239 recipes. Page 2 of 10
Noodle recipes from Korean to pasta
Jjolmyeon noodles have a rubbery, teeth-resisting chew, and topping them with tender soy-and-sugar marinated beef sets up a sharp contrast in texture. The gochujang and vinegar sauce adds spicy, sour notes that cut the bulgogi's sweetness. Shredded cabbage and carrot bring crunch, while a halved boiled egg tempers the chili.
The broth gets its heat from dried chilies and smells of lemongrass, with a salty depth from fermented shrimp, and the noodles are bún, thick rice noodles that are round in cross-section. Bean sprouts and lime go on the side, and a few slices of cooked pork blood sausage bring the bowl closer to how it is served in Hue.
Hold the lime and fish sauce dressing until the bowl is about to be eaten; once it hits the rice noodles, they start to go soft. The beef is sliced thin against the grain and needs a pan that is already very hot, with room for the slices to lie in a single layer. Crowded slices give off water, so cook in batches and pull each one as soon as the edges brown and no raw red surface is left. Rinse the boiled noodles hard under cold water to wash off the surface starch, and lay the lettuce and cold noodles in the bowl before the warm beef goes on so the greens do not wilt.
At midday the alleys of Hanoi's Old Quarter fill with smoke from pork grilling over charcoal, and the grilled meat goes into a bowl of sweet, sour fish sauce, eaten with rice vermicelli and herbs. That sauce is thinner than a dip, closer to a light broth sipped between bites. This version grills both small ground-pork patties and pieces of pork neck, and soaks thin slices of carrot in the sauce.
Soft crab balls rise through a red, tomato-sour broth in this Vietnamese noodle soup. In northern Vietnam the traditional version pounds whole paddy crabs and strains the liquid, which sets into a custard-like layer as it heats, while this recipe mixes crabmeat, ground pork and egg into a sticky paste instead. Everything rides on the balls holding together: the paste goes by the spoonful into broth that is barely moving and stays unstirred until the pieces firm up. Shrimp paste goes in a little at a time because it is strongly salty.
Pork marinated in fish sauce, sugar, and garlic and seared over high heat develops a caramelized brown edge while the inside stays juicy. In this southern Vietnamese bowl it goes, still warm, over chilled rice vermicelli and raw greens, and that hot-cold contrast is much of the pleasure. A sweet-sour dressing of lime juice and fish sauce ties meat, noodles, and vegetables together with no broth at all.
Chewy and clear, sweet-potato glass noodles grab the gochujang-soy sauce tightly and bring a vivid sweet-spicy hit with every lift of the chopsticks. The dish comes from street food sold in Busan's markets, and it is quick: boil the noodles, then toss them with briefly stir-fried vegetables, fish cake, and the sauce. Fish cake adds a soft savory note against the springy noodles, while cabbage and carrot, cooked only until just bent, keep some crunch.
Refugees who reached Busan during the Korean War began making these noodles from wheat flour in place of naengmyeon, and milmyeon became the city's summer noodle. The noodles are softer than naengmyeon, with a moderate chew; the usual way is to sip the ice-edged beef broth first, then cut the noodles with scissors. That chew comes from plunging them into cold water the moment they are drained and rubbing off the starch. The gochujang is loosened with a little cold broth beforehand so it spreads without lumps. Spooned into the center, it melts a spicy kick into the cold broth, and cucumber and Korean pear add crunch and sweetness.
Cao lau belongs to Hoi An, where the noodles were traditionally made with water from an old Cham well and lye from the ash of trees on the nearby Cham Islands, giving them a dense chew; at home, thick rice noodles stand in. It is not a soup: only a few spoonfuls of the sticky soy and sugar pan glaze are poured over the noodles, so the bean sprouts, herbs and crumbled fried wonton skins keep their own textures.
Hot, just-seared brisket lands on cold, chewy jjolmyeon, and every bite mixes warm beef fat with a tangy gochujang dressing. The brisket goes into a dry pan and only browns at the edges, which keeps the marbling in the slices instead of rendering it away. Jjolmyeon are dense, elastic wheat noodles that hold a sticky sauce well, but any water left on them or on the soaked cabbage and cucumber thins that coating fast.
Only the foam gets skimmed from this doenjang broth, and the brisket fat left in gives the soybean-paste soup a rich, beefy body. Onion, zucchini, and oyster mushrooms simmer before the meat goes in, and their sweetness softens the salty, fermented edge of the paste. The final adjustment comes from soup soy sauce rather than more paste, since doenjang brands differ in saltiness. The thick knife-cut noodles cook right in the pot rather than separately, thickening the broth with their starch and giving it a heavier, almost creamy feel. If the soup reduces until it turns too cloudy or salty, 100 ml of water and one more boil set it right.
A clear, gently beefy broth carries thin somyeon, slices of brisket, and a handful of minari, the Korean water parsley whose sharp, grassy smell rises first from the bowl. Seasoning stays minimal, just soup soy sauce, garlic, salt, and pepper, and with the floating fat skimmed off, the brisket adds savoriness without making the soup greasy.
