When I was a schoolgirl in Taiwan in the early 2000s, my mornings began with a steaming bowl of oyster vermicelli from the breakfast stall near home. The soup was bonito based, thickened just enough to cling to the thin noodles. I'd add minced garlic, a small dollop of chilli sauce and a handful of fresh coriander. It was punchy, savoury and bracing -- exactly what I needed to wake up and get going. Even in class hours later, I'd still be thinking about it, savouring it. That's probably where it started, this link between noodles and ritual.

In London, the habit has stuck, but the bowls have changed. I go to different noodle spots for different moods and different reasons. Each bowl functions in its own way. Some offer a reset, some let off steam, some feel like a film set I want to step into. It's the connection between places, feelings and cravings that pulls me in. A good bowl doesn't always have to be rich or complex. But it always needs to be the right temperature, the right balance. Something that meets me where I am in that moment. These are bowls I return to again and again. Each one, in its own way, anchors me in this city.

Koya turns 15 this year and it is still one of the most soulful bowls of noodles in London. That udon has the perfect bounce, kneaded with feet, no shortcuts, a true labour of love. The broth is a clear bonito base that is light but layered with real depth. These days I tend to get drawn to the simpler dishes, kitsune or prawn tempura, because they let the broth's elegant flavour shine through. I never skip the onsen egg on the side. I used to call it "magic" because it looks like a raw egg, but when you crack it open the whole egg is cooked like jelly and slips beautifully into the soup as you eat. The City branch is super handy, right next door to Bao City, so it is the one I find myself at most. Opening times: Monday-Saturday, 11am-10pm; Sunday, 11am-9.30pm. Website; Directions

In east London, there's Miga -- a place that quietly does its thing, and does it really well. The simplicity of the facade hints at what's inside: homey Korean food that shows a softer, more elegant side. The ox-bone broth noodles are what I go for. The broth is milky-white, rich but clean, simmered for hours so the flavour runs deep. There's something comforting about how unpretentious it all is. I like eating it with small bites of kimchi in between -- the rhythm gives the bowl a perfect balance. The noodles are soft and slippery, soaking up the broth just right. It's the kind of bowl that warms you -- not just the body, but the mind too. Opening times: Tuesday, 5pm-10.30pm; Wednesday-Thursday, noon-3pm and 5.30pm-10.30pm; Friday-Saturday, noon-3pm and 5.30pm-11pm. Instagram; Directions

Mandarin Kitchen has been around since 1978 and feels like one of those places that hasn't changed much -- in the best way. The interior has this slightly purple glow, wavy carved wooden panels and proper silver service. It reminds me of the Chinese banquet restaurants I went to as a kid -- white tablecloths, round tables, lazy Susans. We used to send our staff here for Bao anniversaries, so it carries that celebratory feel. The lobster noodles are the reason you go. The crustacean is cooked with oyster sauce, ginger and spring onion (or black bean and green chilli), then served over a bed of egg noodles. They bring the whole dish out, steaming and glossy, then toss and portion it up at the table. It's simple but bold, with rich, unmistakable flavour. It's a place I'd go for a special occasion -- to gather with friends I haven't seen in a while to have a little throwback in time. Opening times: daily, noon-11pm. Website; Directions

Lanzhou Lamian is like a reliable uncle you check in with now and then. It's there when you're peckish after a gig, when the streets are quiet but your body's still buzzing from a bit too much to drink. I go for the tomato and egg hand-shaved noodles -- thick, chewy, with that perfect dose of MSG that makes it extra-moreish. You see the noodle dough near the entrance, with chefs shaving and pulling noodles fresh to order. It's unfussy, warm and grounding -- the kind of place that doesn't try too hard but always hits the spot. Opening times: Monday-Friday, 10am-2am; Saturday, 10am-5am; Sunday, 10am-11pm. Website; Directions

Back when we were opening Bao Soho in 2015, I'd slip out in between service and head down to Four Seasons on Wardour Street. It became my pit stop -- one bowl of roast duck noodles to get me through. The broth is plain, almost shy, with springy wonton noodles and a generous heap of roast duck on top. I'd always ask for chilli oil on the side. A few mouthfuls of noodles and soup, then a bite of duck, then the chilli oil goes in. The roast duck skin is fatty and juicy -- rich in all the right ways. Paired with the clean, simple broth, it hits the right note after the chaos of a busy shift. If you're looking for a quiet kind of comfort, this is the perfect bowl amid a busy life. A bowl I'd call a proper worker's lunch. Opening times: Sunday-Thursday, noon-11pm; Friday-Saturday, noon-11.30pm. Website; Directions

After a long shift, especially in the early years of Bao, we'd always end up at Old Town 97. It was the go-to late-night spot -- reliable, noisy and comforting. We'd order the char kway teow without even looking at the menu. Flat rice noodles with prawns, strains of roast meats, egg, chives and beansprouts, all tossed in a searing hot wok until smoky and slightly singed. My memories of eating there are half about the food, half about listening to chefs unloading about the night, complaining about tough shifts or bitching about each other. It was the space to let off steam, and somehow after that plate of noodles, the angst always faded a little. The wok hei clings to the noodles just right, and in that moment, with a hotplate in front of you and everyone a bit softer after eating, everything feels slightly more manageable. Opening times: daily, noon-3.30am. Website; Directions

Erchen Chang is the co-founder and creative director of Bao