The Ramen That Ruined All Other Ramen

A ten-seat counter, no sign, and a broth that took the owner eleven years to get right. I have not stopped thinking about it since.

There was no menu. You sat, you nodded, and a bowl arrived some minutes later as though it had always been coming. The broth was the colour of old gold and tasted like patience.

I asked how long the stock simmered. The owner held up both hands, then folded down one finger. I did not understand the number, only that it was longer than I would ever attempt at home.

Some things are worth eleven years. Most of what we rush is not.

I have eaten a lot of ramen since, in a lot of cities. It is all good. None of it is that. And I have made my peace with chasing a thing I will probably never find again.