manshu-ya ga ichiban: sudden death over time

by rameniac | 19 Mar 2008

Sometimes I really freak myself out. I’ve reached this point where the “rameniac” has become so synonymous with my identity that even long-time friends now associate me with noodles. I’ve become the easiest person in the world to shop for; friends in Japan, friends visiting Japan, even friends who simply like Japan routinely give me ramen and ramen related memorabilia - instant, fresh and frozen, books, toys and t-shirts.

Now it’s true that I normally keep a stash of mukashii taiho ramen around in case of emergencies, but over the course of the past few months, I’ve managed to accumulate so much ramen that I’ve had to triple my storage space (along with two freezers, there’s now two big rubbermaid bins and a cardboard box filled with noodles; I’ll post a picture soon).

The truth is, I simply can’t eat the stuff fast enough, not while maintaining at least some semblance of a healthy lifestyle. That is, if sitting on one’s ass and coding websites all day constitutes “healthy.” Sedentary is more like it.

So perhaps I needed the exercise, but in a fit of spring cleaning, I had a sudden panic attack when I realized there were two packages of prime quality nama ramen noodles sitting forlorn in a corner of one of the bins, the largest of which was a carton of “Manshu-ya Ga Ichiban Kurume Tonkotsu Shibori” ramen. And just like the videocasette in the Japanese horror flick Ringu, no one could figure out where that box of noodles came from.

Hoping to avert a tragedy of wasted proportions should the ramen have spoilt, I tore into the shrink wrap and cracked the box. Now while I’m certainly relieved the noodles cooked up fresh, the entire experience has left me a bit creeped out.

For just like in Ringu, I then got a phone call saying I’d be dead in seven days.

Just kidding, but it really was the single fattiest bowl of pork-bone soup I’ve ever had.

Seriously, we’re talking molten lard here. Sweet like candy and savory on a dozen levels, Manshu-ya’s Kurume-style tonkotsu soup is like liquid chashu for when you don’t have the actual sliced stuff on hand. It’s thick and rich with a hint of smoky pork flavor, glutinous and smoky and a devastating punch to the arteries that, quite frankly, nearly sent me into panic mode.  I finished up my bowl (how could I stop?!), and then quickly downed a glass of miracle barley grass fiber supplement allegedly with fiber equivalent to ten heads of lettuce. I then jogged up and down the hills of my neighborhood for a good forty minutes, fearing collapse from either real or psyochosomatic chest pain.

The noodles? For packaged nama noodles, they were fine and firm, as long as you don’t overboil them (Manshu-ya’s instructions suggest one to two minutes, at most.) Sure, they don’t quite compare to the real deal served at quality Kyushu ramen shops, but drain out the enriched water, soak them in your soup, and they’re good to go.

As I sucked down what may well be my last ever bowl of noodles, I flipped the package around and stared at it. On a little corner of the lid was a photo of “Minoru Tanaka,” a relatively young-looking ramen chef with an eery grin on his face. He’s holding a big sign that says irasshaimase!, or “welcome!” in Japanese, and like Sadako brushing her hair in the mirror in Ringu, I fear the dude’s more an incarnation of the grim reaper, out to kill me with arterial stoppage. At least the investigators would find me with a smile on my face. There’d be no mystery there.