You could walk past the shoddy exterior of Henan Lamian every day without giving it a second glance, but the noodle shop hidden within is worth a double take. In our six years of eating there whenever the craving strikes (and it inevitably does, several times a week), this hole in the wall has become our local mainstay, providing cheap and consistently good noodles around the clock.

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.

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).

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.

Editor’s note: This post is the first installment of “Best Bites of 2012,” a roundup of our top culinary experiences over the last year. Stay tuned throughout this week for “Best Bites” from all of the cities Culinary Backstreets covers. Hai Di Lao Hot Pot Restaurant We’re usually loathe to mention a restaurant that has locations all around China, but we were blown away by the dedication to customer service here – something that is sorely lacking in China. Too often, it’s a choice between authentic flavors or service. Not at Hai Di Lao.

When Yi Sheng Yue Wei opened on Yongkang Lu almost three years ago, its neighbors were pajama-clad retirees, a mahogany furniture workshop and the Shikumen History Museum – which, to be honest, is actually just one history buff’s storied alleyway house. Now the two-block street is one of the most laowai-gentrified in Shanghai, with bars run by French interns, coffee shops stocked with beans from Ethiopia and competing fish-and-chips shops. Rents have skyrocketed, and there’s even talk of transforming the thoroughfare into a pedestrian street. But amongst the hustle, bustle and inebriated foreigners, Yi Sheng Yue Wei remains, loyally serving the same home-style Cantonese food as it did when it first opened.

Dinner and a comedy routine isn’t a concept that has caught on in China. A few Sichuan restaurants feature a traditional show with the help of some loud music, a man with a flashy cape, and a mask with many thin layers that changes with a quick, hidden tug. But a Hunan restaurant? Never. At the popular neighborhood joint Hunan Xiangcun Fengwei, however, the finger-licking good food from Chairman Mao’s home province shares top billing with the subtle art of Chinglish menu translations that at first glance seem to defy explanation.

With a menu from the frigid provinces that border Korea, Dongbei Siji Jiaozi Wang – literally, “The Four Season Dumpling King from the Northeast” – is all about hearty dishes to warm you up from the inside out. The further north you head from the Yangtze River, the more the temperate climate demands that wheat trumps rice as the staple grain, often showing up on menus as dumplings and noodles. Yet despite its eponymous claim to represent China’s Northeast, not even the Dumpling King can escape Shanghai’s astringent influence, specifically in the condiment selection. Here you dunk your boiled dumplings in vinegar and sweet chili pepper rather than the typical Northern garnish that adds soy sauce to the mix (or sometimes boldly goes it alone with no vinegar), occasionally coupled with roughly chopped garlic.

Is there anything that warms the heart of a food-obsessed traveler more than civic pride in a local culinary specialty? In a country that more often celebrates a particularly polarizing political leader, the great affection among the people of Lanzhou for their famous noodles – which the city has reportedly even sought to trademark – gets our stomachs rumbling.

Confucius once said, “The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions.” He clearly never met a food writer, because superlatives and immodest speech are basically all we have to work with. But had Confucius opened a small patisserie, it would probably be Lillian Cake Shop.

Does anyone say “use your noodle” anymore? Our grandparents used to admonish us with that idiom when we didn’t think a situation through, but the phrase seems to have mostly gone out of fashion along with polyester suits. However, deep in the former French Concession, one esteemed food vendor is definitely using her noodle to help her customers enjoy, well, noodles.

[Editor's note: We're sorry to report that A Da Cong You Bing has closed.] In China, where queuing isn’t part of the culture, a long line of hungry diners patiently waiting for their food is just about the highest compliment a restaurant can receive. By those standards, Mr. Wu’s scallion oil pancakes are, hands down, one of the most sought-after breakfast treats in Shanghai. The line that stretches out his kitchen’s back door and wraps around the street corner means that fans of his savory pancakes can wait for hours, gulping in the scallion-scented air as they look forward to their chance to sink their teeth into the real thing. Scallion oil pancakes (葱油饼, cōngyóubǐng) are a common breakfast treat in Shanghai, but when Mr. Wu makes them, the little savory rounds stuffed with salty pork and scallions become an art form.