A cursory glance at the menu will reveal one an only one option. Do not be distracted by the myriad toppings on the table in front of you, or the cheery staff trying to convince you cold noodles are the best choice. Do not get caught up in deciding how you’d like your noodles cooked, since Hakatatenjin will cook them to order. Do not spend forever debating whether you want the thin, somen-like noodles, or the slightly thicker spaghetti-esque noodles. Do not be afraid to pay the extra 50¥ it costs to dip that ladle into the vat of pickled eggs and call one your own.

Or rather, do. Do all of this. Do, because you are at Hakatatenjin Ramen in Shinjukugyoenmae and any carb coma you might induce can be averted by a long stroll in the massive park nearby. You are safe, so go ahead and put on those extra pickled ginger shreds, and go ahead and finish off those menma. You’re in good hands.

Hakatatenjin Ramen is serious black pork ramen for seriously hungry patrons. In a country where hundreds of noodle shops line nearly every street, it can be difficult to pick one out of the crowd. Hakatatenjin’s boisterous staff and dirty yellow awning are tell-tale signs that old-school quality is not far behind, something so often amiss when it comes to the more modern, vending machine ramen spots. Even harder to find is service like this, with a staff that will try to make you giggle no matter which language you speak, and a policy that will dish up more noodles when you’ve finished your first batch for the same price.

大きな地図で見る

Ah and the noodles are why you’re here, aren’t they? The thinner, chewier cousin of the dime a dozen ramen chains in Shinjuku come in a tangled mess, compacted into the bottom of a chipped, cereal bowl. But the soup packs a flavour stronger than any cocoa puff or lucky charm, and when all is said and done you may find yourself never wanting to leave. If only that thick soup with beads of fat swirling round the surface could stretch on forever you could call Hakatatenjin home, because for all intents and purposes, when you’re here, you are home.

Hakatatenjin Ramen（博多天神 ラーメン）
Nearest metro stop: Shinjukugyoenmae

Kamatama Udon-ya is an unassuming little shop halfway between Hase station and the daibutsu in Kamakura. Like so many small noodle joints in Japan, you’ve only got a handful of choices, and even less elbow room to boot. Still though, the smell alone is all you need to be assured of its quality, and even then, if the smell wasn’t enough, there’s the tray of flour-speckled udon clearly just made today, the flying hands behind the counter chopping minuscule green onions, and the faint sizzle that can only mean tempura-battered something or other. You will not be disappointed.

It may seem crass to us foreigners, but eating the face of Buddha in your noodle soup is pleasantly kitschy in Japan, and in Kamakura especially, mere minutes from the great metal Buddha, such a gimmick is fitting. The soup itself is far from gimmicky. Perhaps it’s just been too long since I’ve had a proper bowl of noodles, or that my American sensibilities are so easily impressed by the delights of properly prepared Japanese food, but in any case I may have come close to reaching nirvana in that very shop.

大きな地図で見る

The noodles are thick, but light, not dense like some fall varieties of udon tend to be, and of a completely un-uniform nature that points to their handmade authenticity. Your smiling buddha udon can be served hot or cold, depending on the season, in a scalding or a lukewarm dashi stock, depending on your preference. Alongside the standard noodles and broth is a large soy bean (Buddha’s third eye), a fried fishcake (his nose), and one of the tastiest cured eggs I think I’ve ever had: a hard boiled, just set mix of salt and age that one could only hope to duplicate. Needless to say, I licked the bowl clean.

Noodles undoubtedly make for the best late night food. Whether you had an amazing evening filled with romance and poetry or a night of drunken debauchery, the noodle joint is the place to round it all out. Never tried it? Well, when three meals aren’t enough to tide you over for the day’s activities, I find a bowl of some kind of hot noodles — pho in the spring, vermicelli in the summer, udon in the winter, and in this case, ramen all year round — will fill you up without leaving you heavy, satisfy your craving for salt, and comes in a formidably-sized bowl big enough to abate even the largest of grumblies. Simply put, noodles are the best late night snack around.

