Greg and I routinely torture ourselves with discussions about fresh ramen noodles. Sometimes when we are trying to figure out what to have for lunch, I’ll say, “Let’s go get fresh ramen.” And he will glare at me and say, “I hate you.”
A few months ago, there was an article in the New York
Times about the traditions and culture of fresh
ramen and tare sauces that are
passed down from one generation to the next. I read it about the same time Greg did; because he rounded
the corner to my office with a printed copy and I said, “I know! I know! I just read it!”
I had my first experience with fresh ramen three years ago
in San Francisco. Wendy took me to
her favorite place. It was a
stunning experience. Crisp noodles
in a flavorful clear broth with thin slices of seasoned pork. Greg and Alice
lived in Japan for seven years. He
yearns for fresh ramen the way one yearns for a lost love. We are in perfect empathy with each
other. Fresh ramen is hard to come by -- we're not talking udon. We're talking ramen. And no, we can't get it where we live.
Fresh ramen noodles have nothing in common with the cheap,
disgusting plastic packages you find in grocery stores. Fresh ramen noodles…well, it’s like
having fresh pasta versus grocery brand dried noodles. Actually, it’s beyond that but since I’m
only functioning at 20% tonight (and in all honesty, that’s probably about 10%
less than the status quo), the words just aren’t coming to describe what fresh
ramen means, what it tastes like, what it represents, what it’s supposed to be.
Let me just say it again: FRESH.
RAMEN.
So. My nasal
membranes are utterly destroyed from the cigar and the-blowing-nose-all-night-experience.
I have lost my sense of smell – which means I have
lost my sense of taste.
See food geek spend last night in Paris with friends.
See food geek’s friends take her to fresh ramen restaurant
in Little Japan.
See food geek’s inability to smell or taste fresh ramen.
See food geek sob uncontrollably at dinner table.
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