The Ramen King And I : How The Inventor Of Instant Noodles Fixed My Love Life Part 1

The ramen king and I : how the inventor of instant noodles fixed my love life: a memoir.

by Andy Raskin.

PROLOGUE

"It is said that real human nature reveals itself under extreme conditions. As I starved in prison, I realized that eating was one of the highest forms of human activity. Perhaps I have to go back this far to trace the origins of the development of instant noodles, though I did not have the slightest idea for Chikin [sic] Ramen at the time."

-Momof.u.ku Ando, Magic Noodles: The Story of the Invention of Instant Ramen

There used to be a j.a.panese TV show in which two young hosts-a male and a female-would scream, "I wanna ___!" They always filled in the blank with some crazy thing, like "sing a duet with Yasir Arafat!" Then they would go out into the world and try to do what they screamed about, with one catch. They had to go apo nas.h.i.+ apo nas.h.i.+-without an appointment.

Among the show's best-known episodes were "I wanna eat Akas.h.i.+-style dumplings with United Nations representative Yasus.h.i.+ Akas.h.i.+!"; "I wanna officially change my first name, in honor of the Barcelona Summer Olympics, to Barcelona!"; and "I wanna get treated to sus.h.i.+ by the wife of the manager of the Hans.h.i.+n Tigers baseball team!" In their most famous adventure, the hosts screamed, "I wanna trim Prime Minister Murayama's eyebrows!" and j.a.pan's then highest official-an aging member of the Socialist Party-let them do it.

I was thinking of that show as the train sped from Kansai International Airport toward downtown Osaka, birthplace of Nissin Food Products. I was certainly arriving apo nas.h.i.+ apo nas.h.i.+. It had been two months since Mr. Yamazaki, a low-level employee in Nissin's public relations department, stopped answering my e-mails. His silence suggested that there was very little chance I would get to meet Momof.u.ku Ando, the ninety-four-year-old billionaire who, in 1958, invented instant ramen in his backyard.

As for why I wanted to meet Ando, I wasn't entirely sure. I suspected, though, that it had something to do with my love life.

PART I

LETTERS TO ANDO

I should be thinner. I should do yoga. I should be married like the people in the should be thinner. I should do yoga. I should be married like the people in the New York Times New York Times wedding announcements. I should be richer. I should be able to hit higher notes on the trombone, given that I have been playing the instrument for more than thirty years. I should be more discreet. wedding announcements. I should be richer. I should be able to hit higher notes on the trombone, given that I have been playing the instrument for more than thirty years. I should be more discreet.

I should live closer to my parents so I can spend time with them, because one day they will die and I will feel more alone than I can imagine.

I should not be so concerned with my parents, given how old I am.

I should eliminate processed sugars from my diet. I should find great parking spots, the way my father always does. I should be less afraid. I should call my sister more. I should reestablish contact with my high school friends Dan and Dave and Sam, because if I ever do get married, I'll have few old friends at the wedding, but mostly because I miss them.

I should not write about the letters.

I should be in the moment. I should be taller. I should employ more adverbs and similes, and rely less on anaphora. I should own a big house on Belvedere Street and decorate it for Halloween. I should glide on the dance floor. I should have no cavities.

On Sat.u.r.days, when playing Ultimate Frisbee in the park, I should make smart throws and spectacular diving catches. I should not want attention or validation. I should give things another shot. I should be more organized.

When Grandpa Herman bought me the Partridge Family alb.u.m for my tenth birthday, I should not have cried because it was not the alb.u.m with "I Think I Love You" on it. I should be friendlier with the guys who run the body shop. I should keep things under wraps. I should not be suffering from what the inventor of instant ramen identified-just prior to inventing instant ramen-as the Fundamental Misunderstanding of Humanity.

Because then there wouldn't be so many shoulds.

But there you are.

I should start in Uji City, on January 2, 2007.

