Zucchini, onion and tofu simmer in anchovy broth, and the shredded perilla leaves get only the last thirty seconds. Any longer and the leaves darken and their aroma goes dull. The tofu is scooped in with a spoon instead of cut, leaving rough surfaces for the broth to soak into.
Turmeric turns the broth a bright gold, and galangal and lemongrass give the chicken stock a warm, citrusy perfume. Unlike a plain chicken noodle soup, the aromatics are ground into a paste and fried in oil before the chicken and water go in, which gives this Indonesian soup its earthy depth. Rice noodles, boiled eggs, and mung bean sprouts sit in the bowl first, and the hot broth poured over them warms everything through. A squeeze of lime at the table cuts through the turmeric.
The water left from rinsing rice becomes the soup base. Doenjang pressed through a sieve into it loses some of its chalky heaviness and tastes softer. The young napa cabbage looks like far too much when it goes in, then wilts down into the broth within about two minutes.
Black vinegar and chili oil hit at the same time, sour and hot, over a chicken stock with slippery, springy sweet potato starch noodles. Both are added to the bowl rather than the pot, leaving each person free to tune the sourness. The noodles turn clear before they are fully done; the real signal is when the firm center disappears but the bounce remains.
It starts with blanched young napa cabbage rubbed with doenjang, gochujang, chili flakes and garlic. The beef simmers separately meanwhile and is skimmed until the broth runs clear; the seasoned greens then go in for twelve minutes, and the paste clinging to the leaves dissolves into the soup.
Soft tofu spooned in large pieces stays in tender curds within the anchovy broth, sliding down alongside the knife-cut noodles. It is added only after the noodles are done and barely stirred, since any real stirring breaks it into small bits. The broth tastes clean and mild, seasoned only with soup soy sauce, garlic and salt and no chili. A minute of simmering after seasoning takes the raw edge off the garlic, and skimming the foam keeps the broth clear. The noodles are loosened by hand and scattered in rather than dropped as one mass. Zucchini half-moons cook for just 2 minutes to keep their shape and color.
For when you miss the fish cake broth from a street stall, this needs only square sheets of eomuk (Korean fish cake) and radish. Rinse the fish cakes once in hot water to strip off the frying oil, and the broth stays clear to the last spoonful.
Dough made from sendango, a fermented sweet potato preserve, is pressed through a dedicated extruder called a rokubei-segi so short, thick noodles drop straight into boiling water. The dish has been made in Shimabara and Tsushima in Nagasaki since the Edo period. The noodles are smooth outside, chewy inside, and faintly sweet from the potato. Once cooked, they are moved straight to cold water and rinsed to wash off the harsh surface. They are served in a clear broth of burdock, carrot, and shiitake seasoned with two soy sauces and sake, topped with fish cake and scallion.
Fish cakes of assorted shapes simmer with shiitake in a kelp and radish broth and come to the table in the pot, seasoned lightly with soup soy sauce so their own flavor stays in front.
Glass noodles, shrimp, squid, pork, napa cabbage, and wood ear fill a clear chicken broth, finished with half a hard-boiled egg on top. The dish came from Fuzhou in China's Fujian province, where it was a celebration food, and reached Kumamoto by way of Nagasaki in the late Meiji era. Today it appears at Chinese restaurants and home tables in central Kumamoto as lunch, dinner, or a meal after drinking. The seafood is added only after the pork and firm vegetables have cooked, which keeps the shrimp and squid from turning rubbery. To keep the broth clear, the glass noodles are boiled and rinsed separately, warmed in the soup only at the end, and the heat is cut as soon as the sesame oil and scallion are added.
Skewered fish cakes and thick slices of radish simmer in anchovy and kelp broth, a soup Koreans set out alongside drinks. The kelp comes out the moment the water starts to boil, which keeps the broth from turning slick.
Beef shank, first fried with doubanjiang (fermented chili bean paste), simmers in a soy broth until it splits under a chopstick, then goes over wheat noodles in big chunks. The broth is dark with soy and only gently hot, and a few blanched bok choy leaves add some green.
In Chungcheong, eotang starts with whole freshwater fish simmered for more than forty minutes until even the flesh dissolves into the broth, which is then strained twice through a fine sieve or cloth to catch the small bones. Radish and doenjang go into that broth for a second simmer, and chili flakes and green onion give it a sharp finish.