So when I was feeling peckish after seeing a live show and found myself in Bloosmbury, where did I decide to go but to the original Wagamama. Those familiar with both the UK and Boston will probably nod emphatically here, while the rest of you might be wondering what in the world Wagamama is, let alone how a chain of pan-asian-themed restaurants could win someone as die hard as I over. Surely Wagamama doesn’t live up to its expectations?

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Of course it does. Wagamama started in a basement, but the establishment could hardly be described in terms of peeling paint, yellowing light, or faux-anything usually associated with Asian look-alikes here in the states. Westernised Asian in England has a posh edge to it (a la Ping Pong, but more on that later), with minimal polished wood tables, recessed lighting, and exposed architectural elements. It manages to keep from smelling like a mix of floor cleaner and peanut oil as well, confirming my suspicions that Wagamama is using fresh vegetables and homemade stocks in their concoctions.

That’s what I’m really here to write about anyway, the concoctions, which are salty without burning your tongue and manage to offer the unusual on a menu packed with crowd favorites (i.e., I ordered pretty faithful tsukemono, Japanese pickles most patrons haven’t even heard of). In Boston I had the yasai yakisoba and gyoza, which were delectable, though didn’t exactly reek of the street cart variety I had in mind. In London though, the miso ramen met all of my expectations. It was briny like the real deal, chock full of vegetables that came piled on top, requiring a bit of stirring to get you going, and had a healthy portion of wakame, or green seaweed in the proportions most westerners are afraid to dole out to an amateur. In search of a late-night bite, it really was everything I had hoped. Next time I’m in London, I will definitely check out some of the more off-the-beaten-path ramen joints, but with a reputation as big as Wagamama’s, can you blame me for giving the big boys a well-deserved shot?

I’ve been holding out on you. After living for almost a complete year in our nation’s capital, it’s fair to say I’ve picked my local haunts. I’ve found my favourites and denounced the competition, but while I’ve been frequenting the likes of my top sushi joint in Virginia for many moons now, I haven’t let you in on the secret. Don’t take it personally, I’m more than happy to share the wealth, and if I’ve been hesitant to say a peep, it’s because I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed because I always order the same thing.

Granted, Momo in Old Town Alexandria is a sushi stop, and any cuisine as specific as sushi probably warrants staying on well-travelled territory, but nearly every nigiri to touch my chopsticks has tasted well above my expectations so it was only a matter of time before I discovered the rest of the menu. It’s a risky move; I mean, how likely are the chefs to be good at sashimi AND teriyaki, really? But when I had an extreme hankering for some thick wheaty udon, I knew Momo was my place to go.

Upon first glance the shop seems small and modest, with a fairly run of the mill menu and friendly staff leading you to cramped tables. The noise level is nonexistent and the location is ideal, just a few blocks from King Street in the heart of the neighbourhood. You can find Japanese fare like this almost anywhere (though Momo’s rice is on the more excellent side of the spectrum), yet I’m almost always wary to say yes to the udon option linger alone on the back of the menu next to kuro-age and edamame. This was Momo we were talking about though, not the Frying Fish or Bonsai, so I gave it a go, and, well, you saw the video.

Perfect noodles. Udon done right: soft and chewy but not rubbery, clear salty broth that wasn’t too briny, lots of vegetables that still had a bite to them, that classic spiral-accented radish that makes me feel like someone knows how it should go back there, and a serving size that didn’t wither me at the onset. It didn’t break any records, but Momo’s udon was solid. It was a good, dependable, hearty dish that warmed my belly. How much more can you ask of a soup?

