Hangry Solution

The breeze was cool- bordering on cold. For once I’d looked at the weather and knew that the 70ish weather the Bay had been spreading like manna was not being shared down south. Not this weekend anyway. And so I had packed long pants and a loose fitting long sleeved shirt, along with other more summery things. The Bay has taught me nothing if it hasn't taught me how to prepare for any inevitability.

And I’ve almost learned my lessons. Almost.

I packed open toed shoes. My casual sandals my dressy shoes for tomorrow’s presentation, all of them leave my manicured toes – iridescent lavender in the sun- peeking out. And so when the breeze picked up and the sun receded i found myself wishing i’d brought a little something extra. Even socks.  Instead i padded around in flip flops, my shower shoes turned causal wear because what was the point to put on my Jesus sandals (as RhythmQuest dubbed them).

RythmQuest and I had been idly chatting for a while but she finally pushed me out of the car as the dazed look on my face must have illustrated my transition from hungry to hangry. I was on the brink- we hadn’t eaten since around 10 am and it was almost 7 pm.

I checked into my  hotel and took a quick tour around the grounds – the Japanese garden on the garden level lent a sense of serenity to the closing day but could only hold my attention so long before my appetite demanded attention.

And so I followed the restaurant signs -> arrows pointing toward a pair of glass doors and found myself in what one sign described as Little Tokyo.

I groaned internally. Of all the foods I know and love, Japanese isn’t my favorite. I don’t hate it but I don’t seek it out. Even sushi, something I thoroughly enjoy, is more of an afterthought – or an after dinner snack when someone wants to hang out over food and I’ve already eaten.

I walked the three flights down, scanning each restaurant for something that my mind hadn’t told me it wanted yet. But at each level the most common theme were variations on a Japanese theme. A curry spot and a Chinese spot emerged as well, but both looked desolate, as if an ill conceived afterthought.

I walked down the block, stopping for a moment at the water feature that despