Lucky Me - Bulalo
(sachets - 3 + plastic fork)
As if to remind you that Filipino food is a bit, well, crackers, there’s a sachet of crackers included with this nest of noodles. You also get sachets of ‘beef’ soya bits and an indeterminate variety of flavouring powder, which, when everything comes together, re-creates the Filipino classic Bulalo - kind of. Everybody knows that crackers and soup go together like rump steak and chewing gum, and what any good bulalo really needs is a huge bone or two, stuffed with soft, juicy marrow. Taking the bone out of bulalo is like removing the karaoke machine from a Filipino funeral wake - leaving the whole thing flat, disappointing and as lifeless as the chick in a balut egg.
4/10 - Potty.
Koka - Laksa
(sachets - 4 + plastic fork)
Having a pot noodle in your cupboard is like having a spree-killer your family - you’d prefer not to admit it at dinner parties. But when a minor lunchtime crisis strikes - or some kind of nuclear conflict happens - you could do much worse than this. There’s everything you need here to survive armageddon for at least a couple of hours - from the 4 sachets (seasoning, chilli oil, dried veg and coconut powder, in case you were wondering) you can use the plastic to fashion some kind of radiation-proof hat; and the pleasant, creamy and soupy noodles will keep you occupied for at least 12 minutes prior to that. In peacetime however, it’ll just make you long for real laksa, and leave you feeling slightly empty inside.
6.5/10 - Laksa little something. Ha-har - I’m here all week, folks!
(sachets - 2)
You know what they say about the Japanese - the Pot Noodles they eat today are the Pot Noodles the rest of the world will be eating in 2078. Discovering this impressive melange of futuristic ingredients is like a trip in a DeLorean fixed with a flux capacitor. The plastic lid snaps off to reveal a sachet-fetishist’s wildest dream. Even the noodles come in a sachet, and guess what - they’re wet. Where most noodle-cakes resemble a tramp’s urinal-dampened shoelaces dried out on a radiator, these are moist, thick, bouncy udon noodles. There’s a sachet of miso-style powder with dried seaweed bits and then the coup de grace that buries all other pot noodles in a kettle-shaped coffin marked “fail” - a sachet containing a whole, flat, dried tempura cake, packed with fishy flavourings and prawn bits. By the time the rest of the world are eating these noodles, the Japanese will have done away with food altogether and replaced it with sound waves or dehydrated trousers.
12/10 - Pot of gold.
Pot Noodle World Cup winners 2010 - Japan