That’s kind of Momo’s niche anyway. Solid food. Really dependable, fresh sushi. In a region with as much great seafood as we’ve here in the DC area, I was astounded by the sushi selection and while I’ve had many a delightful crab cake, I’ve had very few worthwhile chirashi. Is Momo the best sushi I’ve ever had? Unsurprisingly no, having lived in both Japan and Los Angeles. But should you discount it? Absolutely not. Momo is a great place with stellar service and quality sushi and, as I discovered tonight, homey udon to boot.

Nong-Shim is a Korean food manufacturer known for their spicy instant noodles as well as a few varieties of shrimp crackers. When my local convenience store started carrying the brand along with the classic Japanese brands and the ever ubiquitous nissin cup-o-noodles, I thought I’d give their products a go to see if there was any validity to the “hot and spicy” promised on the packaging.

I picked up a few of the different offerings and started with the beef-flavoured cup (containing no actual beef, surprisingly) and I have to say, it’s much better than the atrocity I picked up last week: Maruchan’s Yakisoba. To begin with, the tiny cup holds a surprising amount of noodles, complete with lots of dried veggies, mostly green onions and mushrooms that rehydrated fully compared to the usual corn/carrot fare. You can see the sizable chunks in the pre-cooking shot below.

Generous flavour packet as well full of what was honestly a decently hot and spicy soup base. Sure it’s not tongue searing, but it certainly isn’t for the faint of heart and I personally find it pretty refreshing to have a bit of the good stuff in the instant noodle aisle. It was bright red, so from the get go I thought it promising.

Packaging is sturdier than your average instant noodle cup, more plastic than styrofoam, and the paper is coat to keep the water and steam in. I noticed the difference when the noodles were completely plump and ready before my 3 minute timer was up. I quite enjoyed the taste, and especially liked that you could add less of the flavour if you were sensitive to spice or worried about the nutritional intake. It’s pretty easy to spot in the bright red and black graphics, though not often easy to find. Much more popular are the company’s shrimp and “vegetal” flavoured Kimchi bowls.

Price wise, all the Nong-Shim products seem to rank about the same as the upscale and fancier instant noodle bowls, on par with something like Kraft easy mac or Chef Boyardee, though to my taste buds, far tastier (about 1.50 at my local 7eleven). Health-wise the Shin Cup also on par with other instant noodles, complete with 65% of your daily sodium intake, though the Shin Cup also has 2g protein and 12g of fiber, and 0 trans fat if you’re counting. Surprising for a convenience food, actually.

Overall I rate the shin cup pretty highly. I look forward to giving their packets of Yeul Ramyon and the larger Kimchi-flavoured noodle bowl a try soon. I’ll be sure to share my findings. But first, I have some noodles to finish!

Oh David Chang. How hyped up you’ve been. How polarising your food is. Inevitably, you either love your hate the brazen and sometimes winning concoctions that Momofuku restaurants serve up. The noodle bar is especially well known for a fresh approach to pan-Asian cooking, for amazing pork buns, and for a bowl of ramen you just have to try. Well, if it involves noodles, clearly I’m there. So, I marched down to 1st Ave the first time I was in New York City as an adult, patiently waited for the hot seat, and dove in. Now here’s where the yelpers declare war. Some claim the joint is well worth the big city prices, the big apple wait times, and the big names behind it, while others think it’s an over-priced, over-spiced, over-hyped trend.

And on which side of the line do I fall? Momofuku may be hit or miss, but for me it’s mostly miss. I’ve been a few times now, and as a Momfuku vet, I have to say the allure has rubbed off and in its stead lie over-salty noodles, over-sauced rice cakes, and not enough skill to back up the build up. Of course I still greatly enjoyed the experience, I was after all facing the prospect of a bowl of ramen, or ginger noodles, or spicy chow mein, or whatever was on the large chalkboard over the bar. Still, there are better noodles to be had faster and cheaper.

