In the past, I worked in several somewhat respectable restaurants in rural Norfolk. Don’t get me wrong; these were not fine-dining establishments. I didn’t work for Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester or at Claridges. To be honest, the closest we got to seeing a Michelin was on the side of one of the numerous 4x4s parked outside. But I was young and had benefited from years of classical training under an eccentric alcoholic Frenchman. Basically, I could knock the shit out of a Confit de Canard, and I knew all of the mother sauces. As a result, I was regularly surrounded by an enormous array of exotic and expensive ingredients, but by closing time I was always in the mood for something a little more relatable.
Pot Noodles have always been my guilty pleasure. Yep, you heard correctly. Someone who spent an inordinate amount of time as a young man learning how to finely dice carrots would rather seek solace in a plastic tub of instant noodles. A man can only enjoy a few things in life in five minutes. It’s always been a king-size sticky rib for me. For the newcomer, don’t worry if it doesn’t tickle your tastebuds. Choice is one of the best things about capitalism; there are now almost a dozen other flavours to choose from. If you have a picky palate, I suggest the chicken and mushroom.
I will share with you a little-known fact about the culinary arts. You see, the foundation of French gastronomy comes from humble peasant origins, while critics fawn over the latest high-end restaurant showcasing a fancy three-course set menu for £150. Because of this, many of the people who work behind the stoves are working-class. And we have the diet to match. Take Sat Bains, who can’t resist a McDonalds Filet-o-Fish after work, or Heston Blumenthal, who once told The Guardian that he gets a craving for tuna sandwiches from petrol station fridges.
It takes a combination of skill and luck to make the perfect noodle. That being said, there isn’t a hard-and-fast rule. Here’s where your imagination comes into play. History loves mavericks. Be adventurous, pull back the lid, and let your creativity run wild. Personally, I always add a few chopped chives into the powdered mix. After that, I shake it to allow it to seep into the dried block of noodles. Never, repeat never, fill it to the recommended line—as with most things in life, less is more. As a general rule, you probably have enough if you can feel the water at the bottom of the pot. Put the lid back on. Allow it to stand for five minutes. Patience is a virtue.
Always eat it from the pot, because it cools down too quickly if you tip it into a bowl. Just a fork will do. Never use a spoon—you’ll look like an amateur. When it comes to the left-over sauce, neck it straight out of the pot. You are man, goddammit!
Do this, and I guarantee you will be able to instantly light a fire and survive a nuclear apocalypse.
