Get your schlurp on

In October last year, I was brought into being. No, sorry, Being.

The London Restaurant Festival hosts an event known as Eat Film – essentially films that have inspired chefs, followed my meals inspired by the films.

Friends of mine had, in the past, raved about a Japanese film called Tampopo. Being the heathen that I was, I hadn’t heard of it. At the time I was unable to rectify the situation as you can no longer buy or rent it anywhere. I had resigned myself to a lesser existence because of it.

Eat Film to the rescue.

In a small miracle from above, Tom Parker Bowles was using Tampopo as his film for the event. Needless to say we fell on tickets, and merrily trotted along to the Covent Garden Hotel for the viewing and subsequent meal.

If you haven’t seen Tampopo, I can’t aptly describe to you the compulsion that besets the viewer to stick one’s whole face directly in a large bowl of ramen and slurp. Slurp like you have never slurped before. Slurp with a conviction found only in…Japan I guess. Just slurp and schlurp, breathe a bit, then slurp and schlurp, and slurp some more.

(Slurp. It’s a marvellous word. A bit like squelch or squash.)

The film is both familiar (the love-story) and abberant (the food-based sexual fetishes; the prodding Granny; the gourmet vagabonds). It also serves to highlight just how particular Japanese are in their food culture. Even The Boy, for whom ‘world-cinema’ is like a hormonal woman (scary, daunting and something to run away from) (which I never conform to), loved it.

Appetites truly whetted by this glorious film, we politely rushed upstairs to eat, what we all assumed would be, RAMEN.

No, think again. Duck breast with noodles.

Slump.

How could he do that to us? How could he string us along like that? I thought we meant more to him than just duck breast with noodles.

Men. Always a let-down.

Fast-forward to January, last Friday to be precise. After our trip to The Royal Academy. The Boy, generally rather pleased with the exhibition. Me, feeling a bit beige and craving sensory stimulation.

The same friend that had brought Tampopo into my life had recently told me that Shoryu, the new venture by thems behind The Japan Centre, was not to be missed. With the memories of that urge to slurp somewhat hidden by the winds of time, I wasn’t falling over myself to get there. Ramen for me, in this country, always presents a challenge to the stomach – a huge vat of liquid, in which a large nest of noodles lurks. I don’t know whether I should eat then drink, drink then eat, or even drink a bit so that I can see what to eat.

Not even Tonkotsu, that incessantly hailed ramen restaurant in Soho, made me want to go back. Their noodles are certainly enjoyable, but I just didn’t feel compelled to return. Too much waiting for not enough POW in my stomach. (Although they do provide a nice bit of background to ramen.)

Anyway, I remembered this recommendation as we wandered begrudgingly towards Soho. Anything to stay away from the braying types on a Friday night tripping the light fantastic. But, there was a queue. The Eyebrow shot up, but, somehow The Boy convinced me to wait. All in all I think we waited around 25 minutes, by which time my feet had gone past being cold into being so hot, they burned.

Finally we got a table. My coat and scarf stayed on whilst I thawed out. But before I could dwell any further on my thermoregulation issues, a smell wafted under my nose, around my face and into my head. I know films don’t smell, but I swear to you Shoryu is what Tampopo would smell like if they did.

I took one look at The Boy, a look which he understands completely now – it is a look that tells him I am going to Eat (note the capital), so shut up and choose. NOW.

There are around 10 ramens (I think. I was in a sensory ecstasy so can’t quite remember numbers), two of them vegetarian, the rest all with a pork-based stock, and some manner of pork and vegetables. There are sides/ starters, along the usual lines of gyoza, edamame beans and sashimi, but also some more ‘interesting’ options, such as pan-fried pardon peppers, kimchi, and wasabi tomato salad.

We ordered two ramens, gyoza, kimchi and a mini salad, dressed in yuzu (an East Asian citrus fruit) and olive oil. On the table was a dish with pieces of raw green cabbage, dressed in something. Something that made everyone who I saw eat it go “oooooh”. It was a clear liquid that looked like water from washing the cabbage, but turned out to be a mixture of sweet and sharp and tangy. That combined with the crisp, cold yet sweet cabbage was a heavenly palate-cleansing amuse-bouche.

The sides arrived first. The kimchi came on a block of Kinugoshi-tofu. I like tofu, but this for me had very little taste, and a whole lot of wobble. Give me wobbly jelly and I am all over it like a strong moss. Give me wobbly tasteless white stuff and I start to frown. The kimchi was fine, but, not the best I’ve ever had. The gyoza were good, but then I like gyoza. They weren’t overly greasy, the wrapper was thin and delicate, but there wasn’t a huge amount of taste.

I started to fear the worst.

Luckily, however, I tasted the salad – simply a small bowl of leaves, with a cherry tomato on top – but, as with the cabbage leaves, what the eye could see was only a fraction of what the mouth was to feel. Deliciously salty; jaw-suckingly tangy and sweet; and heady, verdant, green olive oil. I lived in a major olive oil producing area in Italy, and that oil served in a Japanese ramen restaurant in London would put to shame the majority of top Italian restaurants in the city, and a fair number of those in Italy.

I smiled. The Boy sighed with relief.

Then. The Ramen. They arrived. Those porringer-shaped gods of comestible pleasure. Having not really tucked into the kimchi or gyoza, I quickly picked up chopsticks and wooden ladle, and, in a vague memory of what Tampopo teaches as correct ramen-eating etiquette, tasted the broth first.

Oh sweet Jupiter. Oh…oh…ooooooooh. Where have you been all my life? Oooooh. Ooooooooooh. Oh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It is a milky liquid, soft cream in colour, with the tiniest fat drops caressing its surface. The taste is one of pork, obviously, but also of miso, mushroom, woodlands, silk, caramel, and soy. Yes, I know that sounds like a twisted version of a wine-tasting note, but that’s what I tasted.

As for the noodles, they were thin, delicate, al dente ('katame' in Japanese), and perfectly portioned. Two slices of flesh-coloured pork lurked beneath the silky veil, along with pickled mustard greens, ginger, nori and beansprouts. Everything perfectly portioned, and softly flavoured. And, like a jewel to crown this diadem of sensory delight, there was a buttery, rich, gooey and soft egg-half, quietly waiting at the edge of the bowl.

We didn’t talk much. Occasionally we exchanged deeply satisfied nods and grunts across the table, but as much as The Boy is The Boy, The Ramen deserved more attention.

It was a total revelation. Finally I understand ramen. I comprehend the need to slurp. I appreciate the full-blown glory of bowing your head in deference to its splendour as well as to facilitate its eating. And I am giddy with anticipation for my next hit.

Go forth, bow low, and sccchhhhlllluuuuuurrrrrrrppppp.