Ramen Ciceri e Tria
You know what's funny about traditional Italian cooking? They've been doing the whole "half fried, half boiled" pasta thing in Puglia for centuries, and here we are acting like texture contrast is some revolutionary concept. This bowl takes that ancient wisdom and applies it to ramen noodles, because apparently even Italian grandmothers would approve of good fusion when they see it. The chickpeas are the real MVPs here—they break down just enough to thicken the broth while still maintaining their earthy, nutty bite that makes you feel like you're eating something substantial instead of just carbs and regret. Those crispy fried noodle bits scattered on top create this perfect textural chaos that your mouth can't quite figure out but definitely doesn't want to stop experiencing. The rosemary and garlic make everything smell like a Tuscan hillside, even if you're eating this in your kitchen at 9 PM on a Wednesday. It's comfort food that actually has some history behind it, which somehow makes slurping instant noodles feel almost dignified.
Half crunch, half velvet—Chickpeas hum of southern sun—Dual paths twine as one
Let Me Tell You...
So there I was last Tuesday, standing in my kitchen like some kind of culinary genius, when really I was just trying to figure out what the hell to do with this can of chickpeas that had been staring at me from the pantry for about three weeks.
You know how it is—you buy something with good intentions, then it just sits there judging you every time you open the cabinet door.
Anyway, I'm scrolling through my phone, probably looking at something completely useless, when I knock over my olive oil bottle.
The damn thing didn't break, thank God, but it reminded me of this time my roommate in college tried to impress some girl by making "authentic Italian food" and ended up burning garlic so bad the whole dorm smelled like a tire fire for two days.
The poor bastard was so distracted by trying to text her while cooking that he forgot the most basic rule of garlic—it goes from golden to garbage in about ten seconds flat.
That memory got me thinking about this dish I'd heard about from some food show—ciceri e tria, they called it.
Half the pasta gets fried until it's crispy, half gets boiled like normal.
It's like the Italians figured out that life's too short to commit to just one texture, which honestly makes more sense than most things adults do.
So I'm standing there with my chickpeas and some ramen noodles, thinking why the hell not?
The worst that could happen is I'd waste a dollar's worth of instant noodles, which isn't exactly going to bankrupt me.
I started heating up some olive oil in this beat-up pan I've had since freshman year, the one with the handle that's slightly loose but somehow still works perfectly.
The oil started shimmering, and I tossed in half the ramen noodles, watching them turn golden and crispy like little edible confetti.
While those were getting their tan on, I opened the can of chickpeas and dumped them into another pot with some stock I had lying around.
The smell that came up when I added the rosemary was something else—like if a Mediterranean hillside could somehow fit into your kitchen.
It reminded me of this trip I took to Italy a few years back, where I ate at this tiny place in Bari that probably hadn't changed their menu since the Renaissance.
The old guy running the place didn't speak a word of English, but he kept pointing at my bowl and nodding like he was proud of me for actually finishing it.
That's the thing about good food—it doesn't need translation.
You just know when something's right, when all the flavors are having this perfect little conversation in your mouth instead of fighting each other like drunk college kids.
When I finally mixed everything together—the crispy noodles, the soft ones, the chickpeas that had gotten all creamy and thick—it was like watching some kind of culinary magic trick.
Half crunchy, half soft, all delicious.
I stood there eating it straight from the pot like some kind of savage, but honestly?
Sometimes the best meals are the ones nobody else sees you eat.
The lemon zest I grated on top made everything bright and alive, like it woke up all the other flavors and told them to start paying attention.
It's funny how something so simple can make you feel like you actually know what you're doing in the kitchen, even when most of the time you're just winging it and hoping for the best.
Ingredients
- 8 ounces dried ramen noodles (2 bricks, seasoning packets discarded)
- 1 (15-ounce) can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
- 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil (plus more for drizzling)
- 1 small yellow onion, finely diced
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 teaspoon dried rosemary
- 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
- 1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional, for heat)
- 4 cups low-sodium vegetable or chicken stock
- 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
- Kosher salt, to taste
- Zest of 1 lemon
- 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
- 1/4 cup grated Pecorino Romano or Parmesan cheese (plus more for serving)
- Lemon wedges, for serving
Preparation
- Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook ramen noodles for 2–3 minutes until just tender, drain, rinse under cool water, and set aside.
- In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onion and cook for 3–4 minutes until softened. Add garlic, rosemary, thyme, and red pepper flakes and cook 1 minute more.
- Add chickpeas and toss to coat with aromatics. Pour in stock, black pepper, and salt to taste. Simmer for 8–10 minutes.
- Stir in lemon zest, parsley, and half the cheese. Adjust seasoning if needed.
- Add cooked ramen noodles to the pan, tossing gently to combine and heat through.
- Divide ramen and chickpeas among bowls. Top with remaining cheese, parsley, lemon zest, and desired toppings. Serve with lemon wedges and a drizzle of olive oil.
Chef's Tips
- Sauté aromatics until fragrant to build a flavor base before adding chickpeas and stock.
- Mash some chickpeas against the side of the pot to naturally thicken the broth and add body.
- Variation: Add diced pancetta or Italian sausage for meat, or roasted vegetables for extra depth.
Serving Suggestion
Serve in rustic ceramic bowls with extra virgin olive oil drizzled on top, crusty Pugliese bread, and a glass of Vermentino for an authentic Southern Italian experience.