Tsukemen: ramen, taken apart

Ordinary ramen is a marriage. Tsukemen is more like a dance: noodles on one side, soup on the other, and you bringing them together one mouthful at a time.

Tsukeru (つける) means "to dip", and tsukemen (つけ麺) means dipping noodles. You get a plate or bowl of noodles, served cold or warm, and beside it a smaller bowl of hot, intensely flavoured broth. You lift some noodles, dunk them, and eat. It sounds like a small change. In practice it creates a completely different dish.

A staff meal that became a menu

Japan already had a long tradition of dipping noodles before tsukemen existed. Cold soba served on a plate with a dipping sauce is a classic, and it's called morisoba (もりそば). If you're curious about that side of the family, see the soba guide.

The person usually credited with bringing the idea to ramen is Kazuo Yamagishi of Taishoken (大勝軒), who popularised it in Tokyo in the 1950s under that same name, morisoba. The city's everyday ramen back then was the clear soy bowl known as chuka soba, so serving the noodles apart from the soup was a real departure. The story goes that it began as a staff meal, with cooks dipping leftover noodles into a cup of soup, before Yamagishi refined it and put it on the menu. Like many origin stories, it's told in slightly different versions, but his role in making tsukemen famous is widely recognised. Yamagishi became something of a legend in the ramen world, and he trained a great many cooks who carried his style onward.

Older-style tsukemen dips often have a sweet and slightly sour edge, which makes them refreshing even when the dip is hot.

The gyokai tonkotsu wave

Tsukemen has been around for decades, but its modern form took off in Tokyo in the 2000s, when a new kind of dip became a craze. It was gyokai tonkotsu (魚介豚骨): pork-bone stock blended with seafood, especially dried fish, and reduced into something thick, glossy and almost gravy-like. Many bowls were finished with a heap of gyofun (魚粉), fish powder, on top.

This style suited dipping perfectly. A thin broth would slide off the noodles; a dense one clings to them, so each mouthful is coated in flavour. Thick, chewy noodles with plenty of wheat character became the standard partner, and queues formed outside the most talked-about shops. Today you'll find tsukemen everywhere from small specialists to the big ramen streets, and our tsukemen search is a good place to start looking.

Because the dip has to season the noodles rather than float them, it's much more concentrated than a ramen soup: saltier, richer and more intense. Don't be alarmed if a sip on its own seems overpowering. It's not meant to be drunk as it is. At least, not yet.

How to eat tsukemen

A few things that make the experience better:

• Hot or cold noodles? Standard tsukemen noodles are boiled, then rinsed in cold water, which firms them up and gives them a springy bite. Many shops will also serve them warm if you ask for atsumori (あつもり). Cold noodles have the better texture; warm ones keep the dip hot for longer. I lean towards cold, especially in summer.
• Dip, don't drown. Lift a modest bundle and dip part of it. Letting the noodles soak for too long chills the broth and turns each mouthful salty.
• Mind the temperature. Every dip of cold noodles cools the broth a little. Eat at a steady pace, and if the shop offers to rewarm your dip, it's worth saying yes.
• Expect generous portions. Tsukemen servings tend to be large, and many shops offer bigger sizes. Order with your appetite in mind.
• Use the toppings. Chashu, menma, a soft egg and nori often sit in or beside the dip. Eat them as you go.

The soup-wari finish

Here is the best part, and the one first-timers most often miss. When the noodles are gone, you're left with a small bowl of very strong broth. Don't push it away. Ask for soup-wari (スープ割り).

Staff will take your bowl, or hand you a pot, and add a light, hot broth, often a dashi, to thin the leftover dip into something you can drink. The concentrated flavour opens up, the salt mellows and you get a final, warming cup of soup to end the meal. Some shops keep a pot of it on the counter so you can help yourself. If you want to know why that dashi does such good work, I've written about it in the guide to dashi.

I think soup-wari is one of the cleverest ideas in Japanese noodle culture. Nothing is wasted, and the meal ends on a gentle note rather than a salty one.

A dish in two movements

Tsukemen asks a little more of you than ordinary ramen. You control the pace, the balance and the temperature, and then there's that final bowl of soup to look forward to. To me it feels like a meal in two movements: first the bold, chewy dipping, then a quiet, warm coda. It's proof that a dish everyone thinks they know can still surprise you, if someone is brave enough to take it apart and let you put it back together.