Bowl-ed over

Goodness in an oversized Korean rice bowl.

Ramen done right

"In Japan, ramen is much more than a tasty bowl of noodles - it borders on an obsession. Forget that cheapo 'cup ramen' you downed to fuel college all-nighters. What we're talking about is perfection in a bowl: a rich broth labored over for hours; fresh, springy wheat noodles; savory, mouthwatering seasonings; and toppings like slices of tender braised meat and creamy soft-boiled egg. 

"But ramen isn't some high-concept cuisine, and that's the beauty of it. These noodles can be one of the most amazing things you've ever tasted, but this dish is about as down-home and down-to-earth as it gets." 

Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat in "Japanese Soul Cooking: Ramen, Tonkatsu, Tempura, and More from the Streets and Kitchens of Tokyo and Beyond"

Noodle pull

"I knew that I wanted a bright, modern place, but it had to be unmistakable as a ramen shop. I was a gaijin trying to break into the highly scrutinized, carefully documented, publicly policed world capital of noodle shops. There would be people ready to harp on every missed detail. 

"We ultimately decided to keep the bones of the old shop, but jazzed up the counter with a dark wood-grain laminate, squared off the corners, and added steel trim. We added lighting above and below the bar.

"Most ramen shops have stools for seating, and generally they're the most uncomfortable stools you can find. Ramen shops are all about fast turnover, and owners don't want customers to feel like they can hang around.

"But I wanted my business to be focused on service, just like Lutece had been all those years earlier. I bought nice comfortable stools with backs and decided to worry about shooing customers out the door later."

Ivan Orkin in "Ivan Ramen: Love, Obsession, and Recipes from Tokyo's Most Unlikely Noodle Joint"

Sprouting

Flipping through Sara Forte and Hugh Forte's cookbook "The Sprouted Kitchen," I am most intrigued, I think, by soba and salmon. It is what I gravitate towards. It seems I am a noodle girl at heart.

Soba Bowls with Tea-poached Salmon 
from Sara Forte's "The Sprouted Kitchen: A Tastier Take on Whole Foods"

3 Tbsp. toasted sesame oil
2 Tbsp. tahini
2 Tbsp. agave nectar
grated zest and juice of 1 lime
3 Tbsp. tamari or soy sauce
2-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely grated
1 bunch broccoli
2 tsp. extra-virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
pinch of sea salt
3 bags green tea
1 Tbsp. peppercorns
1/2 cup mirin or dry white wine
1 1/4 pound wild salmon fillet
1 (9.5-ounce) package soba noodles
4 green onions, white and green parts, thinly sliced on the diagonal
1/2 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro
1/4 cup white or black sesame seeds

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.

In a small bowl, whisk together the sesame oil, tahini, agave nectar, lime zest and juice, tamari and grated ginger until smooth. Set aside.

Cut the broccoli into small florets, including some of the stems. Combine the broccoli in a bowl with the olive oil, garlic and salt, and spread on a rimmed baking sheet. Roast for 15 minutes, then remove from the oven.

In a saucepan, bring 1 cup water to a gentle simmer. Turn the heat down to low, add the tea bags and peppercorns and steep for 3 minutes, then discard the tea bags. Add the mirin to the poaching liquid.

Gently slide in the salmon, skin side down. Cover, and cook until the salmon is just barely cooked in the middle, 8 to 10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the fillet. If in doubt, it's better to undercook the salmon a bit rather than overcook it.

Remove the salmon to a plate and flake it with a fork (you will notice a natural grain). Set aside and loosely cover with foil.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the soba noodles according to package instructions or until al dente. While the noodles cook, chop the roasted broccoli. Drain the noodles.

In a large bowl, toss together the warm noodles, broccoli, dressing, green onions, and half the cilantro.

Divide the noodles among four bowls, top with a portion of the salmon, and sprinkle the remaining cilantro and the sesame seeds on top. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.

Handy dandy

Food court fare

The dining options at Westfield Century City take food court fare to a whole other tastier level. There is sushi and ramen, Italian and Chinese, cupcake and yogurt. I could get used to this quite easily.

A human noodle vacuum

"You're gonna slurp those noodles. You're not chewing them. You're not cutting them up. You're trying to inhale them like a human noodle vacuum. And they should slurp in a pleasing way...

"And then that broth that they're served in, it should dress the noodles. It should coat the noodles. It should flavor the noodles. It seems like the simplest thing for a bowl of noodle soup to do. But when you're in front of a bowl and that's happening... you're most of the way there..."

Peter Meehan, co-editor of Lucky Peach, on a proper bowl of ramen on NPR's "All Things Considered"

Dining at Ruth's

The second oldest restaurant in Utah - we haven't a clue as to the first - Ruth's Diner in Emigration Canyon is housed in an old-school trolley car. We like the vibe and the decor.

With baked macaroni and cheese, a grilled portobello mushroom sandwich, and a classic chocolate malt pudding, we also like the menu.

Food for my father

When we were growing up, my mother spent afternoons in the kitchen making traditional Chinese dumplings and pastries. Determined not to let us forget who we were, she poached chicken and steamed fish. She simmered pots of soup. She stuck with the familiar.

But my father liked to experiment. Having been in California long enough to taste other foods, he wanted to introduce us to all sorts of things. He asked my mother to serve asparagus the way many Americans did - with hollandaise sauce. He showed her how to bake russet potatoes in the oven. He fed us sour cream.

He allowed my sibling and me departures from Chinese food, rescuing us from what would become our mother's predictability. He injected new flavors into our weekly menus, bringing home burgers from a restaurant near his store in San Francisco, patties so thick they dripped with each bite, and deep-dish pizzas. He had these with glasses of beer, a practice I have long since adopted.

He took us to the grocery store. My mother shopped mostly in Chinatown. But my father preferred the American supermarkets. We went with him on Saturdays for staples such as milk and bread.

My sisters, brothers and I wandered the aisles and filled the cart with cookies while our father stayed in the meat department comparing packages of beef. We never asked permission for the items we chose. He never denied us the foods we liked.

So it is disheartening to learn now that my father, as he gets older, sometimes fails to eat, that he sleeps late and skips meals, that he's uninterested in the things my mother cooks. That his weight has begun to fall.


Nutritionists and psychologists talk often about the connections between age and health, mood and appetite. In articles and on Web sites, they write about the benefits of a balanced diet, offering suggestions for seniors to stay well.

Eat more whole grains, they say. Eat more fruits and vegetables, beans and nuts. Eat less fat, cholesterol and sodium. They tell me nothing new.

They look at the possible effects of treatment and medication on appetite. One influences the other, they say. But my father isn't on treatment. He isn't on heavy medication. He takes a pill a day and a couple of calcium supplements.

They look also at environment. Seniors who live alone sometimes find it discouraging to eat alone. They don't like to sit by themselves. But my father does not live alone. My mother is next to him, cooking morning, noon and night. How could he not be hungry?


Watching my father in the kitchen, I recall a time years ago when he ate heartily, when sumptuous Saturday evening meals, for example, were rewards for weeks of hard work, when holidays, both Chinese and American, were occasions for serious family feasts.

My mother would fill the table with my father's favorites: cellophane noodles, shrimp and vegetable stir-fry, sweet and sour pork, as well as crab or lobster when they were available. She'd top the menu with refreshing slices of oranges or sweet, ripened mangoes.

Eager to watch television, my siblings and I tried to tear through the food. But our father disapproved. Slow down, he'd say. Enjoy your meal.

He'd pick up a mouthful of noodles with his chopsticks, touch it to his lips and taste. The seasonings were perfect. He'd lick the sauce off a piece of pork or wok-fried crab, savoring its juices.

Half an hour later, my father would wipe his lips, push his chair from the edge of the table and gently pat his stomach. Good, he'd say, smiling discreetly. I'm full.

I wonder if that might happen again, if my father would find such peace and satisfaction in the things he ate.


One afternoon, aiming to give him a respite from Chinese food, the way he had done for my sisters, brothers and me when we were children, I set out to make a pot of chili for my father.

I select a recipe from my eclectic collection and cook ground turkey instead of ground beef. I want the dish to be heart healthy. I include tons of vegetables: diced bell peppers, portobello mushrooms, corn, zucchini and tomatoes. I want it to be nutritious. I throw in chili powder and red pepper flakes. I want it to have a significant kick.

At my parents' house that night, I serve the chili with steamed white rice, something my mother cannot refuse. I note the ingredients and encourage them to help themselves.

My mother thanks me for cooking, saving her time and energy. It is not a big deal, I reply, before turning to my father, who scoops a small portion.

I want him to like the food. I want him to have seconds. Thirds even. I do. He doesn't. In the end, I impress only myself.