Perhaps my woes are the context. The ramen, so beloved by the write-ups, is crashing haute cuisine by the new “it” kid against the age-old fast food. The whole appeal of hot ramen is the efficiency, the standard-ness of it all, the mere fact that because you are only using two ingredients really, noodles and broth, they both better be damn good. There’s something about putting too-chewy noodles in searingly spice broth with a mucky egg and something more akin to cuban pulled pork that just rubs me the wrong way. Sure it’s got that cramped counter feel, that eat-it-and-run vibe, but the loving intensity of the chefs is not imbibed in every marble of fat that floats on the surface. So no, Momofuku, you ramen failed. But, if you stop thinking of the ramen as the crowning glory, in fact of the noodles being center stage at all, the place becomes infinitely more appealing. I was taken aback by how truly delectable all of the starters were, and again by how perfectly the seafood was paired with the accouterments. So perhaps, Momofuku, I failed you.

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Don’t let me for one moment convince you any of the Momofuku establishments aren’t worth your patronage. The food is innovative certainly, and it’s rare someone takes on pan-Asian fusion wildly and aimlessly and comes out of it with accolades, but if you were ever to find an exception, New York would be the place, and David Chang would be your man. He ignores all the rules, and while a purist like myself can sometimes balk as Chang steamrolls the cultural nuances the average diner misses, he does add a good dose of open-mindedness to the American melting pot that can hardly be considered uncalled for. For all the food falls short, I’m still a fan.

The die-hard Daikokuya fan in me can’t concede the title of best ramen (tonkotsu is the real McCoy) to a contender as hodgepodge and poorly seasoned as Momofuku, I can say there are a few hits in the menu. For $35, the four-course pre-fixe is a steal, and every time I’ve gotten it at least one of the dishes has been stellar (last time was fennel and apple soup with rockpool oysters, the time before was seared skate medallion with pineapple salsa). The pork/shitake buns truly are some of the most unbelievable buns I’ve ever eaten: soft, moist, dripping with god knows what is in that sauce (probably baby tears, again, because something so delicious can only come from something so sacrilege). And of course, Texan as I am, any place you can get a Lone Star is okay with me.

My advice is to go, if nothing else to see what the fuss is about. Have yourself a soju slushie, sit at the open kitchen if you can, and at least consider the pre-fixe menu. Brave the line, definitely order the buns, and enjoy the ambiance, the experience, the wow factor that you can find only in New York, the kind of place that lets wacky experiments in multicultural inbred cuisine not just occur, but thrive. If all else fails, there’s always the soft serve for dessert. Don’t call it Milk Bar, just call it Plan B.

More pictures and videos of Momofuku and the rest of my trip to New York at Unlikely Squiggle’s Flickr.

I grew up a Texan girl in a world filled with tex-mex. Our regional fast food chain which, some think, can’t hold a candle to In-N-Out or Five Guys, serves honey butter biscuits, thick slices of texas toast with every meal combo, and awesome, slightly misnamed taquitos every night after 10pm. Nearly everyone frequents another regional chain, Taco Cabana, which kicks Taco Bell’s sorry behind into exile in Oklahoma, for quickie fajitas and to stave off al carbon cravings. We’re the kind of folks that won’t think twice about downing a late night carnitas taco, the real kind without that beans and rice filler and with plenty of punchy sauce, and then throw back two breakfast tacos hours later, when we finally sober up. The rest of the world has the anytime kebab, and we have the taco.

But in a world of tacos, sometimes you don’t want to wake up reminded that your amazing authentic tacos were made with lard, and while I can scarf anything Mama Ninfa or Yolanda can serve up by the light of day, sometimes I want a late night alternative that doesn’t leave me squirming by sunrise. Have you ever tried to sleep on a belly full of beans? It isn’t so easy, and that’s why, deep in the heart of Texas, hidden amid the myriad taco joints, is Mai’s.