Blessed by a stunning mountain landscape and famous for its fragrant green tea, Uji City is situated midway between j.a.pan's ancient capitals Kyoto and Nara. The region is home to Byodo-in, the 950-year-old Buddhist temple that decorates the back of the ten-yen coin, and to the tourist destinations known collectively as the Ten Spots, each in some way a.s.sociated with one of the final ten chapters of The Tale of Genji The Tale of Genji.

On January 2, 2007, three days and two months shy of his ninety-seventh birthday, Momof.u.ku Ando played a round of golf in Uji, at the Nissin Miyako Country Club. The inventor of instant ramen shot a 109-56 on the front nine, 53 on the back. He founded the club himself, he once said, "due to my earnest desire to pursue golf as my hobby and to enjoy the game to my heart's content." In fact, Thus Spake Momof.u.ku, Thus Spake Momof.u.ku, a published collection of Ando's famous utterances, contains no fewer than twelve sayings about golf, including: a published collection of Ando's famous utterances, contains no fewer than twelve sayings about golf, including: "As far as I'm concerned, eighteen holes is the only happiness that money can buy.""Don't worry. If I'm playing, the rain will stop.""To be on a golf course when I die-that is my true desire."

Two days later, Ando gave a speech at the Osaka headquarters of Nissin Food Products, the instant noodle empire he had launched nearly fifty years earlier. He addressed an a.s.sembly of Nissin employees for thirty minutes and enjoyed a serving of Chikin Ramen in the company cafeteria. Expressing his desire for peace in the world, he unveiled a slogan for the New Year. His practice of coining, brush drawing, and officially unveiling New Year slogans dates back to 1964. Because the slogans were often somewhat cryptic, Nissin's public relations department began issuing official explanations in 1986.

Ando's slogan for 2007 was Kigyo Zainin, Seigyo Zaiten Kigyo Zainin, Seigyo Zaiten.

According to the official explanation, it meant that a company can be built by humans, but its success will always depend on G.o.d.

The next day, Ando suffered an unusually high fever. He was rushed to a hospital, where his wife, Masako, and several Nissin executives stood at his bedside. He was not on a golf course when his heart stopped beating, but at least he had played very recently.

In the weeks that followed, newspapers and blogs hailed Ando as a food pioneer. Many obituaries cited the number eighty-six billion, which was how many servings of instant ramen had been consumed on Earth in 2005, the most recent year for which data on worldwide demand was then available. Some journalists did the math: nearly twelve bowls for every person on the planet. An airline pilot who blogged on Salon.com declared, "The aviation world was rocked" by the news, explaining that he carried five packages of instant ramen on every flight. Another blogger joked that mourners might pour boiling water into Ando's casket, turning down the lid for three minutes. declared, "The aviation world was rocked" by the news, explaining that he carried five packages of instant ramen on every flight. Another blogger joked that mourners might pour boiling water into Ando's casket, turning down the lid for three minutes. The Economist The Economist ran a story on Ando's death. So did ran a story on Ando's death. So did Time Time magazine. For three days the most e-mailed article on the magazine. For three days the most e-mailed article on the New York Times New York Times Web site was an opinion piece by Lawrence Downes t.i.tled "Appreciations: Mr. Noodle." It began, "The news last Friday of the death of the ramen noodle guy surprised those of us who never suspected that there was such an individual." Web site was an opinion piece by Lawrence Downes t.i.tled "Appreciations: Mr. Noodle." It began, "The news last Friday of the death of the ramen noodle guy surprised those of us who never suspected that there was such an individual."

I laughed when I read the Times Times piece. I laughed because I was not a person who never suspected there was an inventor of instant ramen. Here are excerpts from e-mails I received in the wake of An-do's death: piece. I laughed because I was not a person who never suspected there was an inventor of instant ramen. Here are excerpts from e-mails I received in the wake of An-do's death: "Saw this on a blog today and thought of you." ( (Carla)"Are you OK?" ( (Matt)"Saw the death of Mr. Noodle. Couldn't help thinking of you." ( (Josh)"Not sure if condolences are in order." ( (Ellen) My father sent me the Times Times clipping in the mail, along with an obituary that ran in the Long Island newspaper. He attached a note on his personal stationery. "It even made clipping in the mail, along with an obituary that ran in the Long Island newspaper. He attached a note on his personal stationery. "It even made Newsday Newsday," he wrote.

