Takashina Kansho, who founded a shop in Morioka called Pairon, had eaten zhajiangmian while living in Manchuria before the war. What he opened afterward was an attempt at that, adjusted repeatedly until it suited the people who were actually eating it.

The noodles are not Chinese noodles, whatever the name suggests. They are flat and thick, much closer to a udon than to anything Chinese, and they arrive under a generous heap of meat miso with cucumber and scallion alongside. The instruction is to mix it while it is still hot, thoroughly, until nothing at all is left sitting in a separate layer. After that you adjust it yourself with the vinegar, the chili oil, and the grated ginger sitting on the table.

The end of the meal is the part worth arriving for. You leave a little noodle in the dish, crack a raw egg into it, beat it, and hand the dish back across the counter. Scallion and meat miso go in, hot noodle cooking water is poured over, and it comes back as soup.

That is chitantan. The bowl gets used twice, and the second use is designed into the first: you have to plan for it while you are still eating, which is exactly why the regulars here never quite finish what is in front of them.