Penang hawkers built this dish for laborers who needed a cheap, filling plate cooked fast, and its flavor depends on wok hei, the charred breath of a wok heated until it smokes. Wide flat rice noodles, prawns, egg, bean sprouts and Chinese chives move through the pan in a few minutes, while dark soy and oyster sauce stain the noodles a glossy brown. Drying everything and lining it up within reach before the burner is lit keeps stray water on the noodles or prawns from dropping the wok temperature and steaming the food instead of searing it.
Two slices of cheese melt over spicy instant ramen into a thin, stretchy film that wraps the noodles, and the heat comes down a notch. Turn the heat off while the noodles are still slightly firm; they finish cooking in the hot broth as the cheese melts.
Translucent rice sheets come out of the steamer soft enough to roll around chopped shrimp, then get a lightly sweet soy sauce poured over the top. Hong Kong dim sum tables rarely go without them, and street carts there steam them to order, filling them with char siu or beef instead, or rolling them plain. This version uses rice flour with cornstarch rather than tapioca, and because the starch settles fast, the batter needs a stir before every pour. Too thick a layer makes the roll heavy and doughy, while too thin a layer tears during rolling. The shrimp are done only when firm and opaque all the way through, not when the sheet turns translucent.
Chogye guksu gets its broth from the same pot that poaches the chicken: the stock is chilled, then sharpened with vinegar and Korean hot mustard until it tastes tart, icy, and slightly nose-tingling. The mustard waits until the stock is fully cold, because warm liquid drives off its volatile aroma. The chicken breast is shredded only after it cools completely, since tearing it hot lets the juices run out and leaves dry strands. Thin matchsticks of cucumber and radish add crunch, and cut to the same width they twirl up evenly with the noodles. It is a summer dish for days when appetite runs low.
Spread across a very hot pan and left alone for a moment, the noodles pick up crisp, browned patches while the centers stay chewy, and that contrast defines chow mein. It depends on dry ingredients: noodles boiled just short of tender and cooled, bean sprouts shaken free of water, and vegetables pulled before they weep. A thin coat of sesame oil on the drained noodles stops them from fusing into a clump as they cool. High heat from start to finish keeps liquid from pooling in the pan, where it would steam the noodles instead of frying them. Oyster sauce and soy give the strands a glossy, salty coating.
Instead of a soup, ground perilla seed, perilla oil, and soup soy sauce form a thick, nutty sauce that clings to fine somyeon noodles. Chwinamul, a Korean wild aster green, brings a distinctive mountain-herb scent that the toasted perilla balances. The greens are blanched only briefly and shocked in cold water, so they stay deep green with some bite. Spring chwinamul has the strongest aroma.
Peanut butter does the heavy lifting in this sauce, with sesame oil supplying the sesame aroma, so the dish comes together without hunting down Chinese sesame paste. Soy, vinegar, sugar, and chili oil turn it sweet, salty, tart, and gently hot all at once. The noodles get a short ice bath that firms them up, and julienned cucumber and scallion cut through the dense coating. A cold, fast bowl for hot weather.
Mori soba keeps the buckwheat front and center: cold noodles on a plate, a separate cup of chilled tsuyu, and just the tips dipped before each bite. Rubbing the noodles under running water until it runs clear strips the surface starch and gives them a smooth, slippery finish. The ice-water dip that follows stays short, since soaking too long washes out the buckwheat flavor. With only wasabi, scallion, and nori as garnish, a dipping sauce diluted too far leaves the whole plate tasting flat.
Scallions cooked slowly in oil until they shrink, brown and turn crisp leave behind an amber, fragrant oil that becomes the sauce for these noodles. With only soy sauce, sugar and white pepper added, the result rests almost entirely on patience at the stove. Turning up the heat to hurry the scallions burns them black and leaves the oil bitter. The crisp pieces are lifted out and saved as a crunchy topping.
Boiling chicken stock poured into the bowl does the cooking: paper-thin pork slices turn opaque within seconds, then bean sprouts and garlic chives follow. Slicing the pork while it is half-frozen makes those thin slices possible, and the stock has to be at a full, rolling boil, since anything cooler leaves the meat underdone.
Poaching chicken breast directly in the anchovy stock gives the clear broth of janchi guksu, Korea's party noodle soup, an extra savory layer. A little sesame oil tossed through the shredded chicken makes the lean breast meat taste moist, while separate yellow and white egg-crepe strips, zucchini, and carrot add color. The recipe scales up easily, making it practical for feeding a crowd.
Strips of chicken breast take the place of beef, giving a leaner japchae where the noodles, spinach, carrot, shiitake and onion come through more clearly. Tossing the drained noodles with a little soy sauce and sesame oil right away and spreading them out keeps them from gluing together while everything else cooks.