In the fourth of a series on the Baba-Waseda ramen belt, Nick takes his sticks to the legendary Budoka.
Your guide knew he’d found his kind of place from the moment he walked through the chained-open door to stand before the simple ticket machine and was greeted by a guttural call from the dimness within.
It was a Sunday evening just as the college guys were leaving for winter vacation, but the couple of open seats available at the counter were an anomaly even then. The ten seats in the narrow space between the counter and the wall are far more often being waited for by a line out the door than empty.
I went with the chashumen and, before I even turned to sit down, the strapping youth running the shop gave a friendly shout for the specifics of my order (these being how you want the noodles and the soup). I settled in to see three young guys negotiating the tight kitchen, adding entire porcine rub cages to the giant stock pot. They all had their sleeves rolled up onto their shoulders, tightly-rolled white towels around their heads, and rectangles of wood with their names written in black marker on them hanging from their necks on strings.
At my back was a wall covered almost floor to ceiling with the business cards and expired train passes of appreciative customers (go have a look for Nick “The Sticks” Kowalski).
Budoka has a big reputation and lives up to it. The noodles were thick and slightly chewy, the toppings were copious and neatly arranged to make everything look nice, but the kicker was the soup. It was thick and meaty without being salty, which is a rare, but lovely flavor. The textures of this soup make it something you’ll want to roll it around your tongue.
This is what a bowl of ramen should be like, especially in the winter. Heavy, flavorful, and interesting. Yours truly isn’t getting any younger and fills up quicker than he used to. The young guys on the other hand gorge on the bottomless bowls of rice you can get for a pittance.
Budoka is near exit 3B of Tokyo Metro Tozai line Waseda Station, on Waseda-dori, past Genten. Turn right once you reach the top of the stairs and look on your right, it’s set back a bit from the sidewalk, less than a minute from the station.
In the third of a series on the Baba-Waseda ramen belt, Nick swings by Genten.
Having found a certain atmosphere, but not the satisfying bowl he was hoping for at Merci, your humble guide turned in the opposite direction and went to Waseda-dori, where, next to exit 3B of Waseda station, he saw Genten.
Genten is a newer shop – ticket machine at the front, all bright lights, clean interior, long counter down one wall and tables at the back. Not exactly the traditional ramen shop configuration, but one that’s popular with chains.
Now, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect something special at a place whose name literally means “origin” (as in a mathematical reference point from which other things are measured). I know me some braggarts, but publicly advertising your business as that from which things should be measured is quite a boast. I took it as a challenge.
Genten is a chain, with branches all over the country and it does have its own following, but it is not top shelf.
There’s a moral: Don’t boast.
I ordered “Genten Ramen” (800 yen), which was a fair, but uninspired tonkotsu with a smattering of the usual toppings. This was the soup of a discount fast-food chain, not of ramen specialists. The noodles were thin and overcooked.
Genten gives free upgrades to large size, which is a hit with the students who go for volume above all, and has a menu made up mostly of tsukemen, which is maybe the way to go. The photos on the walls of noodles being lovingly crafted and the shaft of wheat in the logo on the door are misleading.
Next up is a legend almost next door, let’s hope that lives up to its reputation.
Genten is next to exit 3B of Tokyo Metro Tozai line Waseda Station, on Waseda-dori. Turn right once you reach the top of the stairs and look on your right.
In the second of a series on the Baba-Waseda ramen belt, Nick settles in for a bit at Merci.
From Shichifukya, where to go, where to go? Down the road on an express route to the finish line? That ain’t never been Nick’s way.
To school, then. Leaving Shichifukuya and turning right, you can travel but a few stretches of the pins to old Merci, also on your right, not far from Waseda station.
“Old” is the key word here. For a guy like yours truly, Merci has two appealing points and one important thing to be wary of, just like a good dame.
Fancy name aside, everything about this place is straightforward, which, oddly enough, gives it a kind of subtle charm. From the white plastic katakana sign hanging over the sidewalk to the old style display case showing off dusty plastic ramen and omu-rice next to the door to the big plate glass window fronting the place – you know what you’re getting into before you even walk through the door.
So what is it that you’re getting into?
A fairly spacious, veneer-paneled, tiled room, sans the usual counter. Instead, Merci has neatly-spaced wood-grain formica tables surrounded by two to six plastic chairs each. The kitchen is in the back and has a big pass-through, like most non-ramen restaurants. The feeling that Merci was not originally a ramen shop is strong.
The menu is simple, relatively brief, and printed in black and white on the wall. Your guide went for the chashumen, which, at 630 yen, was just about the most expensive thing on the menu, including the beer, which was 530 yen for a big bottle of Super Dry.
