My Story of Ramen Shingen

Deep in the heart of the Susukino neighborhood, I walk up to this place called “Ramen Shingen”. It pops up on every online list as the place for real Sapporo ramen. That’s a pretty incredible claim since the entire city of Sapporo, let alone the entire Hokkaido region, is known for its miso ramen.

Aside from a stray car or person transiting past once in awhile, this particular block and its establishments are lonely and vacant right now. Except for Ramen Shingen. It’s a small brown-grey building, and the only thing that calls attention to it are two illuminated yellow storefront signs that spell Ramen in red Hiragana and Shingen in black Kanji.

It’s around 13:30 and the queue still stretches outside. The length is pretty comparable to something like Ramen Tatsuya’s line during dinner time back in the ATX. It’s nearing winter time in Sapporo, so I dig deeper into my trench coat to avoid the brisk zephyrs. There’s quite a bit of paper signage on the doors and windows, but none of it is in English. I’m waiting behind a group of 3 men, obviously friends. Their conversation is gruff, their puffy jackets and ripped up sweats scream streetwear, and one of the friends is wearing a surgical mask as if it was an accessory. All these things quickly remind me that this is not a Tatsuya, and I am very, very far away from Texas.

After a short wait, enough people have left that I can continue to wait inside. It’s busy with the sounds of the staff taking orders, the bussing of empty bowls and glasses, and the steam hissing at the chefs. The customers seated around the L-shaped bar focus only on their meal. There is no room for conversation, just the sound of slurping tongues and clacking chopsticks. Those on the waiting bench are quiet, save for a quick whisper and chuckle once in awhile.

While I’m trying to capture this on Snapchat, I realize that a lady who is a member of the kitchen staff is trying to get my attention. She shouts something unintelligible (to me) in a sharp, nasal tone. I’m completely unprepared and look like a wide-eyed buffoon.

She points a finger up. Above her is more Kanji that I can’t read. My first thought is oops — maybe that says I’m not allowed to use my phone here? I look around and the folks waiting in line are staring at me. She repeats the same sharp sounds and bounces her finger. I realize she’s asking if I’m a party of one. I meekly bow, point a finger up, and murmer “Sumimasen… ichi… arigato”. She bows back, and I take a breath.

Looking around I see a menu standing between every other seat at the bar. It’s completely in Japanese syllabary and logography, except for the prices. I practice “miso wo kudasai” several times to myself and hope it will get the point across.

Partway through my 50th rehearsal, I feel the urge to use it. I look at the washroom door across the restaurant. There’s another paper sign on it that’s also totally in Japanese. I remember I’ve got Google Translate on my phone. I open the app and try to scan the sign. No dice. It’s too far away and the camera won’t let me zoom. I shrug and a say screw it as I walk over and take my chances.

It shouldn’t surprise me by this point, but this public washroom is as clean as it is delightfully aromatic — just like every other public washroom in Japan. The toilet has more lights and buttons than my phone — just like every other toilet in Japan. This toilet is pink and the tank is decorated with a pot of flowers. That’s actually unique. (By the way, if you’re ever in a pinch and need to pinch one off, just head for one of the many 7-Elevens sprinkled around Sapporo. Their toilets are cleaner than yours at home. They won’t even guilt you into buying something.)

Exiting the washroom I see enough people have finished and paid that I can take a seat at the bench. The same lady from before hands me a menu — this one has English on it thank god. I bow once more with an “arigato”. There’s various flavors on the menu including “Echigo” (spicy miso), “Tosa” (mildly salty miso), and “Harima” (rich salty miso). All 760 yen a bowl. They’ve also got a couple shoyu ramen (what I usually prefer), gyoza, and bundles of Tosa, gyoza, and biru (beer) or gohan (not the Dragonball character, but rice).

However, clearly denoted as the “№1” item on the menu in bright yellow, is the “Shinshu” or “Tasty miso flavor”. That’s what I’m here for. And it’s still only 760 yen for a bowl.

The lady returns and asks me (I assume) for my order. “O Shinshu wo kudasai,” I say with confidence this time. She responds with “Hai, arigato gozaimasu!” (or something like that) and a bow. I bow once more with a “doumo arigato”, but she’s well on her way back to the bar before I raise my head back up. While I do, I see a chef open a tupperware of diced garlic, scoop a bunch with the corner of the upside-down lid, and quickly flip the bunch into a bowl of other dry ingredients before submersing everything in broth. His movement is slick and the technique looks practiced.

More spots have opened up at the bar, so we all shuffle over on the bench. I hand one of the streetwear dudes his clutch that he forgets to slide along with him. Clearly embroidered on it is the word GUCCI. He bows in embarrassment of his mistake and we both share a light laugh.