Perhaps the nutritionists and psychologists were right. Maybe my father - like others his age - isn't thinking much about eating. At 80, he has different concerns. But does his decreasing appetite for food in particular mirror a decreasing appetite for life in general?

Does he believe, 15 years into retirement, that he has tasted all there is? It would be a shame. I want to convince my father there are tons of foods he has not tried.

So I will continue to encourage my father to eat today and tomorrow. He is the one who introduced us years ago to American favorites, who did not deny us the snacks we craved, who pushed his chair from the edge of the table after an especially satisfying meal.

I will help my mother keep their kitchen stocked with all sorts of good food - the chicken and fresh fish she likes, the cereals and bananas he likes - and provide them occasional departures from the usual.

And on mornings when my mother visits friends in the neighborhood, I will stop by the house to spend time with my father.

I will boil eggs for his breakfast. Twelve minutes, no more, no less, the way I learned to in college. They will come out perfect. He can have them with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee.

It might not be the biggest or most extravagant meal in the world. It might not be fancy or expensive. But it will be a decent start.


(A version of this essay appeared originally in The Oakland Tribune.)

What Ohno eats

To prepare for the Winter Games, according to Sports Illustrated, speedskater Apolo Anton Ohno "has been on the same fit-for-a-parrot diet for 15 weeks; a meal rotation every three hours that includes oatmeal, salmon, brown rice, salad, fruit, seaweed, blue-green algae and, occasionally, pasta."

Is it any wonder he has but 2 percent body fat?

Though I could eat nearly everything on Ohno's list - what exactly is blue-green algae? - nowhere in that description do I see cake or ice cream or bagels and cream cheese or hamburger and french fries... Or anything else that might easily brighten a day. Imagine the discipline.

Oh well, so much for my Olympics speedskating dreams.

Feeding groupies

Jamie's Italian at Canary Wharf. It is the meal I look forward to. If Jamie Oliver is a rock star, then we are bona fide groupies. Admittedly so. It is the meal on which we conclude this particular trip. We enjoy spit-roasted lamb and pasta Bolognese. We are happy and well-fed.

Pho (a.k.a. Noodle Love)

For comfort and simplicity, few foods beat pho, beef noodle soup. Served in deep, oversized bowls, it consists of thin slices of meat cooked quickly in hot broth, long strands of rice noodles and a smattering of fresh herbs.

According to chef Mai Pham, author of "Pleasures of the Vietnamese Table," pho originated in Hanoi after the French occupation of Vietnam in the late-1800s.

Historians note its similarities to pot-au-feu, a French classic with meat and vegetables cooked in water or consommé. They believe the word "pho" (pronounced "fuh") comes from the word "feu," French for fire.

Others point to the influence of the Chinese, neighbors to the north who favored ingredients such as rice noodles, ginger and star anise.

In time, of course, the Vietnamese embraced pho as their own, Pham says. They added splashes of fish sauce, for example, to the simmering broth. Cooks in cities such as Saigon incorporated mung bean sprouts and aromatic Asian basil. These provide an irresistible crunch and a distinct fragrance. They also offered garnishes and condiments.

This is the pho Vietnamese immigrants introduced to American palates in the 1980s and '90s. This is the pho we know.

A rich, meaty broth is essential to the dish, Pham explains. Briefly blanching the beef bones and beef chuck in a separate pot helps to minimize impurities in the stock. Occasionally skimming the fat and foam off the top helps as well.

While the soup bubbles gently on the stove, work on other elements. Soak dried rice noodles in cold water to make them pliable. Prep mung bean sprouts and slices of yellow onions. Plate them alongside sprigs of Asian basil, for example, and wedges of lime.

Hours later, top servings of cooked noodles with slices of beef, and ladle into big bowls generous amounts of steamy broth. They should keep things hot through the end of the meal. With chopsticks in one hand and soup spoons in the other, slurp away.

(A version of this article appears in Relish. The photo is from Relish as well.)



I adapt the following recipe from Mai Pham's "Pleasures of the Vietnamese Table." For each bowl, Pham recommends 1 part noodles to 3 parts broth.

