A Korean Immigrant's Cure for Homesickness

Source: Shin Ramyun / Nongshim

Every Korean knows that familiar smell and taste of home the second we see that bright red label, with the words Shin Ramyun in bold black. It doesn’t matter where we are and how far we may be from home—whether I'm in the middle of nowhere Russia, nursing a hangover after a night of celebrating Korea beating Germany in the World Cup, or I’m in my $3 bungalow in the middle of the Mekong River in Laos searching for a slice of home, or I’m just a broke college kid in Chicago in need of a midnight snack—it always brings me right back to where it all started, to what my taste buds know best. It’s the taste of the motherland—umami, spice, heat, salt, and lots of flavor.

Unfortunately, the sense of smell is often overlooked. However, it's a powerful sense that can trigger terrifying trauma responses and also remind us of early, blissful childhood memories. Research has shown that odors elicit emotion and are linked to emotional memory.

Odors can become associated by learning with reinforcers such as taste in the orbitofrontal cortex and amygdala, and this provides a way for previously neutral odors to produce emotional responses (Herz and collegues, 2004; Rolls, 2005).

In just three minutes, a paper cup stuffed with cold, hard, dehydrated “noodles” turns into a heaping bowl of hot, steamy, spicy ramyun, topped with mushrooms, green onions, and hot pepper flakes. That first loud slurp is orgasmic and I savor the taste in my mouth as it travels down my throat, sending sensations down to my gut. Siwonhae. Every Korean knows exactly what I mean.

Immediately, we travel back in time—to the first moment we ever tasted such perfection. We’re sent back to our childhoods, in Korea, the United States, China, Argentina, Canada—wherever we were. It doesn’t matter where we were then and where we are now because no matter what, it always tastes the same.

I become a child again—curious and playful. I fold the circular paper top in half and then again into fourths and use it as a mini bowl to cool the noodles so they don’t burn my mouth. I twist the noodles around my disposable wooden chopsticks—which I place mechanically between my thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger, adeptly maneuvering two little sticks against each other just like I have since I was 5 years old. Proud of my chopstick skills, I pick up just one single noodle, as delicately as possible and place it between my lips.

I think of all the times and places I’ve tasted this ramyun—at rest stops during long road trips with my family, in Motel 6 with my parents who refused to eat anything but Korean food, as anjoo with my aunts while drinking soju until we passed out, while van-lifting with friends in Iceland, at club CU in Seoul at 5 am waiting for the trains to start again, winding down at sunrise after a night of dancing at Burning Man, and so many more memories. Shin Ramyun has always been there for me to provide comfort and nourishment.

It tastes great alone and with others. Sometimes I emulate what I see in Korean dramas when I’m feeling blue—heartbroken Koreans crying over lost loves with their faces submerged in a bowl of ramyun, as their salty tears become one with the broth. When I’m feeling lonely I know I can seek comfort in my dear friend, Shin Ramyun, and instantly I’m not alone anymore.

And other times it tastes even better when you steal a bite from someone else. My Jamaican ex-boyfriend used to get so mad at me when he would make ramyun for himself, the immediate heat on his tongue reminding him of Jamaican scotch bonnet. He would ask if I wanted one and I would say no and then proceed to eat the rest of his ramyun. “You said you didn’t want any!” I didn’t at the time, but I just couldn’t resist the smell. He stopped asking me if I wanted any and started eating it without me. I couldn’t blame him.

Ramyun tastes great on its own but, of course, everything is better accompanied by some kimchi. These days there are so many creative ways to fancy up these instant noodles. You can add cheese, spam, sausage, eggs, green onions, mushrooms, rice—whatever you desire. You can add them to Budae-Jjigae, a Korean army stew that was invented shortly after the Korean War using surplus processed and canned foods from the U.S. army bases in South Korea. Just add some ham, hot dogs, spam, baked beans, kimchi, instant noodles, and cheese and you’ve got yourself a literal cultural melting pot. With dishes like these, it’s hard to tell that what you’re eating is instant ramyun from a plastic bag.

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What was once such a treasure to find when traveling abroad, has over the years, become ubiquitous. In 2024, I can find Shin Ramyun in every bodega in New York City and every 7-Eleven in Thailand. Every time I enter a convenience store and my eyes automatically spot the bright red label, I have to resist the old familiar urge to buy it because I now know I can get it anywhere and everywhere. It’s no longer a rarity that I need to stock up on, but still, as an immigrant, it’s hard to ignore this scarcity mindset.

But now and then, after weeks of traveling and tasting foreign foods that are often quite good—I still can’t help but feel that sudden longing for home. And so instead of going for that sushi or steak dinner, I opt for a paper cup of instant ramyun—and I have no regrets because it always tastes exactly how I remember it, just like home.