ramen, a short story
There’s something deeply comforting about a bowl of chewy noodles in hot, steaming soup. For me, it brings ease and nostalgia—something I’ve been eating since childhood.
I had my first proper ramen at twenty, during my first visit to Tokyo, Japan. It was part of a guided tour with my family and one of my mum’s sisters—eight of us in total.
Our tour guide took us to a place famous for ramen. Translated into English, it was called a ramen village, though in reality, it was a food court.
The strong aroma of pork was the first thing that hit me as we entered the space. From what I remember, it was large and warmly lit. More than eight stalls lined the area, all selling ramen with side dishes—each representing different regions, each with its own toppings, broth, and even noodle styles. Yet pork was the common thread, rich and unmistakable.
We ordered eight bowls of tonkotsu ramen and four plates of pan-fried gyoza to share among us. The food arrived quickly, but our excitement made the wait feel even shorter—it was the first proper meal we were having since landing.
The adults collected the bowls from the vendors. I took mine from my dad and placed it in front of me. Swirls of steam danced above the surface as the aroma of pork enveloped my senses—rich yet savoury. Hours of simmering, time, and patience had transformed the broth into something thick, creamy, and quietly comforting.
The noodles were on the thicker side—something so simple, yet it has stayed with me all these years. Even now, if given the choice, I would still choose a thick noodle.
I can’t quite recall every topping we had. I remember slices of chargrilled pork, a marinated ramen egg with a yolk that was still jammy, wood ear mushrooms, and spring onions, all thinly sliced and carefully arranged.
We were told it was polite to slurp the noodles loudly. I didn’t need to be told twice. Slurp after slurp, I ate without hesitation.
To this day, it remains one of the best bowls of ramen I’ve ever had.
Maybe it was how it tasted, or maybe it was how I felt. At the time, I was heartbroken—having just found out and caught an ex-boyfriend cheating on me. And somehow, that bowl of ramen mirrored exactly what I needed.
It made me feel warm. Comforted. And, for the first time in a while, hopeful that I was going to be okay.
It reminded me that food has a way of holding us when we need comfort most—of connecting us to people, places, and moments in time. And no matter where life takes me, I know there will always be a bowl of noodles somewhere, waiting to make me feel at peace.
At home.