The Ramen King and I (30 page)

I need not have worried about Tetsuo’s feelings being hurt. He considered the Sushi Nazi nickname a compliment.

I was imagining a visit to the Soup Nazi with Tetsuo and Junko when Tetsuo placed a tray of sushi on the counter in front of Emily and me. Junko came over and explained the origin of every piece. “This is
hamachi
, from Spain.
Unagi
from Japan.” Emily and I had barely begun eating when Tetsuo screamed at us.

“Hakata Andy, look at that!”

He was pointing at Emily’s lips, and I could tell that she was afraid.

“This woman,” Tetsuo continued, “is an excellent sushi chewer!”

Tetsuo explained while I did my best to simultaneously translate for Emily. Most Americans, Tetsuo said, chewed in the fronts of their mouths, and to illustrate this, he began chomping like a squirrel. Emily, on the other hand, chewed in the middle of her mouth, which was closer to what Tetsuo called “European or Japanese chewing.”

“Where are you from?” he asked her.

“Miami.”

“Of course,” Tetsuo said, as if Miami were somehow culturally closer to Europe and Japan than the rest of the United States.

“You know, Hakata Andy, Americans sometimes come in and tell me, ‘Your sushi is so delicious.’ Then I watch them chew, and I know I can’t trust them. They’re not even tasting my sushi! But Emily’s middle-of-the-mouth chewing—that is what lets you really taste food. She is world-class, Hakata Andy. Better than you.”

I translated this last part for Emily, and she laughed out loud. Junko was laughing, too.

“Don’t say such things around Hakata Andy,” Junko scolded Tetsuo. “He might write them on Chowhound!”

Tetsuo glared at me, and I knew what I was supposed to say next.

“I promise I will never write anything else about you on Chowhound as long as I live.”

He seemed satisfied with that. Then his expression turned somber.

“Hakata Andy, sometimes when we’re not very busy, I walk over to that window and look out at the tapas restaurant across the street. I watch all those Americans chewing in the fronts of their mouths, completely oblivious to all the flavor they’re missing. I just shake my head and think, ‘How did the world come to this?’ ”

Emily and I shot each other a look, and it was hard not to burst out laughing again. Tetsuo returned to his sushi making, plying us with
hamachi
belly cuts,
kohada,
and freshly shucked oysters. Emily especially enjoyed a piece of amberjack with a
shiso
leaf underneath.

I was about to ask for the check when Tetsuo said, “Do you have room for one more?”

I looked at Emily, and she nodded. Several minutes later, Tetsuo placed two pieces of
nigiri
onto the wood tray in front of us. The fish was a whitish shade of pink, marbled throughout with a fine grain of fat.

I lifted one of the pieces between my thumb and forefinger, dipped the fish side in soy sauce, and brought it to my lips. I placed it, fish side down, over my tongue, and the buttery flesh began melting on impact. I rolled it around in my mouth, tasting the fish as it melded with the rice. I tasted the relationship between the fish and the rice, and then I tasted something else—the relationship between me and Tetsuo. I tasted the relationship between me and Junko, and then I tasted the relationship between me and Emily. I tasted the relationship between me and my parents, between me and my sister, between me and my brother-in-law, and between me and Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Walter and Grandma Millie and Grandpa Herman. I tasted the relationship between me and Matt and Gary and Josh and Momofuku Ando and Yamazaki. . . .

“What is that?” Emily asked.

“This,” I said, “is the first-best piece of fatty tuna I will eat in my life.”

Emily seemed confused, so I offered her the other piece.

She made a face. “Nah.”

“Nah?”

“I don’t like fatty tuna,” Emily said.

I should not be upset, because being upset at a woman for not liking fatty tuna is ludicrous. I should not be mad, because who gets mad at someone for something like that? I should tell her it’s no problem, that it’s no big deal. I should tell her, “To each his own.” I should—

“What’s wrong?” Emily asked. “Wait, are you mad at me because I don’t want to eat the fatty tuna?”

It was such a small thing that I could have easily lied about it. But I knew where that would lead. I would have lied about bigger things, and then even bigger things. There would have been no limitations.

