Rain and Ramen in Goldengai
It’s dusk as we ascend the stairs from our Airbnb in Tokyo’s Shinjuku district under an overcast, muddy purple sky. My jacket clings to me in the humid October air as we walk under a light drizzle of rain. On any other night, I’d beg to stay in and sleep, but the weariness quickly dissolves with every raindrop, replaced with excitement and gut-gnawing hunger.
Everywhere there are people with clear umbrellas in hand, laughing with friends or talking on the phone. They all walk like they know precisely where they are going. Overhead, tall and thin neon signs glow, each one layering over the next as if competing for attention. Jeremy is already five steps ahead of me, weaving through the crowd with aimless determination and ease. I pick up my pace to catch up, my eyes fixed on the back of his sandy blond head.
Shinjuku’s nightlife can only be described as something out of a cyberpunk dream. Crowds cluster and converge amongst neon signs, noisy pachinko parlors, and futuristic nightclubs. Amidst the hazy glow, colors blend and reflect off rain puddles. With every block, the music layers over the din of the crowd and mixes into an entirely new soundtrack.
My stomach growls again as we approach a cluster of streets and side alleys choked with bars and restaurants. Our map calls it Golden Gai, and it’s named a great place to slurp down some late-night noodles after an evening of bar hopping. We turn up a side street and stop in front of a drippy doorway with a large red lantern and a handwritten sign reading, “Ramen Nagi.” Inside, to the left, is a vacant and dark corridor. To the right, a warm tungsten light and voices cascade down narrow stairs. A painted school of skeletal fish with giant round eyes and gaping mouths line the walls, leading us upward.
On the second floor, dried silver-colored fish hang from the ceiling, catching the light like a sinister mobile display. Seven patrons sit at a narrow counter shoulder to shoulder, slurping, barely looking up from their bowls. Behind the counter, chefs welcome us with a hurried “Irasshaimase.” I bow clumsily as my mouth stumbles over “konban wa,” a friendly greeting in Japanese.
They point to a metal box on the wall covered in writing and buttons, shaped strangely like a tampon dispenser. Only a few words in English read “Unbelievable Nihonbashi Ramen - 890 yen” and “Super gold ramen - 1600 yen.” My once empty stomach turns to stone in a panic. Jeremy scans the machine. “I guess this is how we order.” His eyes widen as he presses a button, reading “Biru,” Japanese for beer.
A few head scratches and button taps later, our order is complete, and we pay the machine. I pass the receipt across the counter, and the chefs beckon us to sit at the end near the wall. We squeeze past diners and settle in with a relieved smile.
For the first time, I notice the wall behind the counter is covered in black and red Japanese characters, like a beautiful organic pattern. The chef works silently, ladling yellow broth from a large pot into our bowls. Another uses a small basket to gently place a bundle of noodles on top like a raft. Their arms move nimbly, reaching for ingredients and nesting them amongst the noodles with precision and care.
My bowl appears in front of me, immediately fogging my glasses. Large blobby oils float to the top, the mark of rich flavor. Pork cutlets sit pink on the surface, cradled by the jumble of noodles and neighbored by a pile of green onion. I wordlessly scoop the large hard-boiled egg with my spoon and ladle it into Jeremy’s bowl. He smiles with a knowing look.
The broth has a fishy, salty richness I’ve 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 drop and loosen. I stir in the small pile of chives and nibble the fatty pork cutlet while twirling a few strands of thick, doughy noodles onto my spoon. It has the perfect balance of flavors and textures, and all I can do is wordlessly continue slurping. With each bite, I can taste the years spent perfecting every element and every dance-like movement committed to muscle memory.
My mind drifts, letting the savory broth and noodles lull me into memory…
✦✦✦
In college, I remember watching a movie called Tampopo.
The story follows a widow and aspiring ramen chef who is trying to learn to make the best ramen in her village. In one scene she and her sensei travel to competitor ramen shops and study how each one mastered the broth, noodles, and meats. Over time, she learns to perfect her craft and make enough money to support her son.
I think of the slow and sustained devotion to her craft with envy. I devour projects hungrily, relishing in the novelty, only to abandon them half‑finished when the taste changes. Except, maybe, in photography — the one devotion I’ve carried quietly for years, frame by frame, click by click.
The ramen in front of me tastes like that kind of devotion: years of repetition and care distilled into broth, steadier than I’ve ever been with most things.
✦✦✦
My porcelain spoon hits the bottom of my bowl with a clink. I look down, surprised to find every noodle, every scrap of pork, and every mushroom eaten.
Jeremy catches me eyeing his half-full bowl, looks at mine, and with a wordless side-eye, he pulls a few noodles out and plops them onto my spoon. I lean on him with a smile and savor the last bite with a long, slow sigh.
We leave, drunk on ramen, bowing clumsily at the top of the stairs, completely satisfied. I’m ready to go home, but from the look in his eye, I know Jeremy is just getting started. Soon enough, we pass an empty bar and stick our heads in. The bartender greets us as we put two fingers up, a little more confident.
“The bar is closing in an hour, but you can come in.” He says, pulling a glass from behind the bar.
“Arigato,” We say in unison, stepping inside and taking our seats on the row of empty stools.
The lights cast a yellow hue across the dusty bottles behind him. Jeremy orders an Asahi, and we spend an hour talking with the bartender about Japan and all the places we want to see during our visit. He listens and recommends we visit his neighborhood in a remote district of Tokyo.
We feign interest to be polite but know we don’t have the time. I sit in my chair, eyeing Jeremy’s half-full beer, getting sleepy. Sometimes I think he slows down to prolong our stay, even when he knows I’m tired, but then I remember he’s just better at savoring things. I have always devoured food as if it was the first and last meal of my life. My mind is always on what’s next and rarely settles for pausing in the moment.
As Jeremy drains his beer, I make a mental note to savor this trip by staying present. With a final thank you and bow, we walk back through the luminous streets of Shinjuku to our room. This time, we stroll arm in arm, in no hurry to get anywhere.