Singapore Noodle Soup

There's a tech meetup happening next month — Seattle Asian Americans in Tech — that Sujin mentioned. She said, "You should go. It's not just engineers — it's PMs, designers, founders. And it's Asian-American, so you won't be the only Asian face in the room." The idea of being in a room of Asian-American tech workers is appealing for reasons that go beyond networking: it's another version of the Korean restaurant, the Korean class, the Korean women's group — a space where my face is the norm, where the model minority conversation is understood, where nobody asks "where are you really from?" because everyone in the room has been asked that question and everyone in the room is tired of answering it.

I signed up. The meetup is in March. I'm not going to look for a date (that would be too goal-oriented, too engineered — Dr. Yoon says love doesn't optimize). I'm going because Sujin suggested it and because the room might contain people who speak my language — the language of between, the language of both — and because three years of building an identity means the identity is ready to be taken out in public, to rooms full of strangers, to spaces where I am not the only Korean person and not the only engineer and not the only person who has ever felt like she doesn't quite fit anywhere.

This week I made budae jjigae — army stew, the fusion dish, the dish I made for the adoptee meetup two years ago when Claire said, "We're the budae jjigae." The stew has become a regular in my rotation, not for its symbolic value (though the symbolism is rich: Korean and American ingredients fused into something neither and both) but for its practicality: it uses whatever's in the fridge, it's flexible, it's satisfying, it's the weeknight hero. This batch: Spam, kimchi, ramyeon noodles, tofu, mozzarella cheese (the cheese is controversial among Korean food purists but I love it — the way it stretches from the pot is deeply satisfying), and gochugaru. The stew was spicy and salty and cheesy and trashy in the best way, and I ate two bowls and felt fed in the specific way that budae jjigae feeds you: both Korean and American at once, the hyphen in Korean-American made edible.

Kevin texted a photo of Bridge City with a new addition: a small shelf of Korean snacks — Pepero, Choco Pie, shrimp chips — that he's selling alongside the coffee. "Korean snacks at a Portland coffee shop," he wrote. "Your influence." My influence. My Korean cooking spreading to Portland via my brother's coffee shop. The ripple effect continues, widening, reaching places I never intended and people I've never met. Someone in Portland is eating a Choco Pie with their latte because Kevin's sister makes Korean food in Seattle. The chain of influence is absurd and beautiful and exactly how culture works: one person shows another, who shows another, who puts Choco Pies on a shelf in Portland.

Saturday: Bellevue. Karen made pot roast. I brought budae jjigae. Pot roast — where it started. Budae jjigae — where it's going. The first dish and the latest dish, side by side, two pots, two cultures, one woman who makes both and loves both and doesn't have to choose between them anymore because the table is big enough. The table is always big enough. The table is the biggest thing in this story.

The week I carried budae jjigae to Bellevue and set it next to Karen’s pot roast, I kept thinking about how the best food is always a little bit of two things at once — never just one or the other. Singapore Noodle Soup lands in that same in-between space: a broth built on curry and soy, noodles that soak up everything around them, a bowl that doesn’t ask you to choose a lane. It’s become my weeknight answer to the same question budae jjigae answers on weekends — how do you feed yourself well when you are, yourself, a hyphen?

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

6 oz rice vermicelli noodles
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon neutral oil (vegetable or canola)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated
2 teaspoons curry powder
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (or to taste)
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 teaspoon sugar
1 lb medium shrimp, peeled and deveined (or thinly sliced chicken breast)
2 cups napa cabbage, thinly sliced
1 cup bean sprouts
1 medium carrot, julienned
2 eggs, lightly beaten
3 green onions, thinly sliced
Fresh cilantro and lime wedges, to serve

Instructions

Soak the noodles. Place rice vermicelli in a large bowl and cover with boiling water. Let soak for 5–7 minutes until just pliable but not fully soft. Drain, rinse with cold water, and set aside.
Build the aromatic base. Heat neutral oil in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add garlic and ginger and cook, stirring, for 1 minute until fragrant. Add curry powder, turmeric, and red pepper flakes and stir for 30 seconds to bloom the spices.
Add the broth. Pour in chicken broth, soy sauce, fish sauce, and sugar. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a gentle simmer. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Cook the protein. Add shrimp (or chicken) to the simmering broth. Cook 2–3 minutes for shrimp until pink and curled, or 4–5 minutes for chicken until cooked through.
Add the vegetables. Stir in cabbage and carrot. Simmer for 2 minutes until just tender but still with a little bite.
Stream in the eggs. Slowly pour the beaten eggs into the simmering broth in a thin stream while stirring gently to create soft egg ribbons. Cook for 30 seconds.
Add noodles and finish. Add the drained noodles to the pot and stir gently to combine. Add bean sprouts and sesame oil. Simmer 1 minute just to warm through.
Serve. Ladle into bowls and top with green onions and fresh cilantro. Serve with lime wedges for squeezing over the top.

Nutrition (per serving)

Singapore Noodle Soup — The Hyphen in a Bowl