In Japan, a bowl of noodles is more than just a tasty dish – it can speak to you of regional pride and culinary craft. It's art, distinguished by the broth's depth, noodle texture and the symphony of toppings. While Tokyo leans towards a subtler, often chicken-infused broth, head north to Sapporo and you'll find bowls brimming with a miso-rich, hearty concoction, tailor-made for warding off the chill. In Hakata, the Fukuoka district gifts us with tonkotsu ramen, where pork bones are simmered down to a broth that's as unapologetically porky as it is irresistible. In this city, every slurp is a testament to Japan's noodle mastery, where wheat noodles become the perfect vessel for each region's signature flavors. Wheat noodles, buckwheat noodles, green tea noodles, hot noodles, cold noodles – you can have them every which way and any time of the year. Below, we’ve shared our picks for where to find the best noodles in Tokyo, based on years of slurping.

After the merriment of sakura cherry blossoms has faded, bringing with it the dreary Japanese rainy season, the hot, humid days of July and August follow shortly thereafter. When summer temperatures and the humidity reach a point of sticky and awful, Japanese people tend to change their diet so as to shake off natsubate, the physical fatigue of summer. In a country where the main religion is nature-worshipping Shinto, most people practice the custom of shun: celebrating nature’s cycles and each season’s profusion of food. Loosely translated, “shun” means the height of nature’s abundance. Each of Japan’s fruits, vegetables and also animal proteins has its own shun, and in the essential and enduring wisdom of Japanese cuisine, that has influenced the preparation of Japanese food for thousands of years.

This was a year of culinary highs for sure, ranging from the ridiculous to the seriously sublime. McDonald’s Choco-Pumpkin fries Yes, you’ve read correctly. While out researching some serious Halloween treats I stumbled on a Mickey D’s seasonal specialty for Japan – Choco-Pumpkin fries. Not only did a picture of it on the menu look pretty awful, the thought of neither salt nor ketchup on my spuds seemed so wrong. And yet it turned out to be a truly impressive surprise. The standard fries at McDonald’s – or, as it’s known in Japan, makudonarudo – came with a packet of chocolate syrup and a packet of pumpkin syrup that you swirl over them yourself.

Anticipating a line, we arrived ahead of our appetite, but the slightly acrid smell of fresh dashi wafting over the street hurried our hunger. Tucked behind a handful of confounding corners southwest of Shinjuku Station in a mixed-use neighborhood of apartments, shops and offices, Udon Shin has consistently ranked among the best udon restaurants in Tokyo since opening in April 2011. At around ¥1000 (US$9) per meal, you feel like you're getting away with something. Owner and chef Shinji Narahara deftly handles the classic accompaniment to udon (think homemade dashi, deep-fried tofu and tempura) but elevates the humble noodle to modern heights with their trademark carbonara udon.

Guizhou is largely unfamiliar to most outsiders, but many Chinese consider the beautiful province one of the country’s last destinations unspoiled by mass tourism. Nestled between the Hunan and Yunnan provinces, Guizhou’s mountainous terrain has caused infrastructure development to lag behind other regions. Because of the various ethnic minorities that make up more than one-third of the population and who would often rather keep a more traditional way of life, Guizhou ranks at the bottom of the list for GDP per capita by province.

The West has gone gaga for noodles, Japan’s most cherished comfort food. Hungry diners pack secret soba dens in Los Angeles for bites of hand-cut anything; they line up to plunk themselves down at sparkling counters offering $100 ramen tastings in New York and pick through ramen au beurre in Paris looking for the next new taste. In Tokyo, ramen masters are now competing for cult status within a ramen culture imported from the United States. Soba chefs are newly coveted for their skill in grinding, rolling, cutting and plating and are praised as master craftsmen.

Shanghai’s farm country is closer than most residents imagine, especially when surrounded by the city’s seemingly endless forest of skyscrapers. But just beyond the spires is a huge, green oasis: Chongming. Somewhat smaller than Hawaii’s Kauai, this island at the mouth of the Yangtze River grows much of the municipality’s food supply. The government is pushing plans forward to develop the area with “eco-friendly” industries by 2020 but, as usual, has not provided many details on how these goals will be achieved. A stopping point for millions of migratory birds each year, the island (for now) has several wetland zones and ecological parks that are open to visitors, making it a worthwhile jaunt for those wanting to escape Shanghai’s urban jungle.

If you find yourself in the waiting area at Tang Gong (an hour-long inevitability if you go for dim sum on the weekends), there’s plenty to see to make the minutes go by faster. Slip-covered chairs lined up like movie theater seats in the lobby are an ideal perch for people-watching, although you’ll have to turn away from the display of Moutai baijiu and the flat-screen they face for a better view of the hungry hordes.

North Korean cuisine is about as mysterious as it gets. Few travelers have ever actually been to the reclusive country, and news reports are more often about high-profile rescues and the dire food security situation than its national cuisine. Thanks to 10 North Korean restaurants in Beijing and 50 others scattered around Southeast Asia, those living in the Far East have plenty of opportunity to glimpse the country’s dining scene. Shanghai is home to seven branches of the Pyongyang restaurant chain, and food is only part of the draw. With a nightly show around 7:30 p.m., the song and dance numbers put on by the double-duty waitresses supposedly allow for a rare glimpse inside the traditional culture.

It’s been two weeks of cycling through China’s Qinghai province, and the food selection is slim. The majority of the province sits on the vast Tibetan Plateau, well above the tree line in conditions too harsh for significant cultivation. Yaks graze on well-trampled grass as far as the eye can see, with white yurts and colorful prayer flags dotting the hillsides and each summit pass. By Chinese standards, six million inhabitants in the country’s fourth-largest province make Qinghai practically deserted. For long stretches, only nomadic yak herders can be spotted between the tiny villages. Stopping for a roadside lunch in the small, isolated towns inevitably means a bowl of either mutton or yak chopped-noodle soup (羊肉面片, yángròu miàn piàn or 毛牛肉面片, máo niúròu miàn piàn). Served up in a tomato-chili broth, it’s a tasty meal, but repeated daily, it inevitably becomes tiresome. Additional ingredients sometimes includes julienned zucchini or green peppers, depending on the remoteness of the particular town and their staggered vegetable shipments. After just one week, we’re eagerly awaiting more fruitful pastures, and Sichuan province, located just to the east on our route, is a culinary paradise.

Good service in China is a relative term, and the longer you live here, the lower your expectations sink. The Michelin Guide allegedly won’t deign to cross over the Hong Kong border into China because they refuse to sully their white-tablecloth reputation by doling out stars to restaurants with subpar service. But the inspectors must have never entered a Hai Di Lao Hot Pot, or they might have to change their tune.

One of China’s most ubiquitous culinary exports, Sichuan cuisine is famous for the 麻辣, or málà (mouth-numbing spice), that comes in the form of a peppercorn (花椒, huā jiāo). Prompting a tingling sensation that has been likened to licking a nine-volt battery, the lemony husk is tossed into dishes with dried chili peppers, and never more skillfully than at Yu Xin.