It’s cold outside; there’s a bitter wind and hardly anyone walking SoHo on this Friday night. But behind the heavy doors and up the steep and narrow staircase to the second floor, there’s the smell of soba at Honmura An. This is the House of Soba, soba noodles raised to a religious experience. Soba made on the premises, in a room separated from the zenlike dining room by a wall of glass, this soba is clean and nutritious, savory and sensory. To eat soba in such a serene temple, filled with fellow converts, is to worship the body beautiful – where good food makes for a better person. Or so the mind imagines amidst spectacular floral arrangements and solicitous service and the happy murmurings of a sated clientele. Mind you, next to Nobu or any other rarefied Japanese restaurant, Honmura An is more the humble auntie, perfectly pleased to provide you with food which comforts your stomach and salves your soul – and sometimes, and particularly on a cold winter’s night, soba is exactly all that.