4am, I stumble out of the Shelter and onto the bizarre little street that is Yongfu Lu. Its a microcosm of the Shanghai jungle itself. It's heaven for people-watchers - every species of Shanghai animal gathers here, as if its a watering hole in the Savannah.

It's got an underground music venue. You have a swanky cocktail bar full of young professionals. There's a trendy upmarket club filled with local 30-something picky girls looking for laowai love. Another bar is marketed as the authentic drinking den of a northern European ethnicity known for its hard-drinking. A small club with a different local DJ no-one heard of fights for attention. And there's also a weird watering hole full of Frenchmen. A hair salon and a pet shop complete the curious trading line up here. And just around the corner, there's a Jazz club where you go because you heard Jazz was urbane and sophisticated.

But this Shanghai animal's focus of interest lies elsewhere. I turn my back on the street beggars and revelers and head around the other corner. Having spent my youth concluding late-night revelry in the kebab shops of urban UK, that urge to quell one's hunger and lessen the impact of tomorrow's hangover remains undiminished.

I am in search of a late-night feast. The old meat at the Dragon club never appealed much, so Lanzhou lamian it is. I stagger into the tiny hole-in-the wall shop, through clouds of steam billowing from the metal pot boiling the noodles. There are some other Shanghai animals in there. Some younger clubbers. The odd taxi driver, and other such random creatures of the night.

I sit down next to a complete stranger and begin discussing how events of the past few hours have gone for them. I will recall nothing of the conversation the next day. But anything to take my mind of the grease-covered table I'm about to eat from is a worthy excercise. Turning my attention to the proprietor of the noodle emporium, I amaze him by telling him he's from Qinghai province, just like every other Lanzhou lamian boss. This nugget of knowledge is the product of too many late night drunken conversations in other such noodle houses. The service is simple and friendly.

Mr Qinghai gets to work making my noodles. The constant whack of the dough at it flattened against his work surface drills pierces my ears 10 times more powerfully than the bass bin I was dancing beside 5 minutes ago. Watching your meal be prepared in this way is a unique experience, something you can't get on the Bund. The noodle shop also offers other features not found in higher end eateries, such as the occasional beetle in your soup, rodents underneath your table, and staff who break wind openly in the middle of the restaurant.

This time, the surprise event is smoke from burning cooking oil wafting into my face from the kitchen. I exchange looks with someone who appears to be a bearded new-age traveler - the smoke is making his eyes water. Over at the noodle counter, Mr Qinghai continues working, his head stuck in the acrid cloud, as if it wasn't there.

An elderly lady walks past my table towards the kitchen, carrying a hunk of meat which looks like its been lying on the floor. I look the other way - just as my noodles arrive. I spoon on some lajiao spicy sauce, and my mouth starts salivating as soon as I start splashing on the vinegar. The noodles are soft, yet chewy. A hit of coriander tried to add subtly, but I've killed it with spicy sauce.

Two Locals sit nearby, slurping away happily. I decide to join in the noise making with my own slurping - when in Rome, as they say. After a minute or so, I'm about to stop, because its not so funny to do it when its regarded as normal by some, but suddenly a foreign girl, who looks like she's eaten 10 plates of noodles already, looks at me disapprovingly from the opposite table. I chuckle to myself as I shovel another bundle of boiled strands of dough into my lajiao-soiled lips and mouth....

The fun just never ends in the just-around-the-corner-from-Yongfu Lu noodle shop. It's an experience far beyond the culinary dimension.