Haunted Ramen for Hungry Ghosts

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Hello friends.

The ghost and I have decided it’s officially haunting season. (But really, when isn’t it haunting season in my house? 👻) Still, something feels different now—like the air itself is a little thicker, the angle of the sun has shifted, and the kitchen carries a draft that wasn’t there before. The ghost has been extra loud, too. The cat food dish clattered to the floor on its own the other night, a loaf of bread turned moldy within hours of bringing it home, and I swear I heard a low chuckle when the chili oil slipped out of my hands.

This week’s recipe comes from the last tangible project Anthony worked on before he himself became a hungry ghost. The tribute page is… well, haunting.

Now, if you ever doubted that Bourdain actually haunts me, let me tell you a story.

On Wednesday, still undecided about what to make—and craving something more on the Asian side—I scoured the cookbook shelves. I didn’t find anything in Les Halles. (Ha. Just kidding. I didn’t even look there. Because French.) I flipped through Appetites, but nothing called my name. So I reached for Hungry Ghosts.

Hungry Ghosts isn’t really a cookbook. It’s a graphic novel—a collection of beautifully illustrated, gruesome ghost stories about food and hunger. Imagine thick black ink, grotesque skeletons with hollow eyes, steaming bowls of noodles drawn with such precision you swear you can smell the broth. Some panels are so detailed and bloody they feel alive, like you’ve just stumbled into a fever dream. It’s a lot like Tales from the Crypt, but culinary. Not for children, unless your child happens to be Wednesday Addams.

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There are only a few recipes tucked inside—two of which overlap with Appetites. But one stood out: Tokyo Ramen, paired with the ghost tale “The Starving Skeleton.”

Here’s the goosebumpy part. As I fact-checked details today, I discovered that tomorrow—September 6, 2025—is the actual date of the Hungry Ghost Festival (also called the Zhongyuan Festival in Taoism and Yulanpen Festival in Buddhism).

You cannot convince me Anthony didn’t plan this. Every word of this story is true. I swear on my life. And I don’t believe in coincidences.

So. Haunting confirmed. Let’s talk ramen.

For many Americans, ramen means a crinkly brick of noodles and a flavor packet with enough salt to melt a driveway. But if you’ve ever had the real thing—a bowl layered with depth and umami that makes your eyes roll back—you know. That’s what this recipe aims for.

The broth is the foundation. In proper ramen houses, I’ve heard the stock pot is always simmering, replenished as needed. In Bourdainism, this compares with Dark Universal Stock. Ingredients are added to the main recipe to adapt it to each dish.

Then comes the dashi—made by gently simmering kombu (dried kelp) and bonito flakes (smoked, dried skipjack shaved into translucent whispers). It slips into the broth, doubling down on umami.

I cobbled mine together from pork bones lurking in the freezer after last week’s “pork pounding,” some pork loin ribs, and a suspiciously pristine bag of what the package label calls “chicken paws.” (A stupid name. They’re feet. Also: why are they so clean? Chickens scratch in dirt. They should have calluses, broken nails. These looked like they’d been on a lifelong spa vacation, getting pedicures while drinking mimosas. Disturbing.)

The genius move here is the ground pork. You cook it down, stir in miso, and let it caramelize. The result? Salty, funky, pork-fatty glory. Yes, please.

Fresh ramen noodles weren’t in the cards, so I used my trusty stash of black Shin noodles. A couple of soft-boiled eggs, a sprinkle of slivered scallions, and the all-important chili oil. My favorite is Chili Beak—local to Salt Lake City and close to my heart.

By the time I ladled the broth into the bowls, a thunderstorm ripped across the sky. Lightning split the horizon in jagged streaks, thunder rolled so low it rattled the cabinets, and the storm itself seemed to breathe with the same rhythm as the simmering broth. It was eerie and fitting, like the sky had been waiting for this exact meal. A hot, brothy, noodly dinner was exactly what we needed. (Plus: three quarts of ramen broth still in the fridge. Future me says thank you.)

And maybe that’s the real ghost story here—not just skeletons and scary illustrations, but the way a simple bowl of ramen becomes an offering. Food for the living, food for the dead, food for anyone who happens to hover in between. If Anthony’s spirit is still hungry - and I know it is - I like to think this counted.

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