“This is going to sound strange,” I said, “and I’m really ashamed to admit it. But, yes, part of me thinks things will never work out between us because you don’t like fatty tuna.”

Emily stared at me for a moment. Then she smiled. The dimple formed on the top of her right cheek, and soon we were both laughing at how ridiculous I sounded.

In the following weeks, Emily told me about some things that she was ashamed of, and I told her about more things that I was ashamed of. One night, not too long ago, we were in bed when I told her about an uncomfortable sensation I experienced as she touched my arm. Her initial reaction was anger. “I make you uncomfortable when I touch you?” she said. “Great.” Without describing the voice in my head, I told her that I thought the feeling might be related to my fear of getting close. That didn’t make Emily any happier.

“How is this ever going to work?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say, so we lay in bed, silently, holding hands. Then, after only a few minutes, something totally unexpected happened: The uncomfortable sensation disappeared. Just like that, after telling Emily about it and lying next to her, it vanished.

When she saw for herself that it was really gone, her dimple appeared, and I was overwhelmed with desire. Was this Ando’s so-called true desire—a manifestation of “the innate human urge to connect with the world” that led him to invent instant ramen?

Yes, and it was hot.

D
ear Koki,

These days, we are gradually being warmed by more and more rays of the sun.

 

I hope that you don’t mind my writing in English. I read in
Nikkei Business
magazine that you were once a student at Columbia University in Manhattan, so I figured it would be OK.

 

It has been many months since the passing of your father, and I wanted to begin by expressing my condolences. I was in the audience at Kyocera Dome Osaka for the funeral, and I could tell from your speech that your father meant a great deal to you. I had hoped to say hello, but I was the only one in attendance not wearing a black suit. I guess I was embarrassed about that.

 

By the way, I also read about the recent passing of your half brother, Hirotoshi. I don’t believe that you were close to him, but I offer condolences nonetheless.

 

Like the other attendees at your father’s funeral, I was grateful to receive, along with the complimentary packages of instant ramen,
Thus Spake Momofuku
. Although I had already read nearly all of your father’s books, many of the sayings were new to me, including “Flavor knows no borders”; “Live to the fullest, die to the fullest”; and “Don’t promise anything too far in the future because tomorrow is the only thing you can never really understand.” In your afterword to the book, you invited readers to contact you directly regarding any of the sayings, and that is the purpose of my correspondence.

 

In particular, I am writing about the parenthetic note on page 183 that says, “Momofuku Ando often asked about how to translate this saying into English, but not a single person could tell him.”

 

I would like to offer a proposal. How about “Mankind Is Noodlekind”?

 

True, you won’t find
noodlekind
in an English dictionary, but I think most English speakers will understand it. As for what the saying means, I’ve been pondering that for a long time. I read your father’s essay “Mankind Is Noodlekind” (if you will permit this translation), in which he points out that noodles are enjoyed by nearly all people on Earth. Still, I can’t help wondering if he also intended a deeper meaning.

 

Recently, I rented an old episode of
Go Forth! Air Wave Youth
from a Japanese video store in San Francisco. Did you ever watch the show? The episode I rented was the one where the female host screams, “I wanna sing a duet with Yasir Arafat!” (You can also find the segment on YouTube). She flies to Gaza and, amazingly, gains entrance to the late Palestine Liberation Organization leader’s compound. She’s led into what looks like a conference room, where Arafat, clad in his trademark black-and-white kaffiyeh headdress, greets her in a warm embrace.Then she pulls out a portable karaoke machine and holds up a giant cue card with the lyrics to “Ladybug Samba”—the 1973 hit by the Japanese husband-and-wife duo Cherish—transliterated into Arabic. As you may know, the song is a favorite at Japanese weddings, and begins, “You and I, together in the land of dreams.” The female host has rewritten it on the cue card as “Arafat and I, together in the land of dreams.” Arafat stares at the cue card, but when the female host presses “play” on her karaoke machine, he doesn’t sing along. A caption at the top of the screen says, “Take Two.” The female host tries again, but still nothing from Arafat.The words “DUET FAILURE” flash across the screen, and the female host is ushered out of the building. Tears stream down her face.

