Rendang Beef Ramen
Rendang already feels like the heavyweight champion of stews, so tossing it in with ramen is almost unfair. You’ve got beef that melts if you look at it too hard, broth that tastes like it survived an adventure, and noodles sliding through all that richness like they’ve been training for this moment. It’s messy, intense, and completely unapologetic. You don’t eat this bowl to be polite, you eat it because it calls you out and dares you to keep up.
Slow fire whispers deep—coconut clings to beef’s heart—noodles swim through gold.
Let Me Tell You...
The kitchen smelled like patience.
Beef simmering down with lemongrass and galangal, coconut milk thickening into something that clung to the spoon, spices painting the air so loud the neighbors probably thought I was fumigating.
Rendang isn’t a quick dish, and I knew that.
Still, I thought tossing ramen into it at the end might make me feel like I was cheating time.
Spoiler: it didn’t save time, but it made the wait worthwhile.
Crowd the pan and you’ll steam it instead of sear it.
I leaned on the counter while the pot muttered to itself, flipping through my phone, pretending not to be obsessed with how good it smelled.
Hours in and the beef surrendered, collapsing under a fork with zero resistance.
The broth was less a liquid and more a glossy cloak of coconut and spice.
I tossed in the ramen noodles like an afterthought, but they soaked it up greedily, strands slick with rendang’s history.
It was fusion, sure, but it didn’t feel forced.
It felt inevitable.
Raw spice tastes like cardboard no matter how fancy the name sounds.
My cousin walked in while I was hunched over the bowl, slurping like a criminal.
He asked what the hell I did to ramen.
I said nothing.
Just let him taste.
He didn’t talk for a while, just kept fishing out noodles, beef, and broth like he was trying to solve a puzzle with his mouth.
Then he said, “Okay, this isn’t ramen.
It’s better.” That was all I needed.
It cuts through the richness and keeps the bowl from feeling heavy.
By the time I finished, the kitchen was stained with curry splatters, and my shirt probably needed to be burned.
But the bowl was empty, and I was full in a way that had nothing to do with just being fed.
Rendang ramen isn’t a weeknight stunt.
It’s a commitment.
And if you’re going to commit, you might as well do it with noodles in the mix.
Ingredients
- 1.5 lbs beef chuck, cut into large chunks
- 2 bricks ramen noodles (about 8 oz dry)
- 2 tbsp vegetable oil
- 1 large onion, chopped
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 tbsp fresh ginger, grated
- 2 stalks lemongrass, smashed
- 1 tbsp ground coriander
- 1 tsp ground cumin
- 1 tsp turmeric
- 1/2 tsp cinnamon
- 1/4 tsp ground cloves
- 2 red chilies, sliced
- 1 can (13.5 oz) coconut milk
- 2 cups beef broth
- 2 tbsp soy sauce
- Juice of 1 lime (plus extra for serving)
- Salt and black pepper to taste
- Fresh cilantro, chopped (plus more for garnish)
Preparation
- Heat oil in a large pot over medium-high heat.
- Brown beef chunks on all sides in batches; set aside.
- In the same pot, sauté onion, garlic, and ginger for 5 minutes until softened.
- Stir in coriander, cumin, turmeric, cinnamon, cloves, and chilies; toast for 1 minute until fragrant.
- Add lemongrass, coconut milk, beef broth, soy sauce, and browned beef back to the pot.
- Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer uncovered for 1.5 hours until beef is tender and sauce is thick.
- Meanwhile, cook ramen noodles separately for 3 minutes; drain.
- Remove lemongrass stalks, adjust seasoning with salt, pepper, and lime juice.
- Divide noodles into bowls, ladle rendang beef and sauce over top.
- Garnish with cilantro and optional toppings.
Chef's Tips
- Brown beef in small batches for a deep sear and better flavor.
- Let the curry simmer low and slow until the beef is fork-tender.
- Variation: Swap beef for lamb shank to create a richer, gamier version of rendang ramen.
Serving Suggestion
Serve in deep bowls with fresh cilantro and lime wedges, alongside iced jasmine tea for balance.