Zen just typed a text message that said, "He is died."

Three weeks after Ando's death, I stuffed a cup mute and a plunger mute into a knapsack, carried my trombone out to my car, and drove to rehearsal. The group I played in was a full big band-five trumpets, four trombones, five saxes, and a rhythm section-and it rehea.r.s.ed in a warehouse in San Francisco's South of Market district. Some of us called it the Monday Night Band, but there was no official name.

We never had gigs. We only rehea.r.s.ed. We rehea.r.s.ed on a cement floor surrounded by drills, saws, and workbenches. Many of the men in the band were more than twice my age. The lead alto saxophonist had just turned ninety-two. His tone sometimes wobbled, and he had trouble hearing instructions. The average age of the rhythm section hovered around eighty. By comparison, the trombone section was downright youthful. Aside from me, everyone was in their seventies. The band was led by the ba.s.sist, a thin man with a white beard who, when he wasn't plucking his upright ba.s.s, worked in the warehouse building props for photo shoots and conference booths. A human figure made out of cereal boxes stared down at us from an open loft, and a golf cart dressed up to look like a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p (in which a telecom executive once made his entrance at a trade show) was permanently parked next to the grand piano.

Setting my trombone case on one of the workbenches, I screwed together the bell and slide sections and slipped in a Bach 7 mouthpiece. I blew a few notes, mostly low B-flats, to loosen my lips. I was playing the third trombone part, so I took a seat between the first and fourth trombonists, because that's the traditional trombone section arrangement.

"One hundred twenty-two," the ba.s.sist called out.

The sheet music was numbered. I searched the folder on the music stand in front of me and found "122" stamped on a Sammy Nestico composition t.i.tled "This Is the Moment." The ba.s.sist counted off two measures in a laid-back swing feel. The band jumped into it. The third trombone part wasn't very exciting-mostly whole notes and background figures-but I enjoyed harmonizing with the other horn players and trying to match their phrasing so we all sounded like one instrument. That's the goal when you're playing a Sammy Nestico chart.

The ba.s.sist had just waved his hand to cut off the final chord when Gary, the first trombonist, leaned toward me.

"Son, how much would you pay for a thick, juicy slice of prime rib, a baked potato, and a side of vegetables?"

Gary played a silver King Liberty from the 1940s with intricate floral engraving on the bell and a sound that filled you up. It was the third time in as many Monday nights that he had asked me the question about the prime rib, the third time he was going to share with me the deal he had found in Millbrae. I'm still not sure whether his memory was failing, or if he was just really excited about the deal.

"I don't know," I said, feigning a guess. "Twenty-three dollars?"

There was a time not long before all this when I would have informed Gary that, first of all, I don't eat a lot of red meat, and second of all, he was about to share his tip for the third time. But one of the things I had come to realize was that I loved when Gary shared restaurant tips. That his sharing of them was the point, not the tips themselves.

"Well, son, what would you say if I told you there's a spot in Millbrae where you only had to pay sixteen ninety-five?"

As Gary repeated the name of the restaurant, the ba.s.sist called out, "Eight." It was the number for "Four Brothers," the up-tempo Woody Herman cla.s.sic that showcases the saxophone section.

"By the way," Gary continued, pulling the music for "Four Brothers" from his folder, "I read the news."

At first I had no idea what he was talking about.

"About your ramen guy."

I had forgotten telling Gary about Ando.

"Oh."

Gary normally lifted his horn to his lips long before an entrance, but even as the ba.s.sist began counting down to the first bar of "Four Brothers," Gary's silver King Liberty remained perched on his knee.

"Tell me again," he said, "why did you go to meet the inventor of instant ramen?"

Before I could answer, we had to start playing.