 

Remarkably, they are tears of joy. “I’m so happy,” she says, pressing a portrait of Arafat to her cheek.Then she hugs members of her crew. “Thank you,” she tells them. “Thank you.”

 

Your father’s noodles were the product, as he said so often, of failure upon failure. But when he accepted his limitations, concepts like success and failure slipped away, and all that remained were steps on a sacred path. Is it possible that your father was trying to equate mankind to noodles in this way?

 

I would be interested to hear your thoughts about what I have written, and if you’re available, I would even to travel to Japan to meet you.

 

I imagine, though, that it might be difficult.

W
riting this book required the translation of many Japanese-language sources into English. With one exception, I performed the translations myself. The exception is material from
Magic Noodles: The Story of the Invention of Instant Ramen
(
Maho no Ramen: Hatsumei Monogatari
). Because Nissin published its own English translation (
The Story of the Invention of Instant Ramen
), I adopted the Nissin translation wherever possible. Occasionally, I made modifications for readability and accuracy.

In granting me permission to reprint the lyrics to his song “Ramen in the Morning” (
“Asa kara Ramen no Uta”
), Haruki Murakami allowed me to use my own translation. It is not an official translation of the song.

The comic book series with titles I translated as
Embassy Chef
,
Natsuko’s Sake,
and
Train Station Bento-Box Single Traveler
were not yet published as paperback collections at the time I described a clerk showing them to me in a Japanese bookstore. I enjoy their titles and plot lines so much that I added them to that scene.

In one of the letters to Ando about my childhood, I described former Los Angeles Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda dedicating World Series games to the memory of a friend. I searched for references that he did so, but I was unable to find any. Since the letter is a record of my memory, I left it as is.

I e-mailed Koki Ando an edited version of my letter to him, but I have yet to receive a response.

The names and identifying characteristics of some people and places appearing in this book (but not Zen’s!) have been changed.

H
ave a problem with relationships, career, or life in general? Perhaps the inventor of instant ramen can help.

If you think he can, submit a “Dear Momofuku” letter about your problem at
www.RamenAdvice.com
. I will do my best to answer it based on the life and famous sayings of Momofuku Ando.

T
his book would not have been possible without support and encouragement I received from T. D. Allman, Don Bennett, George Birimisa, the Blurt Group, Carla Borelli, Katy Butler, Sean Chou, Jane Churchon, Emily Cohen, Jim D., Gary Drumn, Kelly Drumn, Helena Echlin, Daniel Fisher, Bill Herr, Judy Hisamatsu, Cindy Kano, Junko Kashiyama, Tetsuo Kashiyama, Gillian Kendall, Mikiko Kitajima, Yoko Kondo, Matt Kowalski, Yuriko Kuchiki, Archie LaCoque, Thais Lange, Mike Lenhart, Ellen Luttrell, Charlotte Melleno, Mariko Mikami, Gregg Miller, Michele Miller, Harris Moore Jr., Makobelle Niinuma, Zen Ohashi, Yoshimi Oiwa, Masa Okawa, Miho Okawa, Katherine Ozment, Pat Parker, Dan Pecoraro, Josh Quittner, Andrea Raskin, Thorina Rose, Rick Rutherford, San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, Chiharu Shaver, Nancy Spector, Robert Stark, Danielle Svetcov, Manami Tamaoki, Robert Thomas, Jo Ann Thrailkill, Dale Walker, Meghan Ward, Tara Austen Weaver, Andy Weisskoff, and the Witch.

Thanks to my parents, Richard and Judy Raskin, who gave me everything, not least of all their blessing to tell this story.

Thanks to Cecile Moochnek, who listened every other Thursday. To call her a writing coach would be to fail miserably at communicating the value of what she does, which cannot be expressed in any language.

Thanks to Bill Shinker and everyone at Gotham Books— especially my editors, Erin Moore and Jessica Sindler, who among many other things, helped me figure out what this book was about.

Thanks to my agent, Stuart Krichevsky, who served as proposal editor, permissions go-between, morale booster, and all-around consigliere. This book began as a 250-word submission to Stuart’s agency, and it came to life only after he requested more.