A Showman Puts Noodles on Display
Hungry City: Kung Fu Little Steamed Buns Ramen in Hell’s Kitchen
NYT Critics' Pick
By LIGAYA MISHANAPRIL 17, 2014
There is no ramen at Kung Fu Little Steamed Buns Ramen. At least not the kind New Yorkers have come to associate with the word: no roiling Japanese broth, no heady undertow invoking at once the barnyard and the ocean floor.
Get that disappointment out of the way and you can move on to the real pleasures of Kung Fu, which opened in Hell’s Kitchen in December. The specialty here is ramen in its original form, as it first arrived in Japan from China: la mian, or hand-pulled noodles, which are as much theater as comfort food.
The 27-year-old chef, Peter Song, does the pulling in view of the abbreviated, bare-bones dining room, smiling sunnily through a window in the back kitchen as he stretches and swings the dough in great spinning slurs, folds the ends together, twists the dough into a rope, slaps it down and tugs it apart again. The strands multiply. This happens swiftly, repeatedly, in swooping gestures like a manic port de bras.
Mr. Song grew up in Fushun, in northeastern China. He started singing and dancing on televised variety shows when he was 14 and has appeared in several Chinese films (including, most recently, a comedy whose title loosely translates as “Don’t Talk to Me About Tall, Rich, Handsome Guys”). After immigrating to New York four years ago, he found work at Lan Zhou Handmade Noodle, a stall in the Golden Mall food court in Flushing, Queens. There he won the trust and support of his boss, Andy Liu, who is now his partner in Kung Fu.
The chef, Peter Song, pulls noodles in view of the dining room. Credit Yana Paskova for The New York Times
Last year, Mr. Song returned to China to study under a master noodle maker. (Along the way, he shot a short film involving noodles and nunchuks, which occasionally plays on the dining room’s flat-screen TV.) His research paid off: Mr. Song’s noodles are chewy, dense and so delicious that the soup they swim in seems almost superfluous.
Almost. That soup, of which I had expected so little because it wasn’t “real” ramen, chastened me. Gentle at first, it grew deep and its flavors kept going, aromatic layers of soy, garlic, ginger, cinnamon, cloves and star anise. The house special, loaded with shrimp, fat-streaked beef and a soy-stained egg, was restrained, but a variation labeled spicy beef proved that the kitchen had firepower.
The same noodles come fried in a dubious assemblage that recalls the greasy lo mein of dorm nights past, but tastes better than you remember. There are cold sesame noodles, too, not the usual mire in peanut butter and sugar but neat ribbons with a side of improbably light sesame sauce, for dipping. This is refreshing, although it lacks the classic’s gooey heat.
But noodles are only half the restaurant’s name. Little steamed buns, or xiao long bao (better known in the West as soup dumplings), have fantastically juicy, porky interiors. Don’t grab them too lustily, though, or they will tear and all that lovely pent-up broth will splatter. The safest approach is to nestle one in a soup spoon with a bath of black vinegar, nibble a hole in the skin to let the steam out (to prevent scalding your tongue), then look deep into yourself and either take a dainty sip of broth or wolf down the whole thing at once.
The menu has a few more necessities: thick, pleated buns with pork and gelatin liquefying inside, and brown-bottomed pan-fried buns sealed around Peking duck and hoisin or whipped eggs and chives. Otherwise, the scallion pancakes are oily, the ordinary dumplings leaden. You tiao, strips of deep-fried dough typically eaten for breakfast, could be good if the kitchen worked out the timing; mine were stale within moments of arrival.
Be warned that the noodles cling desperately to one another and reach such lengths that attempting to partition a bowl may yield little but mirth, then frustration. Hand-pulled-noodle shops often have scissors on hand for fumbling diners like me, but none were offered on my visits.
One night, I had to rise from my chair as I tugged at the strands, which continued spiraling upward, ever longer, refusing to break. “Just take them all,” my companions said, sighing. Well, if you insist.
Kung Fu Little Steamed Buns Ramen
811 Eighth Avenue (West 49th Street), Hell’s Kitchen; 917-388-2555; nykungfuramen.com
RECOMMENDED Spicy beef ramen; cold sesame ramen; egg fried noodle; steamed buns; pan-fried pork buns; Peking duck buns; fried buns with chives and egg.
PRICES $2 to $14.99, no American Express.
OPEN Daily for lunch and dinner.
RESERVATIONS Not accepted.
WHEELCHAIR ACCESS The entrance is level with the sidewalk. The restroom has a handrail.