By Chef Alexis Hernandez
A pack of ramen in Culby
The ramen started in college, on the men’s floor in Culbertson Hall.
Everybody called it Culby.
In the middle of the floor there was a lounge with a small kitchen and a refrigerator that always seemed too full.
The room was carpeted, with low wooden coffee tables, matching chairs covered in tough brown fabric, and a couple of couches that were never as comfortable as people acted like they were.
No TV.
During the day it stayed mostly empty because people were in class. But at night, that was where you went if you wanted to be around other people without needing a reason.
The fridge had a sign taped to it. If your food did not have your name on it — it was getting thrown out by the end of the day.
Back then, ramen was packet noodles, hot water, and the seasoning packet. Nothing else.
Sometimes I ate it right there in the lounge. Other times I carried it all the way back to my room in the back of Culby and ate it at my desk while trying to get ready for a Koine Greek test.
I could see the north side of the city from that room — out toward Cabrini-Green.
The window did not open like a real home window, but it let in a good breeze, and that helped once the ramen had sat its four required minutes.
It was cheap. It was easy. It did the job.
The yellow mustard years
By 1994, I was living in my first apartment with my friend John, and the ramen was still around.
Most nights we were in the apartment, John playing Sonic while something quick heated up in the kitchen.
That was when I started changing it.
The first thing I added was yellow mustard.
Just enough to change the broth.
It sounds strange, but it worked.
That is probably what I liked about ramen even then. It was cheap enough that you did not mind messing with it.
John would be yelling at the screen, “No, I was almost there. No, now I have to start over.”
And the ramen fit right into nights like that.
When ramen changed with me
Later, it changed again.
By my late twenties, the yellow mustard had turned into Dijon. Sometimes I used only half the seasoning packet and folded the rest into the drawer for later.
Sometimes I skipped it altogether and heated up chicken stock instead.
I started adding sesame oil. Cracking in an egg. Covering the bowl with a plate so the heat could finish the egg gently.
Sometimes I would add a breakfast hard boiled egg sliced in half.
If there were scallions around — those went in too.
It was still ramen.
But it was not the same ramen.
And I was not the same person either.
When ramen changed with me
People think it is strange when they hear a chef still eats like that.
Ramen. Mustard. Sesame oil. Egg. But they are usually hearing the wrong part of the story.
They hear ramen and think I am talking about cheap food.
I am not.
I am talking about a food that stayed with me long enough to keep changing.
The plain packet version in Culby.
The yellow mustard version with John.
The later one with Dijon, stock, egg, and scallions.
Same food. Different life. That is probably why I still make it now.
Some foods do not stay in your life because they are perfect.
They stay because they know how to change with you.
