N°01 · House signature
Tonkotsu Black
Pork broth simmered until it coats the spoon, black garlic oil, chashu pork, ajitama egg, nori, scallion. Rich, unapologetic, and the reason the counter stays full past midnight.
A late-night ramen house · Seattle
Ultra House is a late-night ramen house in Seattle built around one trade: fewer dishes, deeper pots. The tonkotsu simmers for the better part of a day until it turns milky and coats the spoon. Noodles are portioned and pulled to order, never held.
The room stays dark on purpose — black walls, low amber light, a long counter where you can watch the line work. People come for first dates, for post-shift meals, for the hour when nowhere else is still cooking.
Walk-ins only. When a pot runs dry, the bowl comes off the board. That is the deal, and it is why regulars show up early.
“We boil the pot until the spoon stands up in it. Then we boil it a little more.”— from the kitchen notebook
Sit at the pass, watch the line work, eat the moment it lands. First come, first served — the best seat in the house.
WALK-INS ONLY
Broth and noodles packed apart, reunited at home. Arrives the way it left the kitchen — still steaming.
The tonkotsu never stops moving during service. A rolling boil keeps the fat emulsified — that is what makes the broth milky instead of greasy. The kitchen tastes every pot before the doors open.
Portioned by hand, cooked to the second, in the water for exactly as long as that bowl needs. Thick for tonkotsu, wavy for miso, extra-thick and cold for tsukemen. Ask for kaedama — a noodle refill for your leftover broth.
Ajitama cure overnight in shoyu until the white takes on a tea color and the yolk sets like custard. Six and a half minutes in the water, then straight into ice. There is no shortcut version of this.
The chili oil is made in small batches, in-house, because the good stuff goes stale fast. Order the spicy miso mild and it hums; order it hot and it means it. Your call, every time.
After ten, the counter fills with the late shift — cooks off work, friends on their second stop, first dates that started somewhere quieter. The neon buzzes, the pots hiss, and the city finally exhales.
Pork broth simmered until it coats the spoon, black garlic oil, chashu pork, ajitama egg, nori, scallion. Rich, unapologetic, and the reason the counter stays full past midnight.
Miso tare, house chili oil, ground pork, bean sprouts, corn, and a knob of butter that is not a garnish — it is load-bearing. Heat you can steer, from a hum to a warning.
Cold extra-thick noodles against a concentrated dipping broth. Finish with soup-wari — hot dashi poured into the dip, drunk like the second course it is.
Walk-ins only. Put your name down after ten, take a lap around the block, and come back to steam on the windows. Move your cursor around — the kitchen keeps photos everywhere.