Ramen aid
One of my all-time favourite movies is “Tampopo” by Juzo Itami. It follows one woman’s quest to create the perfect bowl of ramen (noodles) and provides many insights into Japanese society along the way. Next to the raw egg scene, the part I like best is where the old man demonstrates how to appreciate a bowl of ramen. For me too, ramen was more than a meal, it was an experience. I would lean over the bowl and let the steam melt the fatigue from my face, as the rich aroma of the soup filled my nostrils and roused my salivary glands. Then, slurping without fear of reproach, I would savour the warmth of the long stretchy noodles as they slipped down my throat to nourish the depths of my soul.
ancouver has more Japanese restaurants than you can shake a chopstick at.
I have been searching for a good bowl of ramen since returning to Canada from Japan nearly six years ago. Almost any bowl of ramen, not including instant ramen, would have been good. In Toronto, I knew of one noodle place, but they put sesame seeds in the soup. Whenever I tell Japanese people that I am allergic to sesame seeds, they are baffled, and often incomprehensibly respond with, “But they are good for you.”
My move to Vancouver about half a year ago finally rescued me from my ramen-less existence. Vancouver has more Japanese restaurants than you can shake a chopstick at. I know of at least half a dozen within a fifteen minute walk of my apartment. Toronto has plenty of Japanese restaurants, but most of them are fancy places that only sell things like sushi and tempura. Vancouver has many places that serve everyday Japanese food, such as curry rice and ramen, which ironically originated in other cultures.
n one corner stood a person-sized cut-out of Godzilla embracing a bottle of beer.
Eventually, my search for ramen brought me to a little place just off Robson street, Vancouver’s main drag. Beside the door stood a board plastered with photos of their offerings annotated in English and Japanese. The words “Tonkotsu ramen” leapt off the menu and beckoned me in. Tonkotsu ramen is the kind made with pork broth. For some reason, tonkotsu ramen is harder to find than shoyu or miso ramen. It is popular in Kyushu, where I lived for three years developing a taste for it.
The shop was unlike any North American Japanese restaurant I had ever visited. Instead of some obscure Japanese name, it was called, rather immodestly, “Gyoza Paradise.” Gyoza are steamed or fried little purses of dough filled with seasoned ground meat. In Japan, I often bought frozen gyoza because the supermarket always had them on sale.
Instead of subtle monochromatic brush paintings of bamboo shoots, bright primary colours proclaimed the shop name on the wall behind the counter and fluffy clouds decorated the ceiling. In one corner stood a person-sized cut-out of Godzilla embracing a bottle of beer. Expanding on this theme, dinosaurs—wooden, plastic, and inflatable—hung from the ceiling, stuck to the walls and sat on the counters.
nstead of a kimono, the waitress wore jeans and a T-shirt with weird English on it.
Instead of subdued koto music, a “classic rock” station played the Rolling Stones, which reminded me of a time I confused “Mick Jagger” with a Japanese meat and potato dish—“niku jaga”.
Instead of a kimono, the waitress wore jeans and a T-shirt with weird English on it. She greeted me in Japanese; I nodded and sat down. I always wonder what language to speak in Japanese restaurants. In Japan, of course, I had no choice but to use Japanese. Here, however, I wonder which is more appropriate if the waitress’s English is better than my Japanese. Finally, I decided to order the tonkotsu ramen with gyoza, in English.
Shortly after that, the only other customer, a young Caucasian woman, struck up a conversation with the waitress in Japanese. Apparently, this customer had just returned from Japan and was itching to find ways to practise her Japanese. Her efforts engendered a typically Japanese show of exaggerated admiration from the waitress. My self-conscious inner voice told me that if I were to practise my Japanese, the waitress would probably think that I was either an uneducated Japanese or some jerk trying to pick her up.
As my eagerly anticipated meal arrived, a young couple walked in. The girl was Japanese and wore a black leather jacket. The guy had reddish hair; it took me a while to realize that he was Japanese too. He was another of the disproportionately high number of Japanese in Vancouver with dyed or bleached hair. Already near the bottom of my bowl, I could overhear their coarse Japanese. They swaggered with the attitudes of contemptuous youths revelling in their escape from the social constraints of Japan. Yet, despite their tough exteriors, it seemed that they had come for the solace of familiar foods. I too had found comfort here. Even if it wasn’t paradise, the ramen and the memories it evoked left me feeling warm inside.