The trombone parts on "Four Brothers" consist mainly of short hits punctuating the saxophone melodies, and there are long rests while the saxophonists take their improvised solos. What I'm saying is that I had plenty of time to ponder Gary's question. I had plenty of time to sum it all up. Yet as we approached the fermata at the bottom of the page, I still wasn't sure what to say.Dear Momof.u.ku, Matt says I'm supposed to tell you everything. He says this is the only way. The problem is that I don't remember many details, especially about the first time it happened. Matt says I should start with that first time and tell you what I remember, even if it's not that much.I don't know what else to do, so I am following his instructions.So what I remember is that I was twenty-five years old and that I was living with my girlfriend in a garden apartment on a pretty street in Brooklyn. Her name was Maureen. I don't remember being unhappy at the time, though I don't remember being happy either. You would think I would remember more details, given that we lived together for two years, yet the sum total of my memories of those years comprises around five minutes. I remember a scene in which Maureen and I are cooking something in our kitchen-a soup maybe-from a recipe in a Gilroy Garlic Festival cookbook. There was a well-attended party we hosted. Once, we went for a hike in the woods with our friend Mike, who along the way began identifying trees just by smelling them. "Cedar," he said, sniffing. "Hemlock." I remember Maureen being impressed by this, and that I got jealous.Maureen was five foot two and had a bob of blond hair, and I met her after college, when we both signed on for the Long Island Youth Orchestra's summer tour of Asia. I remember that when the group arrived in China, the banner that greeted us said, "wELCOME WRONG ISLAND YOUTH ORCHESTRA!" "wELCOME WRONG ISLAND YOUTH ORCHESTRA!" The first time I kissed her, in a hotel in Malaysia, I imagined a future together in which we would get married and have beautiful, musical children. After that summer, I worked as a computer programmer in Chicago, and Maureen would tease me about the large number of condoms I always purchased in antic.i.p.ation of her visits. When she was hired by an English-language magazine in Tokyo, I quit my job and enrolled in the intensive course at International Christian University, a popular place for foreigners studying j.a.panese. I did this partly to pursue my interest in the language The first time I kissed her, in a hotel in Malaysia, I imagined a future together in which we would get married and have beautiful, musical children. After that summer, I worked as a computer programmer in Chicago, and Maureen would tease me about the large number of condoms I always purchased in antic.i.p.ation of her visits. When she was hired by an English-language magazine in Tokyo, I quit my job and enrolled in the intensive course at International Christian University, a popular place for foreigners studying j.a.panese. I did this partly to pursue my interest in the language ( (which I had taken briefly in college ) ), but mainly to be with Maureen.We didn't live together in Tokyo, but one night, when I was staying at her apartment, I peeked at her diary and discovered that she had slept with her ex-boyfriend. Technically, it had happened during one of our many breakups. I remember feeling that I should not be jealous or angry because during a breakup people can do whatever they want. When we returned from j.a.pan, we moved in together in Brooklyn.I just called Matt and told him that writing this letter is too painful and that I don't want to do it. He said it's natural to feel that way, and to keep jotting down what I remember. OK.After six months of living together, I stopped having s.e.x with Maureen. I'm not talking about a drop in frequency or the occasional lack of interest that my friends who were in couples experienced. I mean stopped, as in altogether. The disappearance of my desire was especially puzzling given how attracted I had been to Maureen previously. I began making up lies about being tired or sick. The truth was that, more and more, whenever Maureen touched me, even if it was just on my arm or my neck, I would experience a physical sensation that I can only describe as repulsion. It was as if her fingers suddenly began emitting a tiny electric shock from which my body needed to protect itself. Confused and frustrated by my disinterest, Maureen asked what was wrong. I didn't know what to tell her because I didn't understand it myself. I remember that she developed many theories. "Are you just not interested in s.e.x?" she would ask. "Are you gay?"The first time it happened I was visiting my parents.They still live on Long Island, in the house I grew up in. I spent the afternoon with them, and then I heard about a party in a nearby town. I drove over, and when I saw the woman hosting the party, do you know what I wanted to do? I remember this part very well, Momof.u.ku. I wanted to kiss her. My desire to kiss her was so strong that, as it swept over me, I didn't think about Maureen or how she had slept with her ex-boyfriend or anything else in the world. There were a dozen or so people at the party, most of them playing poker and drinking whiskey. In the middle of the poker game, the host excused herself to go to the bathroom, and a few minutes later I followed. When she opened the bathroom door, I walked up and kissed her. Just like that. She kissed me back, and together we drifted into the bathroom and closed the door. We fell to the tiled floor and began taking off each other's clothes. I didn't have a condom, so we put our clothes back on, walked past the people playing cards, and got into my car. We drove to a 7-Eleven, where we bought a package of Trojans. On the way back to her apartment I couldn't wait, so I parked the car near a pond where my ninth-grade science cla.s.s once took a field trip to study erosion.The host and I had s.e.x on the gra.s.s in the dark. When we got back to her apartment, everyone was gone, so we had s.e.x in her shower, and again on her bed. I remember that, on the drive home to Brooklyn, I did my best to wipe the entire incident from my consciousness. I was not, I believed, a man who could cheat on his girlfriend. But I returned to Long Island under the pretense of visiting my parents several times. After each episode there was a sickening feeling in my stomach, and I swore to myself that I would never see the woman again. Of course, I always broke the promise. Over time, I convinced myself that Maureen was simply the wrong woman, and that if only I could meet the right one, I wouldn't do what I did.The next thing I remember was looking for an excuse to break up with Maureen, and applying to several out-of-state MBA programs.