In fresh from a taxi enter two Japanese businessmen and their white business partner. Suddenly, I no longer feel like the stranger in the establishment. While we wait, I hear one of the Japanese businessmen educating their foreign friend about the local entertainment, “…that was a girl’s club. That other one is the complete opposite. That’s a ladyboy’s club…” I’ve learned enough about Susukino nightlife to smirk to myself.

Four more spots open up. The three gentleman in streetwear and myself take a seat at the bar. In front of me are stacks of chopsticks, packets of soy sauce, salt and pepper, a box of tissues (not napkins), and self-serve ice water.

The streetwear brethren promptly receive their gyoza. I frown a bit in regret for not ordering any for myself, but the bowls are huge and I don’t want to chance disrespecting the staff with unfinished food. But it looks so nice and crispy….

I turn away from temptation to pour myself a glass of water. I gently whisper to myself “gochisousamadeshita” over and over again. Before I know it, the lady presents a huge bowl of ramen before me. Thinking about it now was it insulting that I forgot to say “itadakimasu” as I received the bowl?

First thing I notice is the smell. It’s very familiar. The aroma smells like miso ramen back home, maybe bit stronger. But nothing really special there.

Then I notice the color and the presentation. The negi (green onion) float atop in a cute little bundle. One of two large slices of chashu makes an appearance above the surface. The yellow noodles and moyashi (bean sprouts) squiggle in and out of the broth. Closer inspection reveals the traditional menma (bamboo shoots) desperately gasping for air. The broth itself is brown, grainy, and murky.

Quite honestly? It’s not really pretty and not particularly appetizing.

There is no nori.
There is no naruto.
There is no tamago.
There is no tofu.
There is no corn.
There is no butter.
There is no cabbage.
There is no mushroom.
There is no chili paste.

I snap a quick photo. Then I snap my chopsticks apart.
Is this all that I waited for?

Then I take a sip of the broth. Oh ouch that’s hot. I could barely taste anything in that scoop. Let’s try that again and cool it down a bit more.

So I take another sip of the broth. It’s incredible. It’s rich without being heavy or overly brackish. The richness stays through the whole swallow until the aftertaste. And then it hits. What is that? Is that spicy? No the bite at the end is more garlicky… but it’s also a bit tangy?

So I take another sip. And then another sip.

And then I remember there’s other things in this bowl. So I grab my chopsticks and take a bite of noodles. They’re just at that right level of firmness. Not mushy, but don’t put up too much of a fight. Flavor-wise, nothing out of the ordinary, but it supports the broth exactly how it should.

The chashu is the next victim. Perhaps just slightly overcooked for my taste when considered independently, but the fatty bits combined with a scoop of broth keep everything even. I usually treat the protein of a dish as the centerpiece. But that is not the case here. Again, the chashu gives way in the end to support that fabulous broth.

Add in the menma. Full disclosure and possibly blasphemous statement ahead: I never eat the menma. Maybe I take a few bites here and there, but it’s the wrong kind of crunch and the wrong kind of flavor to me. It completely takes me out of the ramen experience. I just don’t understand why it’s in there at all. At the miso ramen place I ate earlier in the week (also very delicious and the best I’ve ever had up to this point), I tried one menma strip and left the rest behind.

I eat ALL the menma strips in this bowl. I can’t help it. Consuming them actually pulls me closer to the broth. The more menma I eat, the more broth I drink. The more broth I drink, the more menma I eat. I still can’t say I understand it, but I certainly appreciate it now.

The same goes for the moyashi. Usually the moyashi is too crisp and also takes me out of the experience. The difference between moyashi and menma is that I like the taste of moyashi in isolation. But it’s still jarring.

The moyashi here is prepared in such a way that when it’s scooped up with the broth, it’s allowed to absorb a bit of that liquid. And what you get is a wonderful partnership.

Actually, that’s the whole theme of this bowl. It’s the same ingredients that I’ve had time and time again, but prepared in such a way that they all do one job: enhance this incredible broth.

I’m pondering all of this until I look down. The chashu, the menma, the negi, and the moyashi are all gone. All that’s left are a few stray noodles and a healthy serving of broth.

After I clean up the noodles, I take the bowl in my hands. I drink half the remaining broth.

I stop. And I take a breath. I reminisce briefly on this experience that took me out of my comfort zone that now ends with this last, comforting sip.

Then I drink the rest of the broth to a slurping finish.

And just like that I’m staring at an empty bowl. All I’m left with is that garlicky, spicy, tangy, whatever-that-is aftertaste to puzzle me one last time.

I place the bowl on the upper ledge of the bar and collect my things. The beautiful lady greets me one last time as I hand her my receipt and 1000 yen. She hands me exactly 240 yen back with no expectation for a tip.

I bow and (in my opinion) flawlessly say “gochisousamadeshita.” She smiles surprised and (I assume) says farewell.