For a long time I was scared to go. I have full faith in my ability to take down big game, but even so, a man has limits. Limits that, once crossed, leave you off in the outskirts of reason, in the roguish lands of discomfort and gastro-intestinal trauma. But every man has his day of reckoning, and on a recent sunny Saturday afternoon, a friend of mine finally coaxed me into paying my dues: we would square off together with a legendary bowl from the original location of Ramen Jiro. If anything, there would be someone there to hold me up should the worst happen. And off we went, for death and glory.
To say that the portions at Jiro are big is an understatement. It’s like saying the Burj Khalifa is a big building. The idea of bigness does not fully encompass the gargantuan quantities of fat and carbohydrates in the bowl. It is a Herculean task. Even the most hardened salarymen and wasted college students tremble before its power. To eat at Ramen Jiro is an event, an endeavor. As one does not simply walk into Mordor, one does not casually roll into Ramen Jiro. To be anything less than starving is to not be hungry enough. You need more room than you think you will, because a single serving is a day and a half’s worth of meals. There are large and double bowls as well, but those are only for those with morbid ambitions.
The shop is dilapidated. Not run down, but well-worn. Saying something in Tokyo is cramped is cliche, but it is decidedly tight inside. Tight and slick. Ramen Jiro has been open since 1968, and after nearly 50 years of brewing soup out of pig fat and bones, there is a layer of grease coating just about every surface in the shop. The scum being skimmed off the soup is not limited to the cauldron in the middle of the room. The counter itself feels somehow unsure of itself. I wanted to lean on the counter and be comfortable, but it felt like the heavy bowls of ramen were already as much burden as the old mule could bear, so I sat there on edge. A noxious mix of nerves and excitement.
And then the bowl arrives.
If you could transmute the primordial id into a bowl of soup, this is what it would look like. You can’t even see the noodles or the soup under the mountain of colorless cabbage and beansprouts, there to add texture not nutrition. There is a scoop of chopped garlic large enough put down a vampire at ten paces out. Atop this snowcap of vegetation is the pork. Big, hulking, rough hewn chunks of pork. Pork that wears its fat cap as proudly as pimp in a furry hat. The bowl taunts you.
Even though you will probably fail, you are here at the base of the mountain, and the only thing you can do is begin the climb. A sip of the soup reveals that it tastes like liquified pig and salt, but it doesn’t feel heavy right away. (Then you notice the small galaxy of suspended fat swimming around the bowl.) The noodles are thick, very thick. They have a taste reminiscent of baked bread, but more American public school cafeteria than French boulangerie. And as you slurp them into your mouth, it feels like you are eating something living like an octopus or squid. They are not mere empty carbs. They are carbs imbued with life and vigor and a certain degree of menace.
Half way through the bowl, I threw my head back and gasped. I was plowing through it at a maddening pace. I was so scared to stop and think about what I was doing. It was good; it was really, really good. But it was also absurd. I wondered if this is what it felt like to be in a Matthew Barney piece with every possible element overindulged. And you have no room for respite or pause. There aren’t even any napkins to wipe off the grease that is building up on your face. Any hesitation and you’ll be down like a calf at a rodeo. Your only choice is to shovel it all in and hope nothing breaks on the way down. My friend and I both finished at the same time, and after one last long draw of soup straight from the bowl, we rose like lions over the carcass. Bloated, disgusted, and happy.
To say that the portions at Jiro are big is an understatement. It’s like saying the Burj Khalifa is a big building. The idea of bigness does not fully encompass the gargantuan quantities of fat and carbohydrates in the bowl. It is a Herculean task. Even the most hardened salarymen and wasted college students tremble before its power. To eat at Ramen Jiro is an event, an endeavor. As one does not simply walk into Mordor, one does not casually roll into Ramen Jiro. To be anything less than starving is to not be hungry enough. You need more room than you think you will, because a single serving is a day and a half’s worth of meals. There are large and double bowls as well, but those are only for those with morbid ambitions.
The shop is dilapidated. Not run down, but well-worn. Saying something in Tokyo is cramped is cliche, but it is decidedly tight inside. Tight and slick. Ramen Jiro has been open since 1968, and after nearly 50 years of brewing soup out of pig fat and bones, there is a layer of grease coating just about every surface in the shop. The scum being skimmed off the soup is not limited to the cauldron in the middle of the room. The counter itself feels somehow unsure of itself. I wanted to lean on the counter and be comfortable, but it felt like the heavy bowls of ramen were already as much burden as the old mule could bear, so I sat there on edge. A noxious mix of nerves and excitement.
And then the bowl arrives.
If you could transmute the primordial id into a bowl of soup, this is what it would look like. You can’t even see the noodles or the soup under the mountain of colorless cabbage and beansprouts, there to add texture not nutrition. There is a scoop of chopped garlic large enough put down a vampire at ten paces out. Atop this snowcap of vegetation is the pork. Big, hulking, rough hewn chunks of pork. Pork that wears its fat cap as proudly as pimp in a furry hat. The bowl taunts you.
Even though you will probably fail, you are here at the base of the mountain, and the only thing you can do is begin the climb. A sip of the soup reveals that it tastes like liquified pig and salt, but it doesn’t feel heavy right away. (Then you notice the small galaxy of suspended fat swimming around the bowl.) The noodles are thick, very thick. They have a taste reminiscent of baked bread, but more American public school cafeteria than French boulangerie. And as you slurp them into your mouth, it feels like you are eating something living like an octopus or squid. They are not mere empty carbs. They are carbs imbued with life and vigor and a certain degree of menace.
Half way through the bowl, I threw my head back and gasped. I was plowing through it at a maddening pace. I was so scared to stop and think about what I was doing. It was good; it was really, really good. But it was also absurd. I wondered if this is what it felt like to be in a Matthew Barney piece with every possible element overindulged. And you have no room for respite or pause. There aren’t even any napkins to wipe off the grease that is building up on your face. Any hesitation and you’ll be down like a calf at a rodeo. Your only choice is to shovel it all in and hope nothing breaks on the way down. My friend and I both finished at the same time, and after one last long draw of soup straight from the bowl, we rose like lions over the carcass. Bloated, disgusted, and happy.
