Big Bowl of Joy

On Saturday, Francesco and I had the pleasure of trying something new for the first time (hence it being new, ahem). First, I’d like to state that we are total foodies. If something sounds delicious and it is moderately accessible, we will pursue it above all odds. If it’s supposed to be the best, that makes it all the better. For the most part, this desire for deliciousness led us down a remarkable path. Whereas I derive joy simply from eating something delicious and comforting, I gain the second bonus of Francesco’s joyful weeping. He doesn’t bawl at the table, but you see him get sniffly and moist around the ocular cavities. It’s a sight to behold certainly, and this trip provided no exception.

Saturday’s trip brought us to Ippudo NY on 65 4th Ave in Manhattan. This restaurant is a house of ramen. Of course, this requires a bit of disambiguation. Posting on FaceBook that we were eating ramen that night provoked responses of nostalgia for college days where Nissin and Maruchan were the norm in ramen. Admittedly, I enjoy those as much as the next guy, but real ramen served the real Japanese way offers a wealth of depth unseen in freeze-dried noodles and accompanying salty flavor packets. Of course, I have little to vouch for how the Japanese do it, and despite claims of being the Ramen King, for all I know the founder of Ippudo is considered a slop monger in his native country. (He could even be French!) Still, Ippudo manages to bring enough of a sense of authenticity that an American can appreciate without traveling too far.
However, I shan’t let this post go too far into restaurant review without being anecdotal. Initially the idea came from my friend, Jeff, who I’d consider worldly. He studied languages in college (though he didn’t pursue it as a career), and he’s always traveling. So when he recommends a place regarding a culture I honestly know little about, I take his word for it. It’s not that I know nothing about the Japanese, but I won’t pretend for a second that I really know their culture. Maybe Jeff doesn’t either, but that’s neither here nor there now. So Ippudo is the place he recommended, and on Tuesday, he told me we had reservations for 6:30 PM on Saturday.

Steadfast to this time, Francesco and I proceeded to New York taking a relatively early bus if only because I fucking hate rushing to my destination once I arrive there, an all-too-common occurrence especially when there’s a concert to attend. We arrived, took the subway, and were within blocks of our destination. Given our early arrival, we casually walked around the nearby streets if only to expedite the passage of time which had been slowing to nearly a crawl under the burden of our mounting excitement. We passed through an entire Ukranian festival; it was a block long. At around 6:15 PM, Jeff texts me to inform me he’s on his way but will be a little late. At 6:25 PM, Francesco and I go in to claim the reservation and just wait for Jeff.
Enter Front Cunt. I don’t mean to be entirely crass, but I do think she means to be a cunt. Our foray into this exciting world of world-class, top-rated ramen is a roughly 5’9” Japanese waif of a hostess with frizzy unconvincingly colored curly hair and a “Shut it down!” attitude that could bring our troops home from Iraq. However, this shiba inu poodle mix actively chooses not to use her powers as a bitch to end wars but rather to deny any semblance of class or basic customer service at the very front of a restaurant. I’ll note to you this restaurant is pretty trendy. Of the people waiting, they all were similarly-aged as myself and in small groups. This wasn’t Applebee’s in a mad rush to seat baby boomers with eight children none of whom are capable of listening to their parents or sitting without disturbing the other patrons. No, this place was pretty chill considering the wait time for people walking in is a coolly delivered “one hour thirty minutes to one hour forty-five.” By all this I mean to say, Front Cunt had little reason to be stressed out. She was running the show.
Upon mention of our reservation to her, she immediately stated, “We don’t take reservations over the phone.” I had no idea how Jeff made the reservation, but if he tells me on Tuesday that we’re game for Saturday, I believe him. Front Cunt offered no option to try and work with us aside from a short interrogation about the name and time again to both of which she quickly denied the possibility that the reservation existed. She could’ve read Seventeen Magazine for all it mattered; the answer would’ve been a tersely communicated NO. Jeff arrived within ten minutes of our dismay (and texts and phone calls) and went in to attempt to resolve. It seems he had made the plans through his friend, Lightning (picture provided for depth of possible references), who is a manager there. He asked about Lightning, and she quickly said, “He’s not here.” She didn’t even mean to imply that he wasn’t there at the moment. She wanted to convey that Lightning never existed in the first place.

It seems Lightning was running late for one reason or another. Details skipped, and he managed to get us in at 7:30 PM without consequence. Later, it was reveals that Francesco delivered Front Cunt a victorious raspberry as he passed behind her on the way to our giant tree trunk table. Thankfully, the service and Lightning himself were completely cordial. We had arrived prepared with the menu in memory’s tow, and I quickly ordered the Akamaru Modern (photo left), lovingly described thusly:

'The original tonkotsu' soup noodle with Ippudo's special sauce, miso paste and fragrant garlic oil; pork chashu, 1/2 seasoned boiled egg, beansprouts, kikurage & scallion

Except for the 1/2 egg, this seemed to be the perfect fit for me. In fact, the word, “garlic,” was enough to attract my attention, but still, it was a welcoming description even if I didn’t know what the special sauce was. At the very least, I knew it couldn’t and shouldn’t be fast-food’s uninviting combination of ketchup and ranch dressing. Jeff had the same, and Francesco ordered the original along with extra pork. I failed to mention pork is nearly his favorite substance on this earth next to diamonds, so a broth made from pork is just that much more intriguing to his porcine palate.

The food arrived in minutes, and quickly I picked up chopsticks and pretended I knew what I was doing. I’m not sure what it is about those ubiquitous sticks, but they mock me. In fact, I told Jeff before I began that one chopstick would most likely end up in the eye of one of the girls sitting across from us. However, after a good mixing of the sauce with the broth, I managed to make my way through the bowl heartily. Note also that the photo only shows the top of the bowl. The bottom is a good 8” below that and it is full of brothy, noodly goodness. I won’t pretend to be a food critic, but there was just this amazing depth of flavor in the broth like none I’ve had before. There was a great salt flavor rather than a great saltiness like something seasoned with a heavy hand. Rather, the salt was inviting, and so was the rest of it. I am not sure what each individual flavor I tasted could have been, but believe me that there were a lot of them packed into this amazing bowl of comfort. The noodles were super long and al dente, but they weren’t overly filling. The pork was like a soft bacon-flavored pork chop for lack of a sophisticated vocabulary to describe it. One way or another, the entirety worked for me, and the more I dug and twisted and spooned and slurped, the happier I was. I seriously did not want it to end, but it ended on a high note. I was full, but I was not sick from it. The portion was as appropriate as ever despite the daunting size of the serving.

It seems while I indulged and talked to Jeff on my left, Francesco was in his own foodie dreamland swimming in his piggy tears. (He noted to me that had Jeff not been there, he might have actually mustered up a good cry. Curses!) And so he ate “the best thing [he’s] ever eaten in the States.” He’s eaten a lot of wonderful things here, so it’s a bold claim, but I know he meant it. He even sank his chopsticks into a second serving of noodles, termed “kae-dama,” which was his goal from the get-go.

The food was good. The company was good. The conversation was good. It was a good night, which after parting ways with Jeff, ended with a nice walk back to Times Square in Saturday’s fortunate weather. If you’d like to go to Ippudo, I definitely recommend it. Before you suffer the stone demeanor of Front Cunt, though, I suggest you show up early, put your name down, and go look around for a while. Otherwise, you might just be hungry enough to mistake her hair for a fuzzy mop of ramen.