Arriving even earlier than summer in Shanghai are Shanghai's cold noodles.
When it comes to Shanghai cold noodles, one name is unavoidable: Si Ru Chun—specifically, the one in Putuo.
Right after graduation, I lived on the border of Putuo and Zhabei, just 2 kilometers from Si Ru Chun. In the scorching midsummer, I’d ride my bike through the vintage-feeling neighborhoods of Putuo and wind my way to Shiquan Road. Seeing the long line of uncles and aunties in front of the bright red sign, I knew I was in the right place.
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By then, Si Ru Chun had already made the Michelin Bib Gourmand list, but trendy young people weren't exactly enthusiastic about taking photos or checking in for this plate of cold noodles, which looked plain and uninspired.
The shop was mostly packed with local elders, who flocked there before summer arrived. Occasionally, a few young faces would appear, but they always ate in a rush and finished quickly.
Eating noodles is just an inconspicuous punctuation mark in a mundane life, not even a full chapter. "One order of potstickers, two orders of cold noodles, shredded topping"—the order rolls off the tongue like muscle memory.
For an outsider like me who came specifically to see what the fuss was about (albeit by bike, not car), facing the aunties' machine-gun-like questions—"Less peanut butter or more rice vinegar? Dine-in or takeout?"—I felt awkward and uneasy if I was even a beat slow to answer.
The fans spun endlessly, and the uncle lifted and dropped the noodles like Sisyphus. The auntie wrapping potstickers and the girl packing takeout busied themselves at their small stations. The long line snaked from the cashier to the pickup window—people in helmets, carrying groceries, or with children in tow—all waiting for a plate of cold noodles, as if just the thought of it could quench their thirst.
While cold noodles may just be a footnote to a mundane life, it is an especially grand and significant one.
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This year, summer in Shanghai arrived especially late. Throughout June and July, temperatures were still in the 20s. Once the humid, cool winds of the plum rain season passed, everything felt damp.
Only on those sudden sunny days, when it warmed up slightly and sweat began to bead on my back, did my craving for cold noodles reach its peak.
I’ve moved away from Putuo now, so those days of hopping on my bike to reach Si Ru Chun at a moment's notice have naturally drifted away. A "Wenji Si Ru Chun" recently opened near my home; some say it’s from the same lineage, others say it’s a knockoff. The environment is brighter and more refined, but it always gives me that uneasy feeling of a chain store serving pre-made food.
The shredded topping was sold out, so I got two orders of cold noodles, mushroom gluten, and stir-fried bamboo shoots to go. When I mixed it at home, the pre-sealed peanut butter and rice vinegar had already separated into oil and water. Once poured over the noodles, they looked like office workers on a rainy day—soggy, disheveled, and dejected. There was no aroma of peanut butter, no tang of rice vinegar, just a pool of saltiness.
It’s in moments like these that I realize only when Putuo District, Si Ru Chun, and cold noodles all come together do they create that perfect, simple, refreshing, and delicious plate of cold noodles.
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"Summer is coming, the plum rain is leaving.
We’ve all grown up, and we can never go back.
Your figure is gone from the lane entrance; no one is left, only memories."
A-Yue’s "Plum Rain Season" speaks of the humid heat of summer and the regrets of growing up. It also speaks to how, in the long summer, cold noodles are the nostalgia of the Shanghainese.