Momofuku's Noodle Bar
Momofuku’s Noodle Bar, though hard to reserve, was far from packed outside of dinner hours. The decor is spartan and modern. Food comes quick and is served unceremoniously: buns are flopped onto small plates, everything else is ladled into appropriately sized bowls. You are not here for visual pandering. You are here to eat.
We start with the cucumber salad. Cucumber salad--traditionally salty, garlicky, and cold--is usually great insurance against aggressively spicy mains, taking the edge off all those chilis. This one however has a little bite of its own. Although it mentions Szechuan peppercorns, there’s no hint of numbing, just the focused flavor of what tastes like korean chilis. A thin peanut sauce, shredded carrots, and radish chunks add some variety of texture, but the cucumber is already good. It seems the cucumber and radish chunks have been brined: the flavors have soaked through a little too much for it to be freshly prepared. Like a lot of Chinese cooking, the salad presents a phalanx of flavors: each ingredient was clearly prepared with care, but now that they’re unified in a sauce, it’s difficult to distinguish the spices and methods. The effect is like walking into a party that’s already happening. You overhear snatches of conversations in progress, feel that yes, this is a great time and place to arrive. How did it get here? It doesn’t matter.
Kimchi comes next. The garlic is assertive, but it’s otherwise unremarkable.
The shiitake buns and pork belly buns are two distinct takes on hoisin sauce. Both are sweet and salty, but the shiitake mushrooms are wonderfully crisped on the ends, if a little aggressively salty. The pork belly is fatty and sweet, a better salt balance for the hoisin, but a little dull in texture after the satisfying crunch of the mushrooms. However, the pork belly is filling. For a lightweight, it’s lunch.
That’s all fine and good, but we’re here for the noodles. In this case, ginger scallion.
These noodles are the clarity of summer. Garlic and seaweed take you to the sea’s edge at low tide, earthy and refreshing. Salt spray flecks your skin but not your tongue; the flavors are cool and clean. The experience is wistful, distant. You’re not quite seizing the moment, too shy to splash into the water or to start a conversation with a friend, But then thick, meaty, chili-heated mushrooms greet you like a big friendly dog. They’re so physical, so alive in their body, it makes you feel confident and grounded. Maybe you throw the ball around. Maybe you laugh without thinking about it. The noodles disappear easily, and at the bottom the garlicky oil lifts something pickly into your mouth. A little sourness to round out the meal and bring you back to the table, refreshed.
Who sent you on such a trip? A friend of a friend who knows the chef, serving a few plates between rushes. Picture him milling about the kitchen, finding a sauce or an ingredient the build around, and throwing together a plate for you to enjoy. It’s lively, casual, and deliberate but not overthought. It isn’t cheap, but that’s what it costs for a mild hallucination these days. Splurge the extra $3 for something to wash it down, talk a little too loudly for a Sunday afternoon, and leave a little hotter and a little happier.