The wait for the ramen was not long – Merci has prompt, courteous service, if not the garrulous buddy-buddy-ness of many newer, trendier noodleries, which seems to suit it’s all but 100% male, student and salaryman clientele just fine.
The crowd seemed split about two to one between small groups of students lingering over cigarettes and sports papers or manga and salarymen who bolted (their food) and bolted (for somewhere else to linger).
There was a distinct, sour old ramen shop smell, not really a pleasant odor, even if it is kind of familiar, but I soon got used to it and, unlike another place I shall later review in this space, it wasn’t enough to cause discomfort.
Before the big kerosene heater by the table had time to warm my toes, a perfectly ordinary bowl of shoyu ramen was set down next to my beer. A bit of seaweed, a bit of corn, and some pleasantly thick chasu slices topped a bowl of very ordinary noodles – neither thick nor thin, neither hard nor soft, in a bowl of very ordinary soup – salty, a little oily – no secret ingredient, no texture, no intrigue. This was not Goldilocks’s “just right” so much as eminently forgettable.
That’s not the point, though. Merci has a different crowd (and it does have a crowd, especially at lunch time). I love a place that is so very Showa. That reminds of a time before I was born, but without being retro. This is not the time of movies recounting an elderly director’s childhood, but the time of his late 30s and 40s. The time of architecture and furnishings that would be forgettable were they not so pervasive, if overshadowed these days. This is the real “delightfully tacky”, which has nothing to do with dolls pretending Mötley Crüe is going to come back for real. This is a little taste of a time not so long ago, the boom time, when there was no time decorate with taste or build to last.
Merci‘s crowd, though, seems to love different things: it’s cheap, it’s fast, there’s a basket of manga, and the staff don’t mind if you hang around for a while after you eat in the afternoon.
Merci is near Waseda station on the Tokyo Metro Tozai line. Take the elevator up, turn right out of it, go past Shichifukuya, pas the SMBC ATM, and you’ll see it on your right. Big plate glass window. Ramen from 400 yen.
In the first of a series on the Baba-Waseda ramen belt, Nick samples the wares at Shichifukuya.
Let it never be said that Nick’s word is not his bond. As promised, today begins our tour of the rich vein of ramen that extends from the college neighborhood of Waseda over to the home of Astro Boy, Takadanobaba. I’ll start with the highlights and add in the often older, but not always as noteworthy others afterwards.
To keep your mother happy, we begin near school, and a prestigious one at that. If you take the elevator out of Waseda station (Tozai line), turn right and walk just a bit and you’ll come to Shichifukuya, a fairly new place with the traditional-looking front and ticket machine that most new ramen shops favor these days.
Before any of that, though, the smell is going to hit you. Not like a fist, not like a dainty hand in a white glove, but like a doll jumping into your arms, only in this case, the dame is huge and it’s you being picked up.
Lovely smell. This can’t always be said, even of the best ramen, so it’s a bonus for Shichifukuya.
There’s a ticket machine outside, with a bill slot high enough that anyone who doesn’t need to duck when playing leapfrog might want to bring a taller friend to help out.
I went for the chashumen (850 yen), which was the second-most popular item according the stickers on the machine, and went inside.
Shichifukya is done out in wood, with kind of a rustic thing going on. It has the usual counter seats, but more of them than usual, as the kitchen has an L-shape. There are bigger tables at the back.
The ramen did not disappoint. The noodles were on the thick side and were good, if unremarkable in their own right (by which I mean above average in total, average for a good ramen shop).
The soup was a thick, textured miso-tonkatsu – the kind of soup it’s nice to let roll over the tongue for a while. No mere oily medium for noodles was this. The smell led to a broth that kept its end up. Large sheets of nori gave a strong marine hint to the porkstravaganza, but it was welcome.
A good start to a good tour and a solid anchor at the Eastern end of our route.
Shichifukuya is near Waseda Station on the Tokyo Metro Tozai line, across Tsurumakicho from Waseda Middle and High School. Take the elevator up, turn right out of it, go past the soup curry shop and you’ll see a black wood-fronted shop with an inviting smell that precedes its appearance on your right.
Nick Kowalski visits Ryoma in Nakano
Nicky’s back, grease-fans.
In my gustatory peregrinations, the cheap eats, tasty as they are, lead your humble interlocutor to washing them down with even cheaper Volstead Act violations, which then leads to renewed hunger and a certain old stand-by: the ramen shop.
So it is that on one recent chilly evening, I found myself at the friendly ramen atelier Ryoma, in front of Arai-Yakushimae station on the Seibu-Shinjuku line, in Nakano.
