At Uncle Zhou’s, It’s All About the Hand-Pulled Noodles

Uncle Zhou is tucked into a strip mall in Plano and no one has updated its Instagram in five years. Still, this Henan-style Chinese restaurant enjoys a cult following.

At Uncle Zhou’s, It’s All About the Hand-Pulled Noodles

This strip mall spot in Plano, Texas is no-frills but a lot of thrills.

Zhou, who immigrated to New York from Central China’s Henan province in the 1990s, has certainly earned bragging rights, but with his neat side part, thick glasses, and sweet smile, he appears indifferent to exercising them. In 2019, he moved to Texas to be close to family, closed up shop in Queens, and reopened in Plano.

The Vibe

In a review of the Queens restaurant, the New York Times noted that Uncle Zhou’s dining room emphasized “function over frills.” In Plano, the frills remain at large. Located south of Stonebriar Centre between a Botox spa and a physical therapist’s office, the glass façade of Uncle Zhou is plastered with blown-up photos of Zhou’s food.

We go on a Monday night, so the place is quiet, though I’ve been during weekday lunch hours and on weekend nights when it’s packed. A wheel of fortune that guests can spin to win a free dinner stands by the door. Reviews and accolades, mostly from Uncle Zhou’s shiny New York era, hang framed beside the hostess stand. The actual Uncle Zhou leads diners to wooden booths and tables, or to the bar facing the semi-open kitchen. Laminated posters of individual dishes — pork belly with preserved vegetables, lamb soup with hand-drawn noodles, Kung Pao chicken — adorn the walls.

Food photos make for honest art here. One goes to this place to eat; vibe seekers and scenesters need not enter.

On the Menu

Made of wheat flour, water, and a bit of salt, pulled and twisted into their flat, wide shape, hand-drawn noodles comprise an entire menu section. We order the Dial Oil Noodles, famous among Uncle Zhou enthusiasts, and the server cuts them tableside with blue-handled scissors. They’re chewy and distinctly fresh, dressed in just the right amount of oil, with bok choy and bean sprouts lending texture.

Following the server’s instructions, we eat our scallion pancakes plain. Made from scratch, thin, crispy, and oily, they stand up without sauce.

Next on the agenda: shredded pork with spicy garlic sauce. This is no rice-and-vegetables-with-a-bit-of-pork-tossed-in situation. Strips of tender meat reign supreme, with wood-ear mushrooms and red and green peppers functioning as accents. Although the dish is touted as “spicy,” it’s pretty tame. Henan-style cooking draws from cuisines all over China, but leans subtle; anyone craving a burn can add the crispy chili oil, made in-house, that sits in a jar on each table.

The server suggests a Sichuan dish, ma po tofu, so we go for it, but as always, ma po tofu is… a lot of tofu. A pile of silken tofu. The savory brown sauce and scallions help, but after a couple of bites, I’m bored. (This is a me problem, not an Uncle Zhou problem.) The sauce in the dry stir-fried string beans is understated with just the right amount of saltiness. Sichuan peppercorns deliver their signature tingle and red chiles add color and bite.

The baked noodle and fish in sweet and sour sauce, a nice tang complementing the mildness of the tilapia, is a specialty from Zhou’s hometown, Zheng Zhou City, the capital of Henan. Like all fish on the menu, it’s served whole, and the noodles piled atop the fish are thin and crispy.

Prawns in something the menu calls Henan sauce round out the meal. They’re gigantic, still wearing their heads, tails, and shells, dressed in a dark, sticky sauce, and accented with fine shreds of ginger. Sauce-covered shells present a dilemma: How to get the prawns out without winding up covered in sauce? The server says to just go for it and then wash our hands. The rewards are delicious, plump prawns in a sauce that’s simultaneously sweet, sour, and a tiny bit spicy. I ask the server to ask the chef what’s in it and the answer that comes back from the kitchen is: No.

What to Drink

It’s not that kind of party — there is nary a “cocktail program” or wine list in sight. Pick up a six-pack of Tsingtao and Uncle Zhou will provide the ice bucket.

Best Seat in the House

The booths are spacious and high-backed, offering a bit of privacy, while still affording a view of the partially exposed kitchen, where cooks flip long, thick strands of dough into the air like jump ropes.