Black Sesame Chicken Ramen

The first time I had black sesame anything, I thought someone was pranking me.

It was at this cramped food stall in a market district where the lights barely worked and everyone seemed to know each other except me.

The guy running it didn't speak much English, and I didn't speak much Japanese, but he pointed at a bowl of what looked like liquid charcoal and nodded like it was the most obvious choice in the world.

I ordered it because I didn't want to look like a coward, and also because it smelled like someone had lit a campfire inside a bakery.

Raw ones are pointless.

When the bowl landed in front of me, steam curling up like smoke signals, I just stared at it for longer than was probably normal.

Black noodles tangled with glossy chicken pieces, black broth pooling around them like ink, a few pale green scallions floating on top like they were trying to escape.

I took a bite and everything clicked at once.

The broth wasn't bitter or weird, it was creamy, earthy, almost sweet, with this deep toasted flavor that stuck to your tongue in the best way possible.

Breast will dry out and taste like regret.

The chicken was falling apart tender, soaked in sesame and soy, and the noodles had this chew that made you slow down and pay attention to what you were eating.

It tasted like the opposite of what it looked like, bold but not aggressive, rich but not heavy, the kind of thing that makes you forget you're sitting on a wobbly stool in a place with no bathroom.

I tried to recreate it when I got home, and the first few times were complete disasters.

Too much sesame paste and it turned into peanut butter soup, not enough soy and it tasted like hot water with ambition, but eventually I figured out the balance.

It softens the sesame bitterness and adds sneaky sweetness.

You need the sweetness of mirin, the saltiness of soy, the funk of garlic, and that toasted sesame doing all the heavy lifting in the background.

And you need to commit to the darkness, not try to lighten it up or make it look more "normal" for people who get nervous around black food.

It's supposed to look intense, that's the whole point of the thing.

Now I make it whenever I want something that feels like a secret, something you wouldn't order unless you knew what you were doing.

People see it and lean in, they ask what it is, and when they taste it they get it immediately.

It's one of those dishes that doesn't need to explain itself, it just sits there, dark and confident, daring you to take the first bite.