No salt goes into the dough, and it is not rested. The cut noodles go into the pot still dusted with flour, which is the whole trick: the flour dissolves and thickens the broth, so that by the time the pot reaches the table the liquid has body and clings to everything in it.

The base is miso, and pumpkin is the near-obligatory vegetable. The salt of Koshu miso and the sweetness of the squash run together until even the colour of the broth has changed. Vegetables carried the dish for most of its life; meat and seafood are later additions, arriving with restaurants rather than with kitchens.

You will be told, often, that this was Takeda Shingen's field ration. That story appears to have been assembled after the war, as tourism became an industry here. The dish itself is older and better documented than the legend: it turns up in mid-Edo writing as a known speciality of Kai province.

In Yamanashi the two noodles were kept clearly apart. Udon was for guests and for occasions, a small luxury; hoto was what a large family ate on a Tuesday, rolled and cut at home by whoever was free. The Tuesday food is the one that lasted, and every household still argues quietly for its own version.