Bad Food Review: Some Kind of Udon, I Don't Fucking Know

So a long time ago, I used to think Udon was like a fancier version of Ramen, but then, a long time ago, I believed lots of stupid bullshit. This was before the proliferation of upscale Ramen places in the city I live in, which for all its progress has historically been about as cosmopolitan as the menu of a Claim Jumper.

Until then, Udon was a neat soup you got at Japanese places with big fat noodles, and Ramen was the stringy bricks of carbohydrates pooped out by questionable factories directly into the mouths of People Who Just Need Food Right Now. That their respective noodles are of different size and consistency seemed to me more a matter of pragmatism than of a true culinary divergence. Spaghettios are probably round because that shape is easier to force through whatever mechanical anus creates them, right? Stick with me, here. I said I was wrong.

Also, Ramen came in flavors like Beef, Pork, and the enigmatically simplistic "Oriental," whereas Udon broth had Japanese names like Tonkotsu and Shoyu. Turns out you can put anything in these, but again, I was wrong. How many times? Jesus.

This was also before the much more enjoyable spread of Asian/World food superstores through the greater metropolitan area, which has afforded me access to ingredients to interesting recipes I could never have attempted before. This has also exposed me to about a hundred new brands and flavors of Ramen. And, to my now relatively marginal shock, the same abundance of shitty, packaged Udon.

This is one of them. It is FLAVOR: BEEF, like many of it's dried-noodle counterparts. And since this specimen is indicative of its kind, I'm going to review this based on how it compares to the Ramen of my youth. And adulthood. The shitty kind, I mean.

"Serving Suggestion" translates to "If I wanted to cook I would've fucking cooked" in every language.

The brand name is "Myojo," which I've never heard of, but that's hardly surprising considering my native culture and language affiliations. I looked up the word, and all I found out was that a shocking number of people post comprehensive reviews of instant noodle soup (shout-out to my favorite, http://www.theramenrater.com/), and that from 1900-1908, Myojo was a Japanese literary journal published between 1900-1908. If this brand name is a tribute to that publication, then that fact was lost in translation.

Anyway, here is the back, with the standard abbreviated English directions and dubious description of origin.

Notice the calorie information is under the package flap. THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU.

I ripped the thing open kind of clumsily, so I still don't know how many calories this thing has.

Inside it looks like Ramen. There's a single flavoring packet, as opposed to some of the more interesting varieties of instant noodles.

Braaaaaaaains

The nice there here is that instant Udon is generally refrigerated, so the noodles are "fresh" instead of a dried, matted-pube mess like instant Ramen noodles, which are often also flash-fried in lard. Vegans, take note. Then Shut up, already. Damn. We get it. Fresher noodles seem so much more appetizing.

'Seem' being the operative word.

They're entombed in a shrink-wrapped plastic bag that you have to open with actual scissors, though, so that's kind of annoying. No, really. If I have to use more to prepare this foodthing than the utensil with which I plan on shoveling it into my mouth, then I'm basically cooking, And if that were the case, I would put more effort into it than this.

This should be enough. The scissors are slightly out-of-frame, out in cootieville, like they should be.

Anyway, following the directions, which called for a suspiciously small amount of water, I grabbed my trusty Ramen-sized pot and got to work. Turn the stove to MAKEWATERGOHOT, wait for bubbling to ensue, and then drop my noodle brick in there. Aw. Well, shit.

Of course, this is my fault.

The brick loosens up nicely, unlike its Rameny cousins, and actually starts to look like food.

Protip: Metal chopsticks are great at conducting heat right into your fingers.

Somehow at this point, though, too much water had evaporated, or been absorbed, or both, and by the time I was supposed to add the mystical flavor dust, I was left with less a soup and more a pile of hot noodles.

Behold: ESSENCE OF BEEF! Oh wait, no, that's something else.

So, much like standard, twenty-five cent bricks of regret, you have to adjust the directions a little bit according to preference and practicality. No one I know who's had Ramen more than a few times ever follows the directions precisely. Some people like it a little crunchy, others rendered into a paste-like pile of goo; I've seen Ramen enhanced by Sriracha, blasphemed by ketchup, and once even thoroughly misunderstood by the addition of cheddar cheese. So a little modification is fine.

Not that this is good, or anything.

Far from being different animals all together, Ramen and Udon are both traditional noodle soups from Japan, usually accompanied by all manner of vegetables, meats, garnishes and condiments. The instant versions of either one, it would seem, are essentially the same. I like the big floppy Udon noodles better, but for under a dollar, you pretty much get what you pay for.