Momofuk Me? No, Momofuk-U!

I love that this Eater guest post from Momofuku Chef David Chang (and tomorrow's highly anticipated Bruni review of Momfuku Ssam Bar) came a week after my very first trip to Momofuku Noodle Bar, which, as I've mentioned quite a few times, I've been dying to try since it opened. A few things I love about Chang's musings on what it’s like to wait for a review to drop:

1. He defaults to a chapter format, based on stars earned, to log potential responses to Bruni's review. (Almost a list! I approve!)
2. He projects calling upon drugs as relief from bad review-induced depression: "I would try crack, black tar heroin and crystal meth for the first time, possibly all three at once. Anything that would take me to a happy place."
3. He pokes lightheartedly at, but never denies the influence of one man's opinion on his culinary career: "Is he going to make us or break us? Is there a bottle of bourbon around here somewhere?"
4. He understands the limits of his charming little eatery, and doesn’t take his establishment more seriously than he should: “For fuck’s sake we don’t even have silverware and we use paper napkins. Our bathroom has a hand dryer.”


I’m pretty sure Momofuku Noodle had paper towels in the John, but it’s still an unfussy spot, focused on churning out some of the tastiest offerings to pass this Asian food-junkie’s lips.

Although it wasn’t quite as hectic as I expected for 6:30 pm on a Sunday, Momofuku was still filled to capacity with spare bodies huddled together at the door and a few growling stomachs beyond the glass window, pacing in the 16-degree wind. There isn’t much space to wait inside the skinny dining area, and it’s likely frigid temperatures kept away all but the most motivated of foodies, but even on a temperate traffic day it’s clear the only quick way into this noodle house is as a party of one.

I climbed atop a high stool that thoroughly tested recurring New Year’s resolution #1, and was handed the wonderfully concise menu, contained on a single laminated sheet. The majority of diners at Momofuku sit at a long bar facing the open kitchen and stretching from the front door almost to the bathroom at the opposite end of the narrow space, but I was seated at one of two smaller benches at the fore of the restaurant, away from the exciting action. My slab of dining surface was nailed into the wall, providing me about a foot-and-a-half’s worth of breathing space in front and even less room to each side where fellow cramped diners ate with chopsticks, elbows high in the air. Good thing I was in it for the food and not the view.

I enjoy dining solo, but I generally like trying new places with a partner in tow to increase sampling options. I remember reading a lot about the affordability of the Momofuku dining experience when it was in the first round of reviews, and if you share an appetizer with a date and each tackle a bowl of noodle soup, the total per person lands around twenty-dollars, which isn’t terrible for such tasty (and hyped) cuisine. But I’ve got big eyes and an endless pit of a stomach and you best believe after daydreaming for over a year about pork buns dressed with pickles and famous egg-laced ramen, I was letting loose with the ordering. I did an app and an entrée all to myself, and the still-slight meal set me back thirty bucks sans drink. Totally worth it, but I can eat six bowls of Chinatown Ramen for three Hamiltons, and probably a few pan-fried gyoza to boot.

But I needed to try those nine-dollar pork buns.

The dough of Momofuku’s steamed pork bun is less fluffy than that of the traditional dim-sum treat. It actually lays out more like an oval-shaped pancake, folding over once to enclose its contents inside like a money clip. The pork it houses is super-salty, enhanced by crisp, marinated pickles and warm, sweet Asian barbeque sauce. Two buns come to an order and I was glad to have them both to myself. The only utensils on the bar were chopsticks, quite impractical for picking up open-ended pork pockets, so I grabbed those suckers with my hands and put them each away in four or five bites.

Momofuku’s signature ramen was also as incredible as I expected. The broth is beautiful – slightly more textured than the traditional soup component, a bit unfiltered, like miso. Two different cuts of pork lie in the soup, one that falls right off the bone, the other tighter, and like the meat in the pork buns, lobbed into thick, meaty slices. The main vehicle for pulling the soup’s flavor across your tongue is the base of noodles. The wheaty strands are slightly undercooked to hold up to the liquid and accoutrements, the most decadent of which is a poached egg that bobs up and down until you spill its delicious cholesterol into the open water. The first bite of pork and yolk is scarily sinful. A real chest-grabber.

Like much Asian cuisine, the ramen went down warm and bold (Japanese “lumberjack food” to steal a byte from Amy Sedaris), but left me starving two hours later. So now I’ve hatched the master plan. Next time, Momofuku Noodle, then movie on 2nd Ave, and then the Ssam Bar.

No matter what Frank Bruni says.