CQ Noodle & Bubble Tea
10140 - 104 Street NW, Edmonton AB
In the broad mosaic of world food available in Edmonton, no section is laid with the regional clarity and precision as that of the Chinese noodle house. Within the city limits are the rolling noodles of Xi’an, the hand-pulled noodles of Langzhou, the slithery rice noodles of Yunan and Guilin. While Sichuan standbys like dandan noodles appear on several menus, CQ Noodle and Buble [sic] might be the first to focus on Chongqing-style Sichuan noodles.
Even when CQ is full of customers there is a sleepy calm to the room. It is warmly lit, and decorated with angel figurines and other knick-knacks that might remind you of my aunt’s living room. If there is music, it will either be Chinese classical or the gentle chiming they play in nurseries during nap time.
The small service team has a maternal concern for your experience. They might suggest dishes for you to try, ask if you find the noodles too spicy, and afterwards remark on how little remains in your bowl.
Most of the dishes at CQ are large, tangled heaps of the thin wheat noodles called xiaomian. They are generally available as either “dry noodle” or “soup noodle”, the latter being served with a ladleful of concentrated, spicy liquid that doesn’t quite submerge the noodles. At some point partway through lunch you might find yourself pushing noodles around, searching for the broth at the bottom of the bowl. Regardless of the specific dish, expect warming chili, numbing Sichuan pepper, and forceful garlic, ginger, and sesame.
As to what will sit atop the noodles, there are several simple tasty options like ground pork (“Chef’s Meat”), or spare ribs that sing a bright, star-anise high note. “Chickpea with Meat Paste” is a bowl of noodles paved with a half inch of soft, un-seasoned chickpeas and finely ground spiced meat. When it all gets mixed together the flavour is something like a bowl of chili, with Sichuan pepper instead of cumin.
Or try the “Braised Pork Intestine Noodle Soup”. The loonie-sized rounds of organ meat are soft with a modest chew, almost like the bands of connective tissue you might find in a rustic braise. If you order the intestine with sufficient confidence you are sometimes brought a little plate of boiled peanuts - crunchy like water chestnut - and thin slices of dried sausage with an intense, acrid smokiness.
Every bowl of noodles comes with a couple leaves of baby bok choi, your perfunctory vegetable intake.
Non-noodle dishes include a wonderful hot and sour soup: an opaque, garnet broth with wontons or dumplings lurking beneath the surface. The steam buns are not as consistently cloud-like as other versions in the city, but are still good accompaniments. There are also several side dishes available that don’t appear on the printed menu, or at least not in the English text. For instance there is an interesting style of dried bean curd, with thin sheets folded on themselves, pressed, and sliced to reveal an attractive woodgrain pattern. The narrow crevices hold a spicy, nutty sauce rich with sesame.
Whatever you order, you will be asked how spicy you like it. “Medium spice” provides a stimulating chili heat. The peculiar, mouth-watering effect of the Sichuan pepper is present, but more like a grace note than a trumpet blast. A few times I deigned to order “spicy” but found it indistinguishable from “medium”. Suspecting a conspiracy to protect me from the full force of the Sichuan pantry, I finally asked for “super spicy” noodles. Here was the chili heat that made my lips throb as if I had kissed a frying pan, and the electric tingling of Sichuan pepper. If you go this route I suggest you prepare one napkin to dab the sweat from your brow, and another with which to blow your nose afterwards. You will leave the restaurant with a radiant glow and a mild high.
The ritual of spicy noodles is more therapeutic than any spa.
