Existentially ramen

There is always this recurring, emblematic scene in Haruki Murakami’s books. The protagonist ends up at one point or another in some sort of a noodle shop at around 2, 3 or 4 a.m., fluorescent lights blinking, soft retro music playing, in contrast to the glaring neon signs outside. The place is empty except for some scattered, ghostly-pale souls, lingering in the nowhere land between night and day. They are all alone. Lost in their thoughts, staring deeply into a bowl of steaming ramen. With every slurp of long, thin egg noodles, they sink deeper into meditation. Those noodles are like an umbilical cord to the bowl that holds every precious thought and the dark depths and desires of their soul. It’s the existentialist bowl of ramen.

You sit and stare as little green flecks of spring onion float idly by. Red dots and black sesame seeds form swirls of consciousness. Firm, silky noodles then never seem to come to an end … an infinite line that you dare not cut or break with your teeth. Glimmers of fragrant oils seem to mock your very existence. Has it all come down to this, my bowl of ramen and I? Does anything else really matter? When the crisp, juicy chicken karaage is this good and the rich soup is this comforting? Who cares if the world is crumbling around me? A moment of pure solidarity with me, myself and I. Nothing matters. Only my ramen.

Last Sunday when life was still in limbo-land between alcohol and sober-dom, a strange suggestion came about.

Jonathan: “Let’s go to that little ramen place in Eastwood.”

Me: “Eastwood? We’re going drive all that way to eat noodles?”

Jonathan: “Trust me” — he smacks his lips together — “they’re good.”

I was utterly convinced. Here was the guy who made his way to QC every day for work and on principle never leaves the five-kilometer radius of Makati and the Fort.  Those noodles must be damn yummy.

Traffic was non-existent and braving the Sunday mall chaos, bumping against excited, chatty persons abounding with energy, in stark contrast to my slow moving limbo-land self, we made it. Sunshine. Breeze. Strange 1950s rock-and-roll music playing in a courtyard where a water fountain made rhythmic ballet movements. A simple sign. A simple name: “ramen bar” — all lower case followed by cutesy Japanese characters.

It was bright, happy and the waiters were wearing T-shirts with a big “Slurp!” printed on them that made me smile. I became excited. Mmmm … hunger pangs took over. The menu was oh, so simple and satisfying. Small Plates: Karaage – fried boneless chicken with salt. I have been going through a fried-chicken obsession for over two weeks now, ever since I saw an episode of Justified where the lead character salvaged a hostage situation with fried chicken. I wanted a side of fried chicken with my ramen.

Jonathan: “No need! Look! Under Big Bowls: spicy karaage ramen. That’s what I’m having.”

It was like hitting the jackpot in a slot machine. Instead of cherries and pots of gold whirling around to make the perfect winning combination, it was little pieces of fried chicken with spicy ramen. I mean, come on. What more could you ask for?

We ordered a spicy kakuni bun to share — soft and fluffy buns with tender pork belly and a sweetish barbecue sauce. Not bad. Not bad at all. But really? The winner? The jackpot that makes the slot machine flash with lights and ring with bells of joy? Spicy karaage ramen. A shoyu ramen base. Soy-infused pork bone soup boiled for 20 hours topped with fish sticks, dried seaweed and spring onions. Spiced with chili oils and lovely flecks of togarashi. On the side was that boneless fried chicken. Crispy skin, plump, juicy meat. Long, firm, thin egg noodles … they gave way with just the slightest bit of resistance, like a young woman trying to be coy. It was far from the instant ramen I used to love as a child — soft, soggy noodles floating in a clear pool of powdered broth. And yet it was so close to home. That sweet spot between nostalgia and the sophisticated advances of the present and future. I was lost in my bowl of ramen love.

For how much? P280? To have this wonderful, existential moment of noodles and soup? All across cultures there is this correlation between noodle soup and comfort. It’s like those noodles are a bridge to your innermost self. Chicken noodle soup for Americans. Fideos for Spaniards. Pho for the Vietnamese. Laksa for Singaporeans. La mien for the Chinese. What was so special about it? The all-encompassing warmth of the soup, like a big bear hug from the inside out. The simplicity and satisfaction of noodles. No bells and whistles. And the overall reminder that a great meal need not be expensive.

I have to admit I could not finish my bowl. I sorrowfully left about a third because, well… it was just too much. Those bits and pieces floating there waving to me, “Come back … see us again soon.” Yes, yes. I could see those spring onions smiling at me. I was in my Murakami moment. Me and my noodles … till we meet again.

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Ramen Bar is located on the ground level of Eastwood Mall, Eastwood Ave. and Orchard Road. Prices range from P50 to P380. Call 570-9457.