In 2008, Shanghai’s noodle scene was dealt a mighty blow. A Niang, a granny from the ancient seaport of Ningbo who was famous among local foodies for her seafood noodles, was forced to close her streetside shop after being diagnosed with kidney disease. Over the past few decades, she’d gained a loyal following; her friendly, wrinkled face was a common sight in the dining room, as she often wandered through the hordes of hungry diners to say hello to regulars or wipe up a splash of spilled soup.

On the diner intimidation scale, Shanghai’s Chenghuang Miao Tese Xiaochi – which can be loosely translated as “City God Temple Snack Shop” – ranks pretty high, with aggressive lunchtime crowds and nothing but Chinese character-laden menus for guidance. But the payoff, a baptism by fire in authentic Chinese eating, is worth it. The hungry masses that congregate here have discovered a simple truth: the food here is quick, tasty and cheap – a gastronaut’s holy trinity.

Editor's note: We're sorry to report that the vendors and restaurants at Sipalou Lu and Fangbang Lu have suffered the same fate as those on Wujiang Lu and have been shut down. For street food, head to the area around Er Guang. In the lead-up to the 2010 World Expo, the government tore down one of Shanghai’s most famous food streets, Wujiang Lu, so the city would appear more “civilized” in the eyes of businesspeople and tourists visiting from around the world. Sparkling cookie-cutter international brands replaced family-run hawker stalls, and Wujiang Lu’s fried bun purveyors and stinky tofu vendors were scattered across the city. But its sad fate, which left a gaping hole in the city’s culinary landscape, also created new opportunities, allowing Fangbang Lu to become one of the city’s top food streets.

Ever since former President Deng Xiaoping opened China’s economic doors to the rest of the world starting in 1979, foreigners wishing to do business in China have had to find a local partner to form a joint venture company. Though no longer a hard-and-fast requirement, that’s still the modus operandi at Lotus Eatery, where a founding partnership brings together the best of both culinary worlds: unusual yet authentic local flavors and distinctly foreign notions of consistent quality and attentive service.

Editor’s note: This is the third installment of“Spring (Food) Break 2013,” a look at our favorite springtime foods in the cities Culinary Backstreets covers. In Shanghai, wet markets hold the telltale signs that spring is finally upon us. Stalks of asparagus as thick as a thumb spring up first, alongside brown and white bamboo shoots so freshly pulled from the earth that dirt still clings to their fibrous shells. But the most exciting spring green is fava beans (蚕豆, cándòu), also known as broad beans. Their short season in Shanghai – usually just about four to five weeks – means they’re in high demand, and stalls are filled with workers shelling the labor-intensive beans by the bushel.

Dear Culinary Backstreets, I’ve been hearing a lot about shark fin soup in the news lately, from countries banning the dish to people protesting government intervention. What’s all the fuss about? Imagine a wedding without Champagne. No popping corks, no celebratory toasts, no drunkenly giddy bridesmaids. Sounds like a nightmare, right? Shark fin soup is the Chinese equivalent of bubbly – only fermenting grapes has little effect on the environment, while the practice of “finning” has seriously jeopardized the survival of some species of this ancient fish. To harvest the goods, fisherman chop off a shark’s fins, then dump the still-living creature back into the water. Without its fins, the shark cannot swim and either sinks to the bottom of the ocean, where it drowns, or is eaten alive by other predators.

Sometimes a word in Chinese so perfectly captures a mood or feeling that the English approximation seems woefully inadequate. To take one example, the Chinese combine “hot” (热) and “noise” (闹) to describe the loud and lively nature of local hotspots, but in English, the best we can do is “bustling.” To experience what China’s “hot noise” is really all about, head to Wei Xiang Zhai. Not for the claustrophobic or timid, this wildly popular noodle house demands that you elbow your way to a table for your chance to slurp down a bowl of the city’s best sesame paste noodles (麻酱面, májiàng miàn).

Mention Anhui to most Shanghai residents, and you’ll most likely get a response along the lines of, “My āyí is from there.” Migrant workers from Anhui, one of the country’s poorest provinces, flood into Shanghai tasked with building the city’s skyline, massaging the clenched shoulders of white-collar workers and washing our dishes. Despite the fact that the province is the source of a third of all of Shanghai’s migrant workers – and that its cuisine ranks among China’s Eight Culinary Traditions – Anhui food isn’t held in the same regard as Sichuan or Cantonese by Shanghai gourmets.

Dear Culinary Backstreets, I’ve heard about “wet markets” but what are they exactly? What are the best wet markets in Shanghai? Stocked with all the fresh produce and live animals that hungry Shanghai residents could ever cook up, wet markets are an essential alternative to the brand-name supermarkets vying for their slice of market share in the country with the planet’s largest population. These markets are so named because the floor tends to be wet, thanks to the live fish flopping around and the vendors’ habit of throwing water on the ground to keep the area clean. With dozens of independent stalls in each market, competition is fierce, resulting in low prices (even cheaper if you bargain a bit), beautiful displays of produce, and the freshest fish and fowl to be had, butchered and cleaned right before your eyes. You won’t find shrink-wrapped plastic or expiration dates here.

Lantern Festival (元宵, yuánxiāo, or “first night”) is the fifteenth day of the Chinese New Year, and marks the last day of Spring Festival. This “first night” is actually the first full moon of the lunar new year, and in the Year of the Snake it lands on February 24. On this holiday, it’s customary for revelers to light red lanterns and eat sweet stuffed dumplings called tāngyuán (汤圆).

On one of Shanghai’s busiest shopping streets, amidst the glittering Tiffany & Co, Piaget and Apple stores, Guang Ming Cun is housed in a nondescript four-story building. Glass displays in front offer a glimpse of the braised and dried meats for sale, and around the side you can peek in to watch flaky meat pastries being flipped in a flat wok. But it’s the long lines of middle-aged shoppers patiently waiting outside the building that make Guang Ming Cun unmistakable. During Chinese New Year and Mid-Autumn Festival, these lines can reach up to five hours long.

As the moon starts to wane each January, people throughout China frantically snatch up train and bus tickets, eager to start the return journey to their hometown to celebrate the Lunar New Year (春节, chūnjié) with their family. One of the major draws for migrant workers heading home is the chance to eat traditional, home-cooked meals.

In Shanghai, there’s a time and a place for taking part in the city’s rough-and-tumble street food scene, but sometimes you want to eat out knowing that your bowl of noodles will not accidentally become someone’s ashtray or that you don’t have to elbow an elderly lady out of the way for a seat. Somewhere between the dive noodle stalls and the elegant confines of the city’s upscale banquet-style restaurants lies the holy grail of eating authentically: affordable local cuisine in a non-smoking, no grime, no-nonsense environment – with painted walls to boot! Meet the popular Shanghainese restaurant Jian Guo 328.

Good service in China is a relative term, and the longer you live here, the lower your expectations sink. The Michelin Guide allegedly won’t deign to cross over the Hong Kong border into China because they refuse to sully their white-tablecloth reputation by doling out stars to restaurants with subpar service. But the inspectors must have never entered a Hai Di Lao Hot Pot, or they might have to change their tune.

To qualify as a Chinese Time-Honored Brand (老字号, lǎozìhào), shops must prove that they’ve been a profitable business since 1956. Only about 1,000 brands across the country have achieved this honor, an impressive number considering the tumult of the last 60 years in China and the damage to hundreds of historical national treasures. Among these government-endorsed venues is Da Hu Chun (大壶春), one of Shanghai’s oldest fried pork bun shops, which first opened in the 1930s, less than a decade after its specialty dish, shēngjiān mántou (生煎馒头), was created.