a color story: nyc ramen

Out of the nap, the stomach growled with attention. 9 pm hungry was dangerous territory but this was New York City, right? The rain disrupted the original plans and I was on hold for updates. My phone missed a voice call on Kakao. My brother, too, wanted late-night food — the event appetizers curbed his appetite to my surprise. Usually, he was the one holding me off the late-night grubs because I had to watch my weight. But, not tonight, our desires and pleasures shall materialize.

From the pouring rain, a warm broth always came into mind. Usually, I attended to making a bowl of instant ramen via 'Shin' or 'Samyang' with a side dish of pickled yellow radish. I don’t know how these companies do it, but their broth was quite impressive through a powder packet. But, not tonight, premium broth was in sight.

My search started with “Best Ramen in NYC”. One appeared with 4k reviews averaging out a 4.7 in Manhattan. Hmmm. It was a chain that I wasn’t familiar with. But, the closing time was 9:45 pm. The next option was E.A.K ramen also close to the hotel but it closed a bit later. Not super excited from its slightly lower ratings — everybody wants to eat at the best place — but the convenience of its hours was welcoming, to say the least.

I didn’t expect the wooden interior finish at the ramen joint. Down the stairs, we were greeted by the front staff. The place had a minimal, zen-like feel that conveniently served ramen. At least in my perspective, the space took all of Japan's hip attractive qualities and inserted them into their dining experience. Don’t get me wrong, there were traces of New York revealed in the exposed bricks. But, I lost myself in the wooden tables, chairs, bar table, shelves, and the accessory wooden badge ceiling. A monotonous use of wood or the common motif alluded to certain memories.

Growing up, I took up martial arts — first Taekwondo, then Kendo. The Japanese fencing Samurai-training sport also took its wood finish seriously in the dojo. At the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre, where lessons were practically free, the space was maintained by the kendo practitioners. I recalled sweeping the wood floors with a damp towel and pushing it down the floors. Let me tell you how exhausting that chore was. But, a clean floor was necessary because kendo exercises involved foot friction. In each lesson, we also entered a meditation to get in the mood of kendo and to get out while we sat down on the wooden floors. Meditating in. Fight. And meditating out.

The broth was the way.

The menu made it very difficult to find the ramen. Maybe it's because their margins were low for the ramen or they wanted to expose their other items as well. At the same time, just holding the ramen menu provided another memory. My dear friend, James Pak came into mind.

When he came back from South Korea teaching English, he sent his resume all around town and found a gig at 'Kinton Ramen' at Yonge and Sheppard — a process I was motivated by. He progressed from washing dishes to the line then 'Isshin Ramen' Queen West offered him a managerial position. It was close to Dasha, the restaurant I worked at the time, so I made a visit. I would even add that the only reason I ate Japanese ramen was that I followed his culinary journey. From thriving the tolls of a busy restaurant to the toxic energy of the COVID situation, I saw a side of James that was new to me. There were traces of white hair and he looked exhausted even though his day just started. Regardless of his condition, he provided excellent and personal service. I ordered a ‘karaage’ appetizer with his recommendation of ramen. The meal was on the house- his generosity struck a dominant 7th chord.

To get my mind off his culinary journey which would ultimately self-reflecting on my own, I stared at the interior after following my brother’s order. The speakers were nicely hidden in the wooden tops along with the ceiling. I don’t know how to describe its location but I knew they were speakers. For a second, the hidden speaker gave the impression of HIFI until you heard the quality. Maybe it wasn’t turned up but the bass didn’t bellow. Overall, it suggested a professional contractor placed them in but a sound engineer wasn’t involved. I felt conflicted. There was a Korean saying when one provided feedback about a staple side dish or a main dish, “it wasn’t this or it wasn’t that”.

The dinner conversations provided a pace of the audio landscape. You couldn’t distinctly hear one. It was just a blend of chitter-chatter that provided certain energy — maybe I was getting too pretentious on the vibe. Regardless, people were social. And if you wanted to feed off the energy, you felt more than inclined to put in your mix of the small talk and storytelling.

Dinner conversations. My brother was curious on my walk. I showed him. He couldn’t believe I still haven’t taken the subway system. But little did he know the power of caffeine. He has been off the stimulant elixir. My relationship with caffeine has taken me to the point of experimentation- it wasn’t a chore, but rather a potion. If I knew about a large event beforehand, I would take the ‘L’ the day before with the withdrawal headaches. But, it was well worth the sacrifice. My big date with MOMA entered a refreshing state of mind.

The food came out. The ‘karaage’ — Japanese fried chicken bites- had delicate clothing of batter and the meat was moist. Then, the two ramen came out of chicken and pork broth with spinach, 'nami', and slices of pork belly. The broth took the show. It was what we needed after the rain. Fatty, almost gravy-like, if you added flour to it, it will turn into gravy. I was glad that our appetizer was lighted battered or I could imagine my stomach going through some heavy Thanksgiving issues. Secondary, the noodles were chewy and light. And the rest were there.

Meditating out.

The broth was the way.