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Seated in the 4th ward of Houston, Mai’s is a noodle standard and a midtown favourite that’s been around for well over twenty years. It was the first Vietnamese restaurant in Houston, so you know it has to be quality, and its 4am close time on weekends (3am regularly) means you can expect the college crowd just as readily as you can expect family outings from the city’s now sizable Vietnamese population. The joint’s variety isn’t just limited to its patronage; Mai’s menu is as diverse as it gets and caters to everyone from serious meat lovers to the seriously meat-free. It doesn’t mater if you’re riding the tail end of a night downtown, if you’re heading north from your usual stomping grounds, or if you’ve made a special trip from Sugarland, Mai’s is the place for your vermicelli and pho and even stir fry needs.

Pho Chay from Mai’s in Houston Texas

If you’ve never had the Vietnamese version of noodles, vermicelli, you’re in for a treat. Vermicelli is a bowl of often cold and translucent rice noodles, spun thin like glass, piled high in a bowl, and topped with a carmelised pile of pungent meats, vegetables, and tofu. You can be a master of the chopstick, but once you pour on the slightly spicy sauce that comes with vermicelli, reminiscent of the sweet chili sauce Australians are so obsessed with, chances are you’ll be chasing around the slippery noodles for ever unless you just give up and do the “lift and shovel” maneouver everyone else in the shop is doing. Forget your Southern etiquette, Mai’s is a place for slupring and shoveling and smiling and verily enjoying your vermicelli, or any other kind of noodle encounter the powerhouse seems to provide. You can call it radical, you can call it regular, you can call it dinner, but any way you twirl it it’s another step in the great noodle march forward.

Today I begin what is intended to be a long march in the pursuit of progress, centered around what is inarguably one of man’s greatest and most beloved achievements. I am nowhere near the first to embark upon such a noble quest (in fact, I take great inspiration from such pioneers before me) and I will certainly not be the last to partake of an epic journey the likes of which ordinary enthusiasts balk at (in fact, my enthusiasm borders on obsession, nay, addiction at this point), but the task before me holds all the markings of a true march: swollen with great personal meaning and weighed down by much intrinsic value with which only a few many understand but many will benefit from. My resolve is stout and my stomach for “eating bitter” strong, so with a head full of dreams and a heart full of broth I set out today to explore the wonder of noodles in their entirety.

That’s right, I said noodles. I am of course waxing poetic about those wheaty, squiggly things embraced by the young and old, the Italian and Chinese and American alike. Just as I’ll certainly ne’er tire of bread, so too my feelings on noodles are equally, if not overwhelmingly, warm. And how can they not be? With so many varieties and concoctions just waiting to be slurped up in one way or another, it’s damn near impossible not to dedicate at least some time, effort, and space on this website to the task of enjoying the bounty the noodle kingdom has to offer.

I’m not just talking about the beautiful bowls of momofuku or daikokuya, nor am I limiting myself to sumptuous mac’n'cheese or pasta napolitana, I’m head over heels for instant cup’o'noodles, for street-stall yakisoba, for grandma’s tsukumen, for that quickie lunch-counter bowl of pho, for tiny packets of frozen udon and soup that comes in a can, too. I have never met a noodle I didn’t enjoy, and I’m out prove that truer and truer with every bowl of ramen or plate of spaghetti I conjure up. It is from this undying adoration for noodles thick and thin, rice and wheat, in all manner of flavours, shapes, and sizes, that the idea of the noodle march first came to me.

Essentially the aim of my forthright noodle march is to leave no pot unturned and try every noodle variety I can get my hands on. I’ll be reviewing packaged noodles available in any grocery store, I’ll be sharing new noodle recipes from my own kitchen, I’ll be researching the history of uncommon noodle varieties, I’ll be sharing the noodle fascinations of others, and I’ll be trying out new noodle hot spots in the DC area and around the world, documenting my progress here, all in hopes that I’ll find that one, magical noodle, the bowl of ramen to rule them all or the pot of pasta to incite the second coming, because a life in search of noodle is a life well spent.