My brain always retreated to its reptilian roots for the swamp-like summer, when the only happy creatures in Kyoto were lazy frogs and darting skinks. Now, seduced by the cool fall evenings, my frontal lobes emerged from the mists. The sludge of summer fell away and the air — crisp with energy — braced me like a mountain goat on a cliff face.
In November the chill arrived, trampling the perk-me-up briskness with all the finesse of zombies in wet T-shirts escaping a meat refrigerator.
I shivered along an oh-so-picturesque backstreet north of Nanzenji Temple when my stomach signaled dinner time. Down a narrow alleyway, I glimpsed it, a red lantern, an akachochin, and a word that tugged at me like an impatient child.
Ramen.
The door rattled on its brass rails. I poked my foreign head into the tiny noodle joint. Three people stared back, expressionless, two white-aproned men behind the counter and one woman on a stool. What conversation had I interrupted? Was she a regular customer who had finished her dinner and was passing the time with the chefs? I guess that’s what you’d call them.
The place looked clean enough.
I took a seat at a table, not the counter. I didn’t want to butt in on their conversation. My back was to the wall by the door I had entered from.
The woman stood and approached my table. I picked up the menu. “Gomoku ramen kudasai.” Gomoku — 5 items — ramen noodles in a light broth with vegetables and bits of meat and fish cake on top, plus a hard-boiled quail egg, always.