Pho Bo
(Vietnamese Rice Noodle Soup with Beef)

for the broth:
5 lbs. beef marrow or knuckle bones
2 lbs. beef chuck, cut into 2 pieces
2 (3-inch) pieces ginger, cut in half lengthwise, lightly bruised with the flat side of a knife, lightly charred
2 yellow onions, peeled and charred
1/4 cup fish sauce
3 oz. rock sugar or 3 Tbsp. sugar
10 whole star anise, lightly toasted in a dry pan
6 whole cloves, lightly toasted in a dry pan
1 Tbsp. sea salt

for the noodles:
1 lb. dried 1/16-inch wide rice sticks
1/3 lb. beef sirloin, slightly frozen, then sliced paper-thin across the grain

for the garnishes:
1/2 yellow onion, sliced paper-thin
3 scallions, cut into thin rings
1/3 cup chopped cilantro
1 lb. mung bean sprouts, tails trimmed
10 sprigs Asian basil (or Thai basil)
1 dozen saw-leaf herb leaves (optional)
6 Thai bird chilies or 1 serrano chili, cut into thin rings
1 lime, cut into 6 wedges
ground black pepper

Note: To char ginger, hold the piece with tongs directly over an open flame. Turn occasionally, charring it until the edges are slightly blackened and the ginger is fragrant, about 3 to 4 minutes. Char the onions similarly. Peel and discard the blackened skins, then rinse and add to the broth.

To prepare the broth:

In a large stockpot, bring 6 quarts of water to a boil.

Place the bones and beef chuck into a second pot and add water to cover. Bring to a boil and boil vigorously for 5 minutes. Using tongs, carefully transfer the bones and beef to the first pot of boiling water. Discard the water in which the meat cooked.

When the water returns to a boil, reduce the heat to a simmer. Skim the surface often to remove any foam and fat. Add the charred ginger and yellow onions, fish sauce and sugar. Simmer until the beef chuck is tender, about 40 minutes.

Remove one piece of meat and submerge in cool water for 10 minutes to prevent it from darkening and drying out. Drain, then cut into thin slices and set aside. Let the other piece continue to cook in the simmering broth.

When the broth has been simmering for about 1 1/2 hours total, wrap the star anise and cloves in a spice bag (or cheesecloth) and add to the broth. Let infuse until the broth is fragrant, about 30 minutes. Remove and discard both the spice bag and yellow onions.

Add the salt and continue to simmer, skimming as necessary, until you're ready to assemble the dish. The broth needs to cook for at least 2 hours total. (It will taste salty but should balance out once the noodles and garnishes are added.) Leave the remaining chuck and beef bones to simmer in the pot. Just before serving, bring the broth back to a rolling boil.

To prepare the noodles:

Soak the dried noodles in cold water for 30 minutes, then drain. Bring a big pot of water to a rolling boil. When you're ready to serve (not before), place the noodles one portion at a time into a sieve and lower it into the boiling water.

Using chopsticks or a long spoon, stir the noodles so they untangle and cook evenly. Blanch just until they are soft but still chewy, about 10 to 20 seconds. Drain completely, then transfer to a large preheated bowl. Cook remaining noodles similarly.

To assemble the dish:

Place a few slices of beef chuck and raw sirloin on top of the noodles. Ladle about 2 to 3 cups of hot broth into each large bowl. The heat will cook the raw beef instantly. Garnish with sliced yellow onions, scallions and chopped cilantro. Guests can garnish individual bowls with mung bean sprouts, herbs, chilies, lime juice and ground black pepper. Makes 6 servings.

"Wagamama" and me

Though I say nice things about Andy Raskin's "The Ramen King and I," I have pretty much stopped eating packages of instant ramen and Cup Noodles, and tend not to stock them in the house. The artificial quality and high sodium content frighten me.

On the other hand, I can appreciate fresh noodles served in big bowls of hot broth or stir-fried swiftly with slivers of meat and vegetables. I like the taste and the versatility. Birthday meals, for instance, always include platters of noodles.

In what can be called a stroke of synergy, I am given a copy of "The Wagamama Cookbook."

Written by Hugo Arnold, it includes ideas and recipes from the popular British restaurant chain specializing in soba, ramen and udon noodle dishes. The first outpost opened in London's Bloomsbury neighborhood; there are now dozens of Wagamamas around the world.

I favor chicken ramen and will have to try this version in the near future:

Chicken Ramen
(Charbroiled Chicken and Noodle Soup with Bok Choy and Bamboo Shoots)

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
vegetable oil, for oiling
salt and white pepper
9 oz. fresh egg noodles
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
2 bok choy, trimmed and roughly chopped (or 2 handfuls of baby spinach leaves)
12 pieces bamboo shoots, drained
4 scallions, trimmed and finely sliced

Preheat the broiler or grill. Lightly oil and season the chicken breasts and broil or grill for 4 minutes on each side, or until cooked through. Let rest for 5 minutes, slice on the diagonal, and set aside.