Ryoma is a classy joint in many senses of the word – when I showed up, the last two seats at the counter of this relatively spacious noodlery were filled by the proprietor and an apparently disoriented old dame who’d seen better days decades ago. He fed her, figured out where she was headed, and helped her on her way. Sense of community and all that. Good stuff.
More important to you, though dear reader, is the type of class that surrounds an inventive competitor in the increasingly tough world of good ramen.
With half a dozen counter seats and a pair of tables that comfortably seat four each facing a big, deep version of the normally long, cramped ramen kitchen, Ryoma feels a bit more open than some of its counterparts.
Ryoma has gained a certain amount fame for their Italian-esque tomato-cheese ramen, which is well worth a try.
The menu also offers new takes on old classics as well. Ryoma alternates days between shoyu (soy sauce) and shio (salt) soups, offering two versions of each: with or without katsuo. Their other step in an original direction is using thinly-sliced chicken breast as a topping.
The day I stopped by was a shio day, so I went for the signature tori-chashumen (?880) with futomen (fat noodles) in the regular shio soup.
Most shio soups are thin and mild – the light ramen, if you will. Not this one – it was thick and rich, full of flavor and satisfying in its own right, bringing shio to the big leagues, where good soup often carries the day. Into this lovely broth was plunged a mass of well-balanced noodles – good, chewy, and filling. Along with the nori and other usual toppings came the chicken: thinly-sliced and lightly cooked, it was still pink in the center and, thus tender and flavorful as it cooked in the soup.
Now I realize some of you may not be aware of modern food hygiene and the like and may balk at the idea of chicken being anything other than charred into a dry, tasteless husk. I also realize that, if this is you, I’m not going to change your mind about fearing a bit of pink.
Luckily, there is an easy solution – the one old Nick goes for. When you get the bowl, invert the contents.
No, not the whole thing, you jerk. Just the noodles and toppings – make them bottomings instead. The chicken goes down under the hot soup and not only cooks, but allows you save some of it for later in the bowl – a little treat.
Throughout the whole meal, I had no complaints. Beyond offering something original in the bowl and having it work, Ryoma also has possibly the most genuinely friendly service and atmosphere of any ramen shop I’ve been in, and that’s a lot.
In addition to the tomato-cheese ramen and chicken, they offer gyoza bigger than my ego and other sides as well.
Sadly, the Takadanobaba branch recently closed, but it did me to thinking of that vaunted precinct. The stretch of Waseda-dori between Takadanobaba and Waseda might be the world capital of ramen. It is to noodle fame what Hollywood is to movies or Vegas is to mediocre shameless singers.
I shall take you on a tour. Watch this space.
Ryoma is mere meters from the South exit of Arai-Yakushimae station on the Seibu-Shinjuku line. Go out the gate and turn left, before you hit the main street, you’ll see it on your right.
“But Nick, baby, how could you do it?”
Hot water welled up in the dame’s big brown eyes.
“You wouldn’t catch it if I rolled it on the floor over to you, dollface. Let it go; stop askin’ me questions.”
“But Nicky, darling, I’m worried about you. It’s just not like you.”
“Don’t you think I know that, sweetheart? I’ve got an independent streak to make George Washington blush, but sometimes things ain’t so black and white.” Read more
Sinatra can have New York or Chicago. For old Nick, nothing sings of home like the chants of the yaki-imo hawker or the tofu kid of Tokyo and the sweetest part of that tune is the din of Shinbashi. Show me a man who knows a better place to be a man and I’ll show you a sucker.
Good, cheap eats are my game and walking out of Tokyo’s oldest station and into the stream of high lifes, low lifes, and no lifes that makes up this miasma of opportunity is no less a thrill than having some done up dame cross my threshold asking for help with her hands full of Suntory and Seven Stars.
Of all the greasy chopsticks to be tried in Tokyo, one above all takes the prize from bigger, better-known, and quirkier joints in their thousands: Read more
Old Nicky’s a classy guy. Classy like the swinging casino for Chinese tourists in Pyongyang, when the best in rhinestone-studded Bolex watches and shiny, double-breasted rayon suits mix with a bit of the real thing so’s not even Sam Spade himself could tell the difference.
Classy like the green MOS Burger, instead of the regular red one.
Most of the time, there’s even time and money enough for stools and napkins, if not chairs with backs and printed menus for each table.
Sometimes, though, even old Nicky’s on the run. And sometimes even old Nicky, classy guy that I am, just wants as much dough of the eatin’ kind for as little dough of the spendin’ kind as I can get.
And that means the best ambience in town: Take-Out. Read more