Sincerely, Andy

One sign that you are suffering from what Momof.u.ku Ando called the Fundamental Misunderstanding of Humanity is that you betray people you love. A related symptom is that it's hard to remember details of your past. You can remember some details, but the ones you think you would remember you forget, and the ones you think you would forget you remember. You find it especially difficult to describe people who have played an important role in your life. You want to describe them, but it's difficult. They quickly turn into ghosts.

You feel that it shouldn't be this way, but it is this way.

Why did I go to meet the inventor of instant ramen?

While considering Gary's question, I naturally thought about the letters. Of course, they were only part of the story. There was another part, a series of adventures that began, of all places, in a sus.h.i.+ bar.

The letters cover a period that began roughly after I graduated from college and ended when I was thirty-eight years old. I found out about the sus.h.i.+ bar toward the end of that span, just a few years before Gary posed his question. I should do a better job of explaining how the letters and the events that began in the sus.h.i.+ bar came together. The weird thing is that, as I try to recall what happened in the sus.h.i.+ bar, I can't remember any of the women. Often I was there on dates, but I remember only me, the sus.h.i.+ chef, and his wife. Another consequence, I am certain, of the Fundamental Misunderstanding of Humanity.

I first learned about the sus.h.i.+ bar two years after moving to San Francisco. The turn-of-the-century dot-com boom had gone bust, and I was working as a staff writer at a nationally published business magazine. One day, I happened to read a positive write-up about the sus.h.i.+ bar's monkfish liver on the restaurant-review Web site Chowhound. I called for a reservation.

A woman answered the phone. "Hai. Hamako desu." "Hai. Hamako desu."

I didn't speak j.a.panese right off the bat.

"h.e.l.lo. Do you have a table for seven o'clock?"

"Sorry," the woman grumbled. "We don't take reservations."

I got in my car and drove over. There was no sign in front, making the restaurant difficult to locate. The only clue to its existence was a row of tall, green sake bottles in the front window. That, and a business card wedged into the doorframe that said HAMAKO in j.a.panese. Entering, I was greeted by a middle-aged Asian woman whose silver-streaked hair had been tied back in a complicated bun. I recognized her voice from the phone, and she seemed annoyed.

"Can I help you?"

I looked around. Just six tables and a sus.h.i.+ counter. No other customers.

"May I sit at the counter?" I asked.

"No," the woman said. "You need a reservation to sit at the counter."

The only other person in the sus.h.i.+ bar was the sus.h.i.+ chef. Standing silently at his station, he reminded me a lot of Shota's master.

