My Most Memorable Bowl of Beef Noodles

The first time I traveled to Hong Kong, I was on a quest: I was going to try as many noodle dishes as I possibly could. And I did. Everywhere we went to eat, I would try to order some noodle dish on their menu—mostly in soups, but sometimes, stir-fried. But the real stroke of luck is having a noodle shop at the entrance of your hotel.

We were staying in a small room in a hotel on the upper floors of a building on Jordan Road just off of Nathan Road. (I can’t remember the name of the place, sorry!) We arrived on the last flight in, so it wasn’t until the next morning that we realized that the first floor of our building was actually occupied by a noodle shop!

It was a small streel-level shop—nothing fancy. Just an L-shaped counter facing the entrance and bending inward to a space where two or three square tables were set up. Seating was available all along the counter and the tables, but I think the counter seating was prime real estate. From there, you can watch your food being prepared, while reveling in the aromas wafting from the various pots on the stove. The noodles were served in large green bowl with matching green chopsticks—melaware, I thought. All in all, it was the kind of place that probably only locals from within the area visited, maybe on their way to or from work. I would not have been surprised to find out that there were regulars there who would talk and banter with the shop owner while their order was being prepared. 

And the aromas! We would come down from our hotel on our way to wherever the day’s destination was, and we could smell the broth bubbling away in huge pots. And we kept telling ourselves we needed to try their noodles there—when we had the time. Since our itinerary was full from early in the morning, it took us a couple of days to finally have a slow enough morning to sit down at that little shop and grab a bowl of noodles.

With the sheer number of varieties and shops selling good beef noodles in Hong Kong, you're bound to find a memorable one.

In spite of a slight language barrier, I managed to order beef noodles, straight-up. I watched the shop owner cook the noodles and blanch the bok choy using that noodle strainer (ramen tebo, I think?). He then put them in the green serving bowl and ladled the broth into it. And to my surprise, he took a huge ladle—its bowl could have been used to serve our local noodles in—dipped it into a pot of stewed beef and ladled the stewed beef onto the waiting noodles before finishing it off with a big spoonful of green onions. I remember looking at my brother who was with me just to check if he also saw how much beef went into that bowl of noodles and the look of hungry anticipation on his face told me all I needed to know. 

Now if you haven’t ordered a bowl of beef noodles in the Philippines in a while, let me tell you that you would be lucky to get a few pieces of recognizable beef chunks in your bowl. So you can imagine our surprise, excitement, disbelief, and delight when we saw how much beef was in that bowl of noodles. 

The shop owner finally put the bowl down in front of me and I got hit by the aroma of the broth and the stew. The broth itself was delicate enough to be used for a variety of toppings (and I think you can also order a spicy version of any noodle variant they served). The noodles were bouncy and chewy, perfectly cooked and not soggy at all. But that stew, man. 

When the thick gravy/sauce from that stew hit the broth, it seasoned the broth and transformed it, deepening the subtle flavors in the broth. There was a slight sweetness in the stew that somehow blends into the umami of the beef and the broth. The beef was tender enough to melt in your mouth, but still hold its shape when you pick it up with your chopsticks. And there was a handful of pieces of beef tendon so tender it was almost gelatinous. Suffice to say it was a bowl of noodles you hope would last forever but somehow runs out too quickly. When I finally sat back, realizing I had finished the huge bowl, I needed a moment to just savor the warmth of the afterglow. (Yes, it was that good.)

What amazes me, aside from that heavenly bowl of noodles, is that this was a small shop, tucked away in a small corner and who knows how many other small noodle shops are tucked away somewhere, just doing what they do best, but known only to regular passersby or residents. 

Due to time constraints, we didn’t manage to eat there again before we left, but to this day, I judge every bowl of beef noodle soup by that bowl in a small shop on the side streets of Hong Kong—and I’ve yet to find one that comes close.