Imagine life without noodles. Impossible, right? Noodles in all their shapes, styles, varieties and textures are such an integral part of world cuisines and have been for centuries, in so many cultures.

Noodles play a big part in my life and I am astounded at the versatility of dishes based around them. So many of them are long time favourites of mine. With over 350 different types of noodles produced and consumed in all corners of the globe, you could never be bored.

Let’s start with Italian pasta. For me a life without it would be a life not worth living. Who could deny that there is something unequalled about a bowl of pasta eaten at an outdoor table in an Italian trattoria on a sunny Summer day, matched with a crisp local white wine. The mere thought of it puts a smile on my face.

The myriad of shapes are all designed to unify particular sauces, bringing the dishes together as a whole. I am proud of the fact that my decades of eating the longer pasta shapes, such as Spaghetti, Linguine, and Pappardelle, have provided me with the skills of eating them immaculately. A good twirl of my fork in several quick motions with the pasta and sauce perfectly attached, with no long messy swinging trails dangling down my chin. Into the mouth with one swift movement. Neat and accomplished.

I have an equal love for many of the wonderful noodle dishes of Asia. Chinese noodle dishes are my go-to in my favourite hot spots in the famous hawker centres of Singapore and in small, brightly lit noodle joints in the back streets of old Hong Kong.

But for me, it is in Japan where noodles reach a higher plane. I hold the humble soup and noodles dishes made with Ramen and Soba in the highest regard. They are both so intrinsically unique, with flavours all their own.

Ramen, a wheat noodle that started life in China, soon became synonymous with Japan, and has since exploded in popularity throughout the world. Soba, made from buckwheat, are vastly different in taste, texture and style, thin, nutty, healthy and nutritious.

Being a perfectionist, little did I realise how long it would take me to master the art of eating ramen and soba, in their respective restaurants. For many years, I enjoyed an endless variety of delicious bowls, all over the world. In restaurants in the West no-one ever batted an eyelid on the way I ate them. I never gave it a second thought.

But in Japan, eating ramen and soba is a kind of art form. When I realised how incorrectly I had been eating them, I began my long road to perfecting the art, in the best way I could.

RAMEN – the rock and roll noodle

Since the 1990’s, Ramen has become the coolest kid on the noodle scene, worldwide. Food-loving hipsters soon claimed the dishes as their own. Popular in Japan from the 1930’s as a cheap workhorse meal for labourers, it became widespread after World War Two and was, and still is, a lunchtime bowl to be devoured quickly on a cold Winters day, for sustenance during a long work day, or late at night when work is over.

Thinking of its history, I began to understand that this tradition of quick, fill-your-stomach eating is the very Japanese (and correct) way to consume ramen. This might go some way to explaining the distinctive way that it is eaten in ramen-ya.

There are many different forms of ramen noodle soup particular to Japanese prefectures. From the fatty, collagen rich tonkotsu ramen to the lighter chicken and vegetable based shio ramen, it may well be the most versatile noodle soup of all. Every style is eaten in the same fashion, delivered piping hot, so hot, in fact, that it can be eye-watering to eat the noodles in the depths of the boiling bowl.

That was the first hurdle I needed to get over. I have often been astonished at how quickly the Japanese can finish a bowl. Sometimes only a few minutes. Amazing for a dish that can take days to prepare. I have often been left behind, having barely begun my bowl, needing it to cool considerably so as not to burn my mouth.

In Japan, dining in a ramen-ya is a very personal eating experience. It is not a social lunch or dinner get together. It’s just you and the bowl. Nothing, or no-one else matters. Some of the reverence for ramen can be explained this way.

Let me paint the scene: traditional ramen-ya in Japan are almost always packed, and with a long, orderly queue outside. Once inside, the usual layout is a long single counter with individual spaces, sometimes partitioned off. Ramen is a solo diners dream, and this is so suitable.

People of every generation will be hunched over the steaming bowls, going hell for leather, not missing a drop, the slurping loud and consistent.

The idea of people noisily eating this way is something many Westerners struggle with. But it is an essential part of enjoying ramen. The reason for the slurping is to allow the intake of air to cool the hot noodles as they enter your mouth. The fast uptake into your mouth with chopsticks is also designed so that you can capture as much of the broth as well. Pushing the long noodles up from their base and into your mouth is not an easy manoeuvre.

I have ramen at least once a week, in all weather expect the very hottest. I am lucky to have such outstanding ramen-ya all around me in Sydney, where the ramen really is as good as you get in Japan.

Shoyu (soy) tonokotsu ramen, Ryo’s Noodles, Sydney, Australia.

When in Japan, I am very conscious of the fact that I am not eating ramen like a seasoned professional, I have made a total splattered mess of my shirts over the years. One time on a cold Winter day in Fukuoka, the home of thick, creamy Hakata style tonkotsu ramen, I was feeling bravura. I was determined to devour the bowl just like a local. I was the only non-Japanese this particular weekday lunchtime, all of the other diners were salarymen on their lunch break.

