Read The Ramen King and I Online
Authors: Andy Raskin
The Ramen King and I (6 page)
The chef must have seen me staring at the man’s fresh wasabi.
“Kare wa joren da yo,”
the chef whispered.
the chef whispered.
He was saying that the man was a regular customer. Fresh wasabi was apparently the chef ’s version of a loyalty reward.
“How did you know I spoke Japanese?” I asked.
The chef laughed but didn’t say anything. Maybe he
had
noticed me eating the white-flesh stuff first.
had
noticed me eating the white-flesh stuff first.
T
he Murasaki chef went about his business and didn’t engage me in further conversation, so I pulled out Book One of
Ramen Discovery Legend
and began reading it at the counter. The story’s main character was twenty-seven-year-old Kohei Fujimoto, an entry-level executive at Daiyu Trading Company. During the day, Fujimoto wears a suit and acts like an ordinary salaryman. But at night, even though it’s against company policy to moonlight, he secretly runs a ramen stall in the park. Fujimoto’s dream is to achieve
dassara
. The word is composed of the kanji character
, datsu,
which means “to separate from,” and
sara
, the beginning of the word
salaryman
. Fujimoto wants to leave salaried life so that he can open his own ramen restaurant, but first he has to have lots of ramen adventures. Often he is accompanied by Ms. Sakura, a secretary at Daiyu, who knows about his secret ramen life. In the first episode, Fujimoto is having lunch with his boss at a ramen restaurant near their office. Fujimoto declares the broth substandard and makes a derogatory comment, which the owner of the restaurant overhears.
he Murasaki chef went about his business and didn’t engage me in further conversation, so I pulled out Book One of
Ramen Discovery Legend
and began reading it at the counter. The story’s main character was twenty-seven-year-old Kohei Fujimoto, an entry-level executive at Daiyu Trading Company. During the day, Fujimoto wears a suit and acts like an ordinary salaryman. But at night, even though it’s against company policy to moonlight, he secretly runs a ramen stall in the park. Fujimoto’s dream is to achieve
dassara
. The word is composed of the kanji character
, datsu,which means “to separate from,” and
sara
, the beginning of the word
salaryman
. Fujimoto wants to leave salaried life so that he can open his own ramen restaurant, but first he has to have lots of ramen adventures. Often he is accompanied by Ms. Sakura, a secretary at Daiyu, who knows about his secret ramen life. In the first episode, Fujimoto is having lunch with his boss at a ramen restaurant near their office. Fujimoto declares the broth substandard and makes a derogatory comment, which the owner of the restaurant overhears.
“Who are you to criticize my broth?” the owner retorts. “I simmer my pig bones and chicken carcasses for ten hours, and I serve over six hundred bowls of broth a day. Shut up, unless you think you can do better!”
The episode ends with Fujimoto defeating the owner in a ramen duel. Fujimoto wins by concocting a broth from the freshest free-range Nagoya chickens and the highest-quality
kurobuta
pork. He simmers it for twenty-four hours, reminding the owner of an earlier time, a time when the owner, too, simmered his broth that long, when the owner slept in his kitchen and woke up every few hours to skim off fat. Fujimoto reminds the owner that his ramen is his life. The owner comes to understand that Fujimoto has criticized his broth out of love, and he pledges to do better.
kurobuta
pork. He simmers it for twenty-four hours, reminding the owner of an earlier time, a time when the owner, too, simmered his broth that long, when the owner slept in his kitchen and woke up every few hours to skim off fat. Fujimoto reminds the owner that his ramen is his life. The owner comes to understand that Fujimoto has criticized his broth out of love, and he pledges to do better.
I was in the middle of the next episode when I noticed that the Japanese man with the fresh wasabi was staring at my comic book. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe a year or two younger than me. From his suit and tie I deduced that he had come straight from work.
He leaned over and spoke to me. His English was very good.
“You like ramen?” he inquired.
I looked up from the page I was reading.
“Not really. I just bought this book.”
The man resumed eating his sushi. But a few minutes later, he addressed me again.
“Sorry to bother you, but have you ever heard of Ramen Jiro?”
I sipped some green tea.
“Is that a comic book?”
He didn’t answer the question.
“I’m Masa,” he said instead.
“Andy.”
We shook hands.
“So, what’s Ramen Jiro?” I asked.
Masa looked down at the sushi tray in front of him. From the look on his face, I could tell that I had just asked his favorite question in the whole wide world.
Dear Momofuku,
So I was dating Harue and Kim at the same time, and gradually cutting myself off from other people. My isolation only got worse after the consulting firm transferred me back to the United States. I was assigned to the firm’s New York branch, so I was back together with Kim, turning off the ringer when she stayed at my apartment in case Harue called. I only saw Kim on weekends, though. As the newest consultant in the New York office, I got last dibs on client assignments, which meant spending Monday through Thursday, every week, at Kmart headquarters.
On Monday mornings I would wake up at five thirty, kiss Kim good-bye, and catch a cab to LaGuardia Airport, where I would board a plane to Detroit. I always called ahead to reserve a subcompact at the Detroit Avis
(
I hated big, boatlike cars
)
, but the Avis agents would invariably upgrade me to a midsize. I would complain, and the agents would stare at me like I was speaking another language. “Sir,” they would say,
“
it’s
bigger.”
