Wandering around Shanghai’s quieter streets, you may often hear a thump thump thwack! ringing out from a streetside café. If you’re lucky, it means someone is pulling noodles fresh to order, and if you’re even luckier, you’ll happen to be hungry enough to enjoy a bowl.

Food lovers mourned the loss of Shanghai’s Muslim market when it packed up its stalls a couple of years back, but the closure wasn’t too unexpected. Street food is always in a state of flux in Shanghai, and add to that the ethnic tensions that have developed between the Chinese majority Han and the Muslim minorities that butchered whole lambs outside Putuo’s Huxi Mosque each Friday, and it seemed like a matter of time before the weekly event was closed. The government ostensibly blamed neighbor complaints (the bazaar seemed to have outgrown the sidewalks, interfering with traffic and sending smoke from the grills into the residential areas), and vendors were abruptly told to pack up.

In typical Shanghai fashion, good things come to those willing to stand in the longest lines, or to pre-book the farthest in advance. We’ve seen the queue for braised duck at Guang Ming Cun swell to several hours long during the Chinese New Year, and A Da's scallion pancakes require a minimum hourlong wait on most days, yet we had never expected the same for the humble zòngzi (粽子).

Editor’s note: We regret to report that Bai Jia Qian Wei has closed. 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.

One of the seven necessities of Chinese daily life, rice is eaten in many forms throughout the day, including – and especially – at breakfast. Congee is undoubtedly China’s best-known breakfast food, but less famous globally, and wildly popular locally, is the unassuming rice ball (饭团, fàn tuán).

Shanghai is a street food lovers' paradise, with carts slinging dumplings, pancakes, noodles, buns and grilled meats on sidewalks across the city, morning, noon and night. These are a few of our favorites. 1: Shengjianbao A Shanghai specialty, shēngjiān mántou (生煎馒头) – or shēngjiān bāo (生煎包), as they’re known everywhere else in China – are juicy pork buns wrapped in bread dough, then arranged in a flat, oil-slicked wok in which the bottoms are deep-fried till they are crispy. Although shengjian mantou can be found on most street corners in the morning, we’re especially fond of the delicious misshapen buns at Da Hu Chun. A Chinese Time-Honored Brand (老字号, lǎozìhào), Da Hu Chun has been splattering grease since the 1930s and, nearly 80 years later, has six restaurants across Shanghai. The venue’s chefs use the rare “clear water” technique, frying the pinched side of the dough face-up to create little Frankenstein buns that might not be as photogenic as the more common “troubled water” variety, but that have a thinner skin that gets extra crisp – and we’ll sacrifice good looks any day if it means better flavor. 2: Guotie

Planning dim sum with friends at Jade Garden might require “Save the Date” cards: The flagship restaurant of Hong Kong’s Maxim’s group is the hottest table in town and – at the time of printing – the next available reservation is six months away. For yum cha aficionados who aren’t deterred by hours-long queues, the Jade Garden does save some tables, but it’s less of a walk-in and more of a mass sit-in.

As soon as spring has sprung, Shanghai’s expat population flocks to the many patios, rooftops and terraces of the city’s dining establishments to eat and drink, but finding a Chinese restaurant with an outdoor space, especially one in the sun, can be difficult. However, just because the sun is out doesn’t mean you have to eat Western. We’ve rounded up five great places in town where you can wield your chopsticks while soaking up your daily dose of Vitamin D. In no particular order:

Editor’s note: We regret to report that Charmant has closed. We’ve mentioned Charmant before on Culinary Backstreets, giving it a nod for its night-owl dining opportunities (it closes at 2 a.m.). But this restaurant tastes good all day long and has something going for it that few Shanghai restaurants have: consistency. After more than seven years of loyal patronage (not to mention the restaurant's 11 years of operation since opening in 2004) and Charmant’s split from its parent company, which runs the equally successful Taiwanese chain called Bellagio, we have yet to notice a slip in quality.

In the early 1980s, Xue Shengnian was a farmer out in the village of Hongqiao. On the side, he painted houses and factories to try to make ends meet. Then he heard that the economic liberalization known as Reform and Opening was allowing citizens to start private restaurants and he thought to himself, “I know how to grow the vegetables; I bet I can cook them too.” So he opened A Shan in 1983, only the second restaurant ever in an area better known for its fields than its food.

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. This year, revelers will make an estimated 3.64 billion passenger trips during the festive season, up 200 million from the previous year. One of the major draws for migrant workers heading home is the chance to eat traditional, home-cooked meals.

Dunlop is a cook and food writer specializing in Chinese cuisine. She is the author of four books, including, most recently, Every Grain of Rice: Simple Chinese Home Cooking. She has won many awards for her work, including four James Beard awards, an IACP award, four awards from the British Guild of Food Writers and an award from the Hunan government. Her writing has been published in the Financial Times, The New Yorker, The Observer and The New York Times, and she is also a frequent pundit on Chinese food on BBC radio and television, as well as many other media outlets.

Shouning Lu is known as Crawfish Street, with street food vendors often stewing, grilling and frying up the same seafood dishes up and down the one-block stretch. But there’s one land-lubbing vendor that has carved out a niche for itself: Ǎizi Xiànbǐng (矮子馅饼), or Dwarf’s Pastries.

Although coffee culture is booming in China, the Middle Kingdom is still the world’s biggest consumer and producer of tea leaves. The drink is so important that one Chinese proverb claims, “It is better to be deprived of food for three days, than of tea for one,” and tea is included on the list of the seven necessities of Chinese life (along with firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce and vinegar). Chinese joke that you can study tea for your entire life and still not learn the names of all the different kinds. But for tea newbies, there are four basic types of the brew to help slake your thirst for knowledge.