Lagman: the noodle is pulled by hand
A lagman noodle starts as one rope of dough. The cook oils it, rests it, then stretches it out, folds it back on itself, and stretches it again. Fold, pull, fold, pull. One rope becomes two, then four, then eight, then more than you can count. Somewhere in there it stops being dough and starts being noodles.
If you have watched it done, the sound is the giveaway. The dough gets slapped against the bench between pulls, partly to stretch it and partly to keep it from sticking to itself. It is not quiet work.
Why it matters what the noodle went through
A machine cuts noodles to an exact width. Hand-pulling does not. You get noodles that are thicker in some places and thinner in others, and every bowl is a little different from the last.
That unevenness is the whole point. The thick parts stay chewy and hold their shape in hot broth instead of going soft. The uneven surface catches sauce rather than letting it slide off. A machine-cut noodle of the same flour would be smoother, more uniform, and duller to eat.
It also means lagman does not sit well. It is best in the first few minutes, which is why it is a dish worth eating at the table rather than carrying home.
Soup or fried, and which to order first
Lagman comes two ways, and they are different enough that people who love one are sometimes lukewarm on the other.
Soup lagman is the one most people meet first. Noodles in a beef and vegetable broth, with peppers and tomato and enough spice to warm you without any heat. It lands somewhere between a soup and a noodle bowl. On a cold night in Brooklyn it does exactly what you want it to.
Fried lagman skips the broth. The noodles go into the pan with the meat and vegetables and get tossed until everything is coated. Heavier, more concentrated, closer to what you might expect from a stir-fried noodle.
If it is your first time, order the soup. The broth is where the seasoning lives, and it tells you more about how the dish is meant to taste.
Where it comes from
Lagman traveled the Silk Road with the Dungan and Uyghur communities of Central Asia, and the family resemblance to Chinese hand-pulled noodles is not a coincidence. It picked up Uzbek and Persian seasoning along the way, which is how you end up with a noodle dish that tastes like cumin and coriander rather than soy and ginger.
That is Uzbek cooking in general. It sits at a crossroads, and it borrowed from every direction.
Try it in Mill Basin
Lagman is on the regular menu, and it also turns up in our Soup and Shashlik lunch special, a bowl of lagman or shurpa with one skewer and a salad, for $16.
Samarkand Nights, 6001 Strickland Avenue, Brooklyn. All halal. Closed Mondays. Tuesday to Thursday we are open 12:00 PM to 10:00 PM, and Friday to Sunday 11:30 AM to 10:30 PM. Call (718) 650-7600.