Then they would hand me the keys to a lime-green Chevrolet Cavalier or a maroon Buick Skylark, and I would drive north along Interstate 75 to the city of Troy.
(
I hated big, boatlike cars
)
, but the Avis agents would invariably upgrade me to a midsize. I would complain, and the agents would stare at me like I was speaking another language. “Sir,” they would say,
“
it’s
bigger.”
Then they would hand me the keys to a lime-green Chevrolet Cavalier or a maroon Buick Skylark, and I would drive north along Interstate 75 to the city of Troy.
Kmart had hired a team of consultants from our firm to fix what it called the cross-dock problem. A year earlier, Kmart’s warehouses had begun installing “intelligent” conveyor belts to route merchandise from supplier trucks to store-bound ones. The belts were supposed to save tens of millions of dollars a year, but for some reason it wasn’t happening. My job was to find out why. I would follow the signs on I-75 to Troy and take the exit at Big Beaver Road, the city’s main thoroughfare. Kmart headquarters was down a ways, past the industrial parks; it was right across the street from the Somerset Collection, a mall that considered itself too upscale to be called a mall.
(
The Collection’s tenants included Neiman Marcus, Barneys, and Saks Fifth Avenue.
)
As you drive along Big Beaver, Kmart’s offices were on the right, housed in brick-faced, hexagonal buildings linked by tube-encased hallways. The campus resembled a giant Habitrail
(
the modular hamster cage that was popular when I was a kid
)
. Weirder, though, was the giant metallic skull that loomed over the cul-de-sac near the entrance. It was one of the spookiest things I had ever seen: a two-story-high cranium forged from smooth, shiny bronze. There were holes in its sides, and through the holes you could see lots of little metallic skulls inside the big one. In the lobby, a plaque explained that the skull was the work of an English artist commissioned to express the idea “We are our people.”
(
The Collection’s tenants included Neiman Marcus, Barneys, and Saks Fifth Avenue.
)
As you drive along Big Beaver, Kmart’s offices were on the right, housed in brick-faced, hexagonal buildings linked by tube-encased hallways. The campus resembled a giant Habitrail
(
the modular hamster cage that was popular when I was a kid
)
. Weirder, though, was the giant metallic skull that loomed over the cul-de-sac near the entrance. It was one of the spookiest things I had ever seen: a two-story-high cranium forged from smooth, shiny bronze. There were holes in its sides, and through the holes you could see lots of little metallic skulls inside the big one. In the lobby, a plaque explained that the skull was the work of an English artist commissioned to express the idea “We are our people.”
According to the plaque, the sculpture was titled the “Kmart Corporate Head.”
I couldn’t see the Head from the Cross-Dock Team office, but it was always in the back of my mind. I had to cut through the parking lot to get to the warehouse
(
where I would question Kmart staff about the conveyor belts
)
and on the way over I would feel the Head’s icy gaze upon me. I slept at night in the Somerset Inn, a small hotel attached to the Somerset Collection, and once I had a nightmare in which the Head was chasing me and I was trying to move my legs but I couldn’t run away. I would ask Kmart employees if they found the Head creepy, but no one seemed to mind it. All they talked about was the cross-dock problem. They talked about how the conveyor belts were supposed to scan a bar code label on every box, and how sometimes the suppliers put the label in the wrong spot. They talked about how the suppliers often used the wrong data format when transmitting computerized packing lists. The result was a huge reject pile in the warehouse that was expensive to sort through. I advised my boss, the head consultant on the project, that the key to solving the cross-dock problem was educating the suppliers on how to prepare their shipments, and he agreed. “Why don’t you write a manual?” he suggested. Actually, it was more of an order. So my job became writing a book for Kmart suppliers about where to place bar code labels on their boxes and how to create electronic packing lists using the correct data format.
(
where I would question Kmart staff about the conveyor belts
)
and on the way over I would feel the Head’s icy gaze upon me. I slept at night in the Somerset Inn, a small hotel attached to the Somerset Collection, and once I had a nightmare in which the Head was chasing me and I was trying to move my legs but I couldn’t run away. I would ask Kmart employees if they found the Head creepy, but no one seemed to mind it. All they talked about was the cross-dock problem. They talked about how the conveyor belts were supposed to scan a bar code label on every box, and how sometimes the suppliers put the label in the wrong spot. They talked about how the suppliers often used the wrong data format when transmitting computerized packing lists. The result was a huge reject pile in the warehouse that was expensive to sort through. I advised my boss, the head consultant on the project, that the key to solving the cross-dock problem was educating the suppliers on how to prepare their shipments, and he agreed. “Why don’t you write a manual?” he suggested. Actually, it was more of an order. So my job became writing a book for Kmart suppliers about where to place bar code labels on their boxes and how to create electronic packing lists using the correct data format.