Shota is the fifteen-year-old main character in a j.a.panese comic book series called Shota's Sus.h.i.+ Shota's Sus.h.i.+. In Book One, his father's sus.h.i.+ bar comes under attack by an evil sus.h.i.+ chain. Shota learns how to make sus.h.i.+ to help out, but as a novice he can only do so much. A visiting sus.h.i.+ master recognizes Shota's prodigious talent, however, and takes the boy on as an apprentice. Shota hones his skills, first as an entry-level helper in the master's Tokyo sus.h.i.+ bar, and then as a contestant in the All-Tokyo Rookie Sus.h.i.+ Chef Compet.i.tion. There are fourteen books in the original series, and eight more in a sequel series (in which Shota competes in the All-j.a.pan Rookie Sus.h.i.+ Chef Compet.i.tion). Shota's dream is to become a full-fledged sus.h.i.+ chef so he can return home and save his father from the evil chain.

I had been reading Shota's Sus.h.i.+ Shota's Sus.h.i.+ in the months before my first visit to the sus.h.i.+ bar, so I guess that's why I made the connection. Like Shota's master, the sus.h.i.+ chef in front of me was stocky with short gray hair, and his wrist muscles bulged out, presumably from making so much sus.h.i.+. He seemed upset about something, and I had the feeling that, like many of the sus.h.i.+ chefs in the comic book, he was often upset about something. A clean white ap.r.o.n hung from his waist and a blue bandanna circ.u.mscribed his head. in the months before my first visit to the sus.h.i.+ bar, so I guess that's why I made the connection. Like Shota's master, the sus.h.i.+ chef in front of me was stocky with short gray hair, and his wrist muscles bulged out, presumably from making so much sus.h.i.+. He seemed upset about something, and I had the feeling that, like many of the sus.h.i.+ chefs in the comic book, he was often upset about something. A clean white ap.r.o.n hung from his waist and a blue bandanna circ.u.mscribed his head.

Still pondering the catch-22 around the restaurant's reservation policy, I was directed by the woman to a two-top.

"Would you like a beer?" she asked. "We have Sapporo and Asahi."

I ordered a Sapporo. Then the chef screamed at me.

"Mr. Customer! Which sus.h.i.+ bars have you been to in San Francisco?"

I recognized "Mr. Customer" as a direct translation of okyakusan, okyakusan, the j.a.panese word for addressing patrons. But the way he asked the question made me feel as if I were on a first date and had just been asked to list my previous s.e.xual partners. the j.a.panese word for addressing patrons. But the way he asked the question made me feel as if I were on a first date and had just been asked to list my previous s.e.xual partners.

I decided to be up front with him.

"I like Saji and Okina," I said. "Every once in a while, for lunch, I go to Tenzan."

The chef shook his head disapprovingly.

"I play golf with s.h.i.+ba," he said, referring to Tenzan's head chef. "Next time you eat there, tell him that my sus.h.i.+ is better than his. Don't worry, he knows it's true."

Zen used to advise me on how to behave at traditional sus.h.i.+ bars. I should say more about Zen, but for now I'll just say that Zen is his real name, short for Zentaro, and that he once told me that when ordering omakase omakase-leaving the selection up to the chef-you should carry a picture of what he called "your five starving children." Near the end of the meal, Zen instructed, you should reach for your wallet and let the picture drop out, causing the chef to take pity on you when he tabulates the bill. Zen also shared with me his foolproof method for starting a relations.h.i.+p with a traditional sus.h.i.+ chef. "Ask about the guy's knife," Zen had said. "Specifically, ask how many times a day he sharpens it."

I asked the chef standing behind the counter, "Is your knife from j.a.pan?"

The chef lifted his knife. The blade was facing in my direction, but he didn't say anything. I was getting nowhere with him, so I switched to j.a.panese.

"Ichinichi daitai nankai toide irun desu ka?"

Roughly how many times a day do you sharpen it?

The waitress was in the middle of pulling a tall bottle of Sapporo Black Label from a refrigerator next to the counter when she turned around and answered my question before the chef could.