tourists.
One die-hard loyalist is Zhang Yuanbiao, who brings his family to eat at Ma Zilu every morning. He says the extra cents are well spent, as the broth is unbeatable. A trader who tracks the markets, he sniffs at the idea of a price cap for run-of-the-mill restaurants. "The policy won't work. The price of commodities like beef and oil keeps rising, so how can it work?" he asks.
Back at the first restaurant, kitchen manager Wang Zhiqiang agrees to talk during a lull in the morning rush. Most noodle shops close by 2 p.m., though some fast-food chains open late. Mr. Wang took up the noodle trade five years ago after he lost his factory job, and uses a recipe his mother taught him.
When he raised his price in June, he lost some regular customers. Now that the price has gone back down to 33 cents, they've drifted back, but he's barely scraping by. The price of white pepper has doubled in a year, he says. "As a restaurant owner, of course we don't want to raise the price for our customers. I know it's a daily staple."
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