As awful as that sounds, for a while this arrangement actually worked for me. I felt like my life was going great because I was working for a big company and I had Kim, who was beautiful and athletic and intelligent. Never mind that I was still talking to Harue on the phone as if she were my girlfriend. The even stranger thing, Momofuku, is that I barely knew Kim. I mean, Momofuku, I’m telling you virtually nothing about her. Nothing about who she was aside from her blond hair and a handful of things she said. I’ve told you more about conveyor belts than about a woman I dated for two years. That’s partly because I can’t remember much. But, for the most part, I never knew what she loved or what she cared about or what she was afraid of. Why is it that I never realized how sad that was until now?
My Kmart book had grown to a hundred pages—all created in Microsoft PowerPoint—when Kim and I took a vacation in Seattle. We rented a car and drove to the San Juan Islands, where we planned to go mountain biking and stay in bed-and-breakfasts. We were boarding a ferry when she mentioned an old friend in Seattle.
“Is it a guy?” I asked.
It was a guy.
“Did you guys date?”
“For like a second.”
I imagined the guy to be much taller than me, and much more handsome. I imagined that when they dated they were very close, much closer than Kim and I were, and that he was never bleak. I imagined that they laughed all the time and sang songs together in the car. I was jealous, even though I still had another girlfriend on the other side of the world.
When we went mountain biking, I wondered if Kim went mountain biking with her old boyfriend, and if he was a better mountain biker than me. One night, in one of the bed-and-breakfasts, she asked me to pull her hair during sex, and I wondered if that was because she was thinking about how he used to do that. She never told me his name, and I was afraid to ask what it was.
The day we planned to head back to Seattle, fog settled over the ferry port. We were in the car again, waiting in a long line to board the ferry, when I was so overcome with jealousy about going back to Seattle
(
because Kim’s ex-boyfriend lived there
)
that I said, “I love you.” Kim didn’t say anything back. Instead she got out of the car and went for a walk in the woods around the ferry terminal. When she returned, she still wasn’t talking.
(
because Kim’s ex-boyfriend lived there
)
that I said, “I love you.” Kim didn’t say anything back. Instead she got out of the car and went for a walk in the woods around the ferry terminal. When she returned, she still wasn’t talking.
We drove off the ferry on the Seattle side. The road had only one lane in each direction, but there was so much traffic that we were barely moving. I glanced at Kim in the passenger seat and she was staring straight ahead. I was pretty sure she was planning to break up with me. I panicked, marking all of the “lasts” in my mind: the last time I stayed at her apartment; the last time we saw a movie together; the last time we ran in the park; the last time we had sex.
I thought maybe there was still something I could do, so I put my hand on Kim’s shoulder. Then I reached under her shirt. At first she seemed indifferent, but what followed was a car sex scene like the one in her favorite book
(
except that my genitals survived intact
)
. Now everything was going to be OK, I thought, because without saying anything, Kim had basically told me that she loved me.
(
except that my genitals survived intact
)
. Now everything was going to be OK, I thought, because without saying anything, Kim had basically told me that she loved me.
I spotted a blueberry bush on the side of the road.
“Let’s get out and pick some blueberries,” I proposed.
I pulled over, but Kim didn’t get out of the car. Picking blueberries by myself, I felt the panic return. How could a woman say no to picking blueberries by the side of the road with a man she loved? The only explanation I could think of was that she didn’t love me after all, and that she was still planning to break up.
We flew together as far as Chicago; from there Kim returned to New York and I to Detroit. I complained to the Avis agents about being upgraded to a midsize and left Detroit Metro Airport in the front seat of a purple Pontiac Grand Am. The next morning I was so obsessed with whether Kim was going to break up with me that I found it impossible to write about bar code labels. In the middle of the workday, I drove across the street to Saks, where I picked out a lacy white bra and matching white panties that made me hot just looking at them, and the thought of Kim wearing them drove me crazy.
That night, in my hotel room, the phone rang.
“We need to talk,” Kim said.
I don’t remember anything else she said, but she made it clear that she wasn’t happy and that she wanted to be apart. After I hung up, I threw the phone receiver at the wall so hard that it made a hole. How’s this for self-delusion, Momofuku? I convinced myself that I was the victim, and that Kim had betrayed me.
The next morning, I left the hotel and got into the purple Grand Am. It was almost Thanksgiving, so the air was cold and heavy; Big Beaver Road was veiled in a thin layer of snow. I drove across the street to Kmart headquarters and parked in a spot directly in front of the Kmart Corporate Head. The lingerie I had bought for Kim lay on the passenger seat, in the bag from Saks. I felt that I should get out of the car because people were expecting me in the Cross-Dock Team office, but I just sat there, staring at the Head. Then I began to cry. Snow was falling now, partially obscuring the view through the windshield, but I could still make out the Head hovering in front of me.
Just then, I thought of
Go Forth,
and in the front seat of the Grand Am, I tried screaming the line from the show.
Go Forth,
and in the front seat of the Grand Am, I tried screaming the line from the show.
“I wanna ___!”
I got the first two words out. But I couldn’t think of anything—not a single thing—to fill in the blank. This put me in touch with something I can only describe as horror. It was a horror I must not have been ready to face, because I only let myself feel it for an instant.
Sincerely,
Andy
Andy
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