A pork bone broth thickened with sesame paste and miso turns creamy and heavy, and pork mince fried with doubanjiang, a Sichuan chili bean paste, sits on top with a slick of chili oil. In this Japanese ramen take on Sichuan dan dan noodles, there is plenty of soup and sesame leads the flavor. The sesame paste and miso get a brief stir over low heat before any stock is added, which draws out their nutty aroma, but they come off before they brown. The stock is then whisked in a little at a time so no lumps remain. The pork fries until its moisture cooks off and the edges brown, and the heat drops to medium if the doubanjiang starts to scorch. Shake the boiled noodles well, since extra water dilutes the thick broth fast.
Pacific saury is pounded in a mortar until sticky, mixed with miso, egg and sake, and shaped into balls that go into plain water first. The miso and fish in the balls turn that water into broth, and daikon, carrot and tofu follow.
Sesame paste whisked into chicken stock turns the broth thick, tan, and nutty, and a spoonful of crumbly pork plus a drizzle of chili oil sit on top as separate layers of salt and heat. Doubanjiang, a fermented chili bean paste, gives that pork its savory backbone, and the pork is fried until its moisture is gone and the edges brown and crisp. Stirring the bowl gradually blends the chili oil into the sesame broth, changing the taste of the soup from the first sip to the last. Peanut butter can stand in for half the sesame paste, and the amount of doubanjiang sets the heat. The noodles come out a little before the package time so they stay firm in the hot soup. Blanched bok choy adds a crisp, green bite against all that richness.
The sardines are ground in a mortar until no grain is left, then mixed with grated mountain yam, egg and miso into a sticky paste for the dumplings. The miso seasons the dumplings themselves, so the broth needs only a little soy sauce.
Star anise and cinnamon steeped in beef broth, darkened with dark soy sauce, give this bowl its deep color and warm spice aroma, while fish sauce and a little palm sugar keep it salty with a rounded edge. The name comes from noodles once sold from boats along Thai canals. Thin beef slices cook in the hot broth for only a minute or two, and the bean sprouts soften under the ladle yet keep some crunch.
Each piece is stretched so its edges go thin and tender while the center stays slightly thicker and springy, giving two textures in one bite. Hittsumi comes from southern Aomori, and the name points to the pulling and pinching of dough rather than rolling and cutting noodles. The rested bread-flour dough is torn straight into dashi with chicken, burdock, carrot and green onion.
It tastes like Chinese home-style tomato and scrambled egg turned into a noodle soup, with sweet-sour tomato broth, soft egg curds and fresh noodles. The eggs are folded briefly and lifted out while still slightly wet, then return for only a minute at the end; fully cooked at the start, they would toughen in the final simmer. Pressing the tomatoes as they cook draws out the red juice that lets the pieces and the stock blend instead of sitting apart, and cooking them down well deepens the savory flavor. A little soy sauce and sugar only round off the tomato's acidity. Fresh noodles cook fast in the hot broth and come off the heat while the centers are still slightly firm.
Most of the cooking time goes into onions stirred over low heat for forty minutes or more, until deep brown. Once beef stock is added and simmered, the soup is ladled into ovenproof bowls, topped with baguette and Gruyere, and set under the grill, and a spoon breaking the cheese brings up broth-soaked bread and sweet onion with it. Emmental melts just as well if there is no Gruyere.
Pork back bones and trotters boil hard for hours until their collagen and fat emulsify into a milky broth thick enough to feel sticky on the lips. Soaking and blanching the bones beforehand cuts down the porky smell. That rolling boil is the opposite of the gentle simmer used for clear stocks, and it is what separates tonkotsu from an ordinary pork soup. When the pot runs low, it is topped up with hot water, never with a lower flame. Thin, firm noodles, pork belly chashu braised in soy sauce and mirin, a soft-boiled egg, and sliced green onion top the bowl. The chashu slices thin most easily when made a day ahead and chilled, and the eggs marinate in its braising liquid.
The Thai name translates roughly as bland soup, and next to spicy dishes like som tam or tom yum that is exactly its job: a gentle, clear broth that gives the palate a rest. It is still seasoned, with fish sauce, and the pork meatballs carry nothing but white pepper so the meat tastes like itself. Silken tofu, napa cabbage, and glass noodles fill out the bowl.
Adding thin wheat noodles to rice cake and dumpling soup makes a heartier bowl, and every spoonful pulls up something different: chewy rice cake, a dumpling, a tangle of soft noodles. The noodles are boiled separately so the milky bone broth stays clean.