and broth runs in our veins!

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m being perfectly honest when I say that my family makes the best handmade noodles I’ve ever tasted. We call it Biah Mee (drag it so it sounds like a big and hearty yawn: “Beeeeyaaaaaaaaah”), as I think most people do, but I’ve heard it called Mee Hoon Kway, and many other names which promote the noodles’ handmade, rustic, artisinal qualities.

A hearty bowl

A copius portion of bouncy wheat noodles wading in a nutritious broth of soy beans and ikan bilis (anchovies to the western inclined), generous helpings of green vegetables and bean sprouts, and a heaped topping of fried fishcake and pork slices, finished with sprinklings of crispy fried shallots and anchovies (again!).

Biah Mee was not something for a small family. Back when I could count my age on my ten fingers, making Biah Mee was a big affair, and the whole extended family would spend an entire afternoon at our house, milling around, kneading the dough, frying the condiments, washing vegetables, but mostly playing mahjong and watching us kids play. At every one of these sessions, the subject of much contention would be the favoured shape for the noodles. Some liked it long and thin, while others opted for thick and rustic, then there are the rare few who’d rather have it in small buttony knots, simply plucked out from the wad of dough with deft fingerwork. Comparisons of girth, length, chewiness, doneness, shape would eventually be inconclusive, and everyone’s bowl would have a bit of everything in it.

Biah Mee is a prime example of honest, homey, unpretentious food. So what if its not cooked al dente? The strands (doubt you can even call it a strand) are misshapen. No one cares! When it comes to Biah Mee, imperfection is embraced with open mouths, and not being consistent in measurements is looked upon with greedy eyes hidden behind steam-fogged spectacles.

It is an experience to be enjoyed as a whole, crowding around a big marble table top on heavy wooden stools, helping yourself to the cornucopia of embellishments, supplied by the various departments of the Lim family (the most crisp fried anchovies come from one of my uncles, while my granma fries ridiculously fragrant shallots, and some auntie would come with the fishcake, no doubt supplied by a wholesaler friend claiming it to be the best fishcake in town). All the while, Grandma is shovelling noodles into numerous bowls, soup is streaming from too many pots, and it takes a stock broker to track the exchange of plates and cutlery around the table. And then, a communal sigh of contentment and mutual agreement. Once broth enters belly, all Lims are equal. All are at the mercy of bowls bursting with familial union and love.

But now, after everyone’s pretty much grown up (the kids that is, and I’m the one of the younger ones of my generation so thats that), its hard to have a Biah Mee-ting like we used to. Still there ain’t no reason not to make it, and so we did make it tonight. A rather small batch as it may be, it still makes me fuzzy on the insides just looking at the steam rising. The few times we made it for our family of 4-9 (sometimes my uncle comes over), I tried to weedle the recipe from my mom. But something as honest as Biah Mee, never has a recipe. The recipe is called love.

Biah Mee at the food court? Pthoey! You might as well snip some grass from the roadside and start brewing tea to go with that.