Cook the noodles in a large pot of boiling water for 2 to 3 minutes until just tender. Drain, refresh under cold running water, and divide between 2 bowls.

Heat the chicken or vegetable stock until boiling. Put the bok choy on top of the noodles and ladle in the stock. Top with the sliced chicken, bamboo shoots and scallions. Makes 2 servings.

"The Ramen King and I"

Andy Raskin's book is difficult to define. On one level, "The Ramen King and I: How the Inventor of Instant Noodles Fixed My Love Life" recalls the writer's deep and utter fascination with Momofuku Ando, "the 94-year-old billionaire who invented instant ramen in his back yard." It charts his career as founder and chairman of Nissin Food Products in Japan.

On another level, Raskin's work examines the ways in which Ando affected him personally. Through a series of frank and reflective letters he directs to the chairman but does not send, the San Francisco resident learns from his own mistakes with women he has dated. He discovers reasons for his infidelities and insecurities. He vows to do better.

Still, on another level, "The Ramen King and I" offers occasional looks into Japanese food and drink, both in the Bay Area and abroad, as well as Japanese films and comics. Raskin references these throughout his narrative, citing cinematic warriors, for example, and manga titles such as "Shota's Sushi" and "Ramen Discovery Legend." It is a tangle of threads. But it is a tangle that mostly succeeds.

With great enthusiasm and substantial clarity, Raskin talks of Ando's early days and experiences. He was born in Taiwan in 1910 and raised alongside two brothers and a sister by his paternal grandfather, a textile distributor. He considered the old man "a strict disciplinarian" and "an excellent role model for life as an entrepreneur."

In 1958, Ando experimented in a shed in his back yard in Japan and figured out a way to flash-fry noodles. This led to the creation of instant ramen. (A replica of the shack now stands "like a shrine" at the Momofuku Ando Instant Ramen Museum in Ikeda.) Thirteen years later, Ando developed Cup o' Noodles, utilizing a foil that would "serve as the top of a revolutionary packaging design in which instant noodles could be sold, cooked, and eaten." The product was subsequently renamed Cup Noodles.

Raskin devours as many books and articles by and about Ando as he possibly can, often quoting passages from autobiographies such as "Conception of a Fantastic Idea," "Magic Noodles" and "Thus Spake Momofuku." He attends a massive memorial service at Kyocera Dome Osaka when the chairman passes away in 2007, too; it is among the most endearing and compelling moments in the story.

The time the author spends researching Ando's beliefs, values and accomplishments coincides with the time he spends abstinent. He decides to stop dating in order to give himself the emotional distance necessary to understand his failures.

Heeding advice from a friend in a local support group, Raskin begins to pen letters that reveal intimate details of his fears and faults. Instructed to select a deity or a spirit to whom to address the letters (and thinking constantly then of ramen), he chooses Ando. His correspondence becomes an exercise in honesty. It is therapeutic and enlightening.

Eventually, Raskin realizes that the goals Ando established for ramen applies to his situation as well. The inventor wanted noodles that were tasty, long lasting, economical, healthy and safe. In the end, these words "also described the kind of healthy romantic relationship that had eluded me."

Does Ando actually repair Raskin's love life, as the author suggests? That is still debatable. The connection between the two men remains somewhat of a stretch. Though Raskin tries repeatedly to arrange interviews with Ando in Japan, for example, they never meet face to face. They never interact personally or professionally. The bond is tenuous.

For some reason, however, Raskin's memoir is oddly entertaining. Perhaps it is his earnestness and determination. So long as he believes Ando will guide and support him, who are we to spoil the illusion?

Perhaps it is the way Raskin peculiarly juxtaposes love with food, history with pop culture, and his life in San Francisco with his travels through Asia. Perhaps it is his voice, confident yet humble, self-effacing and unassuming. Or perhaps it is simply how he reminds us of the guys we knew in college, the ones who frequently faltered but genuinely meant well, who were inherently flawed but had significant potential, the ones who carried themselves a certain way, in short, the ones we couldn't help rooting for.

(A version of this review runs in the San Francisco Chronicle.)