Hsinchu Fried Rice Vermicelli

Hsinchu's vermicelli owes everything to its wind. The city's autumn-winter monsoon, the so-called 九降风, funnels down off the hills as a dry, fierce gale, and from the Qing dynasty onward the Nanshi district hung its rice noodles out in that wind to dry. The result cures firmer and springier than steam-dried vermicelli, and 新竹米粉 became a byword for quality across Taiwan. The stir-fried dish built on it is a fixture of home tables, banquet 办桌, and temple festivals, where a wok of 炒米粉 is cooked by the basinful. The northern style is dry-fried and savory; it is a separate dish from the soup vermicelli of the south.

The strands come apart cleanly, each one springy and lightly chewy, glossed with oil and the soy-savory liquid they soaked up rather than swimming in it. Dried shiitake and shrimp give a deep, sea-and-forest savor; the chives go in last and keep a fresh, sharp bite; white pepper warms the back of the throat. A good plate is loose and shining, never clumped, broken, or pasty.

Hsinchu vermicelli is a pure rice-starch noodle dried hard in the wind, so it needs only a brief soak in warm water — not a boil — to turn pliable while keeping its core firm; over-soaking is the main way the dish fails. The cooking is really a braise-fry: aromatics, pork, shiitake, and shrimp are fried first to build a savory base, then stock and seasoning go in and the drained vermicelli is folded through over high heat until it absorbs nearly all the liquid. Because each strand drinks up flavored stock rather than plain water, the seasoning sits inside the noodle, not just on it. Constant tossing and a film of oil keep the fine strands separate; the soaking water from the dried shiitake and shrimp is saved and used as the stock, since it carries their glutamate and nucleotide umami.