Rain and Ramen in Goldengai
It was dusk as we ascended the stairs from our Airbnb in Tokyo's Shinjuku district. The sky was overcast and a muddy purple. I massaged my aching shoulders, grateful to be finally free from my heavy duffel bag.
My jacket clung to me in the humid October air. We walked under a light drizzle of rain, the kind designed to get in your eyes without thoroughly soaking you through. We probably should have gone straight to bed, but the weariness quickly dissolved with every raindrop, replaced with excitement and gut-gnawing hunger.
Everywhere, people walked with clear umbrellas in hand, laughing with friends or talking on the phone. They all seemed to know precisely where they were going. Overhead, tall neon signs glowed, each one layering over the next, competing for attention. Jeremy was already 5 steps ahead of me, weaving through the crowd with aimless determination and ease. I picked up my pace to catch up, my eyes fixed on the back of his head.
Shinjuku's nightlife can only be described as something out of a cyberpunk dream. Crowds clustered and converged amongst neon signs, noisy pachinko parlors, and futuristic nightclubs. Amidst the hazy glow, colors blended and reflected off rain puddles. The music melded with the din of the crowd and mixed into an entirely unique soundtrack.
My stomach growled and gnashed as we walked toward a cluster of streets and side alleys saturated with bars and restaurants. Our map told us it was called Golden Gai, and it was a great place to slurp down some late-night noodles after an evening of bar hopping. We turned up a side street and stopped in front of a doorway with a large red lantern and a handwritten sign reading, "Ramen Nagi." Inside to the left was a vacant and dark corridor, unwelcoming. To the right, tungsten and voices spilled down a set of narrow stairs. A painted school of skeletal fish with giant round eyes and gaping mouths lined the walls, leading us upward.
On the second floor, dried silver-colored fish hung from the ceiling, catching the light like a sinister mobile display. A narrow counter stretched the length of the tiny restaurant. Seven patrons sat shoulder to shoulder, slurping, barely looking up from their bowls. Behind the counter, chefs welcomed us with a hurried "Irasshaimase." I bowed clumsily as my mouth stumbled over "konban wa," a friendly greeting in Japanese. They pointed to a metal box on the wall, strangely similar to a tampon dispenser. It was covered in stickers and buttons with a mix of Japanese and English writing. The most prominent stickers read "Unbelievable Nihonbashi Ramen - 890 yen" and "Super gold ramen - 1600 yen." Panic gargled from my stomach.
Jeremy scanned the machine. "I guess this is how we order." His eyes widened as he pressed the button, reading "Biru," Japanese beer.
A few head scratches and button taps later, our order was complete, and we paid the machine. I handed the receipt across the counter, and the chefs beckoned us to sit at the end near the wall. We squeezed past diners hunched over their bowls and settled in with a smile.
For the first time, I noticed the wall behind the counter was covered in black and red Japanese characters, creating a beautiful pattern. The chef worked in silent concentration, pouring the yellow broth from a large pot into our bowls. Another used a small basket to gently place a bundle of noodles. Their arms moved nimbly, reaching for ingredients and nesting them amongst the noodles with precision and care.
My bowl appeared in front of me, immediately fogging my glasses. The broth was a clear light tan color, with large blobby oils floating on the top— the mark of rich flavor and fat. Pork cutlets sat pink on the surface, cradled by the jumble of noodles and neighbored by a pile of green onion. I scooped the large hard-boiled egg with my spoon and ladled it into Jeremy's bowl. He smiled with a knowing look.
The broth had a fishy, salty richness I'd never tasted before. I let it coat my tongue and fill my belly with warmth, banishing away the last of my travel fatigue. My shoulders finally dropped and loosened. I stirred in the small pile of chives and nibbled the fatty pork cutlet while twirling a few strands of thick, doughy noodles onto my spoon. It had the perfect balance of flavors and textures, and I was rendered speechless as I continued slurping.
My mind drifted, thinking about a movie I watched in college called "Tampopo." The story followed a widow and aspiring ramen chef who learned to make the best ramen in her village. There was a scene where she and her sensei visited competitor ramen shops and studied how they mastered the broth, noodles, and meats. Over time, she learned to perfect her craft and make enough money to support her son.
With each bite, I could taste the years spent perfecting every element and every dance-like movement committed to muscle memory. My porcelain spoon hit the bottom of my bowl with a clink. I had eaten every noodle, every scrap of pork, and every mushroom. I looked over, remorseful at Jeremy, slowly enjoying his bowl with eyes fixed, looking far off as if caught up in a dream.
He looked at my bowl, and with a wordless side-eye, he pulled a few noodles out and plopped them onto my spoon. I smiled and ate the last bite extra slow. We left, drunk on ramen, bowing clumsily at the top of the stairs, but completely satisfied. I was ready to go home, but through the look in his eye, I knew he was just getting started. We passed a bar that appeared empty and stuck our heads in. The bartender greeted us as we put two fingers up.
"The bar is closing in an hour, but you can come in." He said, pulling a glass from behind the bar.
"Arigato," We said in unison, stepping inside and taking our seats on the row of empty stools. The lights cast a yellow hue across the dusty bottles.
Jeremy ordered an Asahi, and we sat and chatted with the bartender. We spent an hour talking about Japan and all of the places we wanted to see during our visit. He listened, asked questions, and offered recommendations. I sat in the chair, smiling and getting sleepy. It felt like Jeremy took ages to finish his beer. Sometimes I think he slows down so that he can prolong our stay, but then I remember he's just good at savoring things. I resolved to try to savor moments better on our trip rather than thinking about what comes next. Once he paid the tab, we walked back through the glowing streets of Shinjuku to our room. This time, we strolled arm in arm, in no hurry to get home.Back in the room, I drifted off to sleep to the thought of the perfectly chewy ramen noodles in the most decadent broth I had ever tasted.