I should have known how hot the broth was by the excessive steam billowing out of it. I plunged the chopsticks straight in and grabbed the noodles, along with some chashu pork. Instantly upon entering my mouth I had no choice but to expel the noodles quickly back into the bowl. They, and the pork, landed with a visible and audible splash. What a disgrace. My embarrassment was obvious. Of course, no one was looking at me. The Japanese are just way too polite to react. But I know they were aware of what happened.

The other thing to note with ramen is that you are not meant to chew the noodles. You are supposed to allow them to slide straight down your throat, along with the hot broth, in one swift gulp. These are skill sets I just did not possess.

Now, finally, it’s a different story. It’s taken dozens of bowls to get my technique as close to the Japanese way as possible. Although it’s still far from perfect. For I, just like the Japanese, am a total perfectionist.

SOBA – the noodle of generations

Soba could not be more far removed from ramen, not just in taste, but in ritual. Originating as far back as the 1600’s, soba holds an important place in the culture and the hearts of the Japanese.

Far more of the older generation are devout fans of the noodle, enjoying it often on a daily basis. The artisanal hand-crafting of beautiful buckwheat soba noodles is considered an art form in Japan. Soba is commonly served drained and chilled in the warm summer months, and hot in the winter with a dashi soy broth. Extra toppings are often added and are chosen to reflect the seasons.

Unadorned chilled soba on zaru tray with tsuyu dipping sauce

Chilled soba is often served on a bamboo tray called a zaru. A dipping sauce known as soba tsuyu sits alongside the noodles. The tsuyu is made of a strong mixture of dashi, mirin and sweet soy. Using chopsticks, the diner picks up a small amount of soba from the tray and dips it in the cold tsuyu before eating it.

All sounds easy enough, huh? Nope. You thought ramen took some getting used to. Soba is in another league. The noodles, being so very thin, are tricky enough to pick up with chopsticks. Then dipping them into the small bowl containing the tsuru is no easy task. The noodles tend to cause a splash once lifted out, and you can only eat a small amount of the noodles at any one dip.

Soba noodle shops tend to be far more refined spaces than ramen-ya. Here, a quiet reverence creates a gentle atmosphere. The only sound is, yep – you guessed it, the vigorous, abrupt and consistent slurp from every punters mouth. It’s a symphony of inward drawn breath with the tongue an awkward instrument. In fact, the slurp seems to be even more important when eating soba. There are often far less ingredients in the bowl than there is with ramen, and it feels more of a ritual, an absolute must, to slurp rapidly at high volume.

It is with soba that I have been pulled up by the locals about how to eat it, the slurp the most important factor. On several occasions upon arrival of my bowl, the shop proprietors, ever welcoming to me as their guest, instructed me to eat the noodles as quickly and noisily as possible.

When I was in the beautiful onsen town of Shuzenji one Autumn, I came across a small roadside soba shop. I believe it was a pop-up, as it was in the middle of a disused parking lot and was very small. Upon first walking past I couldn’t see through the noren curtains. But upon closer inspection I saw a small, portable kitchen and five irregular stools placed along the counter.

After surveying it, I made the decision to venture out of my ryokan and eat lunch there the next day. I had a certain nervousness about doing so. I know it was definitely a spot for the locals. There were no tourists around this part of town. Venturing in, I was welcomed by the owner after giving me the visual once over.

I sat on the end stool, the only other customer, at the opposite end, a lone local enjoying the last remnants of his bowl. They only served one dish, handmade soba in hot tsuyu, with a single topping of either a prawn or a mountain vegetable, both tempura style. When my bowl arrived, I realised once again that this was one mega hot broth. As I started to eat, I noticed the other customer sitting back watching me, as did the chef, with arms folded.

I felt on full display, and I was. I was surprised to be immediately picked up on for not eating my noodles correctly. Such a fuss was created over the fact that I must slurp loudly, as if I just couldn’t eat the dish any other way. What followed was a lesson in slurping that proved to be one of the most memorable and fun moments I have had in Japan.

It wasn’t long before the chef and the customer were comparing slurping techniques and tutoring me to get it just right. As we went on, it seemed that I just wasn’t doing it with enough gusto. I was making a mess, and plenty of noise. But not enough. We were all laughing and enjoying the moment. When they were finally satisfied that I had got it right, another big batch of cold soba was presented to me on a bamboo tray as a complimentary reward. The slurping and ensuing frivolity continued into the early evening.

But now I have a problem. As I have mastered the art of eating Japanese noodles in the manner expected of me, I have proudly displayed it whenever it’s time for noodles. And this includes pasta. I have had to stop myself as I have found myself practically inhaling spaghetti, fettuccine, any of the longer noodles, making plenty of noise through my slurping. I can no longer differentiate between the way to eat Asian noodles and many of the others. Personally, I don’t find all that much wrong with it, except that it is considered rude to eat with such volume anywhere other than throughout Asia.

I have to admit, I’ve been having a bit of cheeky fun with it. It is certainly a way to get noticed. But I know it really isn’t acceptable practice. Whenever I find myself doing it, I have a special moment when I remember all those times I tried to get it right. Many great moments, and I think back to that best lesson I ever had, in that little soba pop-up shack in Shuzenji, that cool Autumn afternoon.