No Common Ramen

Since I moved to Orange County last year, I’ve become part of a small group of friends that share my obsession with the fine art of chewing and swallowing.  We often joke about how everything we do revolves, in one form or another, around stuffing our faces, but this “joke” is no exaggeration.  In fact, recently we were in a situation in which there was no food to be found, and we just sat there with blank looks on our faces, unable to fill the empty spaces with the gleeful sounds of our own gustation.  In the middle of that long, food-deprived silence, one of them exclaimed, “We’re terrible friends when we’re not eating.” (it's only a little true). The other thing I should mention about this group of friends is that they are all Asian. As the token white guy, I am often exposed to foods that I have never eaten, and in some cases, never even seen before. But to them, these victuals are as normal as “shrimp and grits” (a dish that none of them have tried by the way) is to me. With this drastic change in the cultural envelopment of my social life, it wasn’t long before I found myself in a state of gastronomic ecstasy and somewhat racially confused.  

Yesterday afternoon, we made plans to get some dinner. When I inquired as to where we were going, the answer I received less than thrilled me, “ramen.” Now, for those of you who are more enlightened than I to world of Japanese noodles, let me explain why I had this negative reaction. My only experience with any kind of ramen, up until last night, had been those thirty-cent packets of noodles and powdered broth with flavors like “cheesy chicken” and the ambiguously named “oriental.” Despite my hesitation, they assured me that I would not be disappointed, and we headed over to a small restaurant in Fountain Valley called Shen Sen Gumi.

The first thing that struck me about this place is that it’s tiny, and I mean TINY. It has maybe eight or so tables stuck so close to each other that if you were so inclined, you could easily pick at the food of your neighboring diner without having to so much as fully extend your arm. The second thing that struck me was that upon entering the threshold of this hole-in-the-wall, we were immediately bombarded with the sound of several Japanese men screaming at us in their native tongue. I assume they were welcoming us. At that moment, any remaining apprehensions that were still lingering in my mind vanished like the steam coming off of those numerous bowls of pork, broth and noodles that surrounded me on all sides; I knew I was in for a good meal.   

We all three ordered “number ones” – pork ramen, and we got a side of spicy miso (which I just realized I forgot to try). The broth was rich, intensely flavored, and had an almost buttery quality to it; the noodles were perfectly cooked (what I would call “al dente”, but I’m sure the Japanese have their own word for it); and the pork, oh the pork, there are no words.  I got one piece that was literally all fat (yes, that’s a good thing), and the second it hit my tongue, I felt it begin to slowly melt away in my mouth, and I came dangerously close to jumping into the kitchen and kissing every single cook that was working the line smack on the lips. Fortunately, I was able to compose myself before it came to that. I finished my first round of noodles, and the waiter came by and asked if we wanted a refill (which cost 95 cents if I remember correctly).  So I had some more, as well as a little bit of my friends leftovers. By that time I was beyond replete, verging on uncomfortably full, so I threw in the towel.

I can say now that I was wrong about ramen. It’s flavorful, complex, filling, and delicious, and I’ll jump at the chance to go to this restaurant again. However, there is one problem. This little outing did nothing to help my befuddled sense of racial identity. In fact, I’m beginning to understand, even relate to the words written by that ridiculous 80’s pop band, The Vapors. "I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so…"