Obsessed in Japan Part 4: Ramen
Soup first or noodle first? The young man asks the Master in the 1980’s cult classic, Tampopo.
It soon becomes clear that the student does not understanding the gravity of the question he's proposed.
Cue the violin.
First, observe the whole bowl, the Master begins. Appreciate it's gestalt.
Savor the aromas.
Jewels of fat glistening on the surface….
He goes on admiring the forms taken and roles played by bowl's spring onions, seaweed, shinachiku roots and roast pork slices. Each a character in a sublime orchestra.
The Master communicates, implicitly, that Ramen far more than caloric hedonism. Ramen is to be revered. Consuming it is an act both sensual and sacred. A Noodley Eucharist.
Not long after our landing in Tokyo Nina and I find ourselves strolling tight streets and side alleys with Shotaro, our newly acquired ally. Lawyer by day, Ramen Junkie by night, Shotaro guides us through a maze of tight streets. We arrive at a small a non-descript door I never would have glanced at otherwise.
Tokyo is known for it’s Shio (chicken broth, salt) Ramen, Shotaro explains. This place, Ramen Hayashida, does it the best. I recognize Shotaro’s confidence in knowing the best of the best. I feel this often. I note the tablet (well, paper) outside displaying what I'll dub The Ten Ramen Commandments. I'll sum them up for brevity.
#1. Shut the fuck up when you wait in line.
#2. When in doubt, say "osusume", or recommendation. The top left of the vending machine is usually marks the house specialty.
#3. Cash is king.
#4. One seat. One bowl. No two people sharing one bowl.
#5. Don't forget toppings.
#6. Talking is discouraged. No phone calls.
#7. Loud slurping encouraged.
#8. No take out. No to-go orders.
#9. Do not insult Chef by immediately seasoning your Ramen. Taste first. Season later.
#10. Ramen is fast food. There is (probably) a line of people waiting. Get in. Slurp. Enjoy. Get out. No lingering.
I duck through the door. The shop is small, because everything is small. Decoration is minimal. Ramen is not a typical dining experience. No waiters. No service. No frills or fluff. Our waiter is a vending machine whom we slot money into, press buttons, and receive tickets which we hand to Chef. Chef takes our tickets and does what he does. No words needed.
Despite boasting what I thought was an impressive Ramen resume, Shotaro quickly makes it clear I know next to nothing. Slurping over 300 bowls per year, Shotaro knows Ramen's many varieties and styles, regional specialties, ideal noodles-broth pairings, trends and traditions, manners and protocols, optimal dining times, and of course, his favorite locations.
Shotaro is Obsessed in Japan.
As I listen, I watch Chef work. Alone, with limbs both real and imagined he tends his giant broth vat, boils, sweeps, wipes, rinses, waits, ladles, lays noodles, and places toppings. No motion wasted.
Chef hands us our bowls.
This was far from my first Ramen bowl, but it feels distinct. Perhaps it’s the romance of the moment. Perhaps it’s the bowl’s simple elegance.
I delay the dive and allow myself to bear witness. I hear the Master whisper. Maybe he’s been whispering to me all my life. Maybe this is the first time I hear him.
Cue the violin.
I observe the bowl. Appreciate it’s gestalt. Simple, yet subtly magnificent. Translucent chicken broth, light chestnut in hue, fragrances the air. Noodles lay angelic in repose. Egg in full lunar glow hides a sun-core yolk. A Mona Lisa's veil of chicken fat covers the surface. Bamboo shoots rest like logs on a forest floor. Three shy slices of pearl white chicken hide beneath a crown of bright green spring onions.
Gestalt appreciated. Smells smelled, I grant myself permission to begin. As to the young man’s question in the beginning, soup is the short answer. Always soup first. I fill my spoon, raise it to my lips, and inhale a delicately aerating slurp.
Time grinds to a halt. I transport. Single note flavors, inch wide, yet infinite in depth. No tricks or distractions. I commune with the spirit of the chicken whose bones I sip. Surely a happy chicken who roamed idyllic pastures and munched fat worms.
Tasting this bowl revealed a hidden door to an elevated plane in a house I thought I knew so well. I surrender to the magnitude of what I do not know. I am Jasmine riding Shotaro's magical carpet to a whole noodley world.
It's said that the faster a drug hits, the more addicting it becomes. Such was this case. I was hooked. I slurp chew and grunt and slurp chew grunt some more. I’m lost. Shio Ramen is more light lager than IPA in beer terms, I think to myself. Simple. Clean. Nowhere to hide. Easy to learn. Difficult to master.
This is mastery.
I begin to understand why Ramen is such an individual experience. Even though I sit next to others, all that exists is me and this bowl. I lose verbal function. Nina and Shotaro are off on their own journeys. A noodley vipassana.
I admire Chef and his craft. He's alone. Grinding. Sweating. His work never ends. Where does his drive come from? Why do it? What does he dream of? What keeps him up at night? I don't know. All I'll ever know is that Chef is Obsessed in Japan.
Time passes. I regain consciousness and see my bowl empty. We bow, express appreciation, and leave. We’re not done. Tonight is a Ramen Double Header.
Shotaro walks us through another alleys maze. Along the way he points to seemingly random store fronts, remarking on the world class Ramen shops hiding within.
There’s about 400 top quality Ramen shops in Tokyo alone, Shotaro notes.
So you’re saying you can eat world class Ramen every single day a different shop for a year without going to the same place twice?, I respond, shocked.
Yes, correct, he confirms. It’s a tough business. They have to be amazing or they will shut down.
I consider professional Ramen junkie for my alternate reality life in Japan.
Behind Ramen Door Number 2 is the Hokkaido specialty Miso (fermented soybean) Ramen. This is the best Miso Ramen in Tokyo, Shotaro say confidently. This shop is similar to the first. Small. Minimal décor. Vending machine. Chef, again alone, tends to many tasks.
Our bowls appear. Other than the base noodle-soup form, the two bowls couldn't be more different. Gestalt more heavy metal than classical. Dense wafting aromas. Opaque bronze broth. Thick gold noodles. Bristling bean sprouts. Boisterous bamboo shoots. Extroverted pork slab. Egg in full lunar glow. Ginger jeweled spring onion crown.
Ablutions completed, we dive in. Soup spoon slurp. Noodle pull chew. I soul-inhabit a wild boar romping Hokkaido’s snow capped peaks. Untamable. Robust. Sovereign. Flavors deep and complex. Broth rich and fatty. Noodles chewy. Toppings complimentary.
Reality returns. The bowl is empty. One bowl of Ramen slows us down. Two immobilizes us. Nina is pleased. I’m pleased. Shotaro is pleased. Gratitude given, we part ways. Ramen Day One is a success.
Ramen would become a near-daily quest on our noodley sub-pilgrimage. We waited in lines, clumsily navigated vending machines and exposed the tip of Japan's infinite noodle iceberg.
Tsukamen (dipping noodles). Niboshi Ramen (anchovy). Tori Paitan (creamy chicken). Duck Ramen. More Shio. More Miso. Shoyu Ramen (soy sauce). Tonkotsu (pork broth) Udon (technically it's own thing, but whatever). Nina and I even find ourselves on the other side of the counter living out our Tampopo fantasies making our own Ramen bowls.
I leave Japan enthralled. Enchanted. Gleeful. Yet, in a small way, saddened. I’ve slurped Paradise’s noodley apple. I know the truth. I know what is and what might be. I know too much. Ramen back home doesn’t feel the same.
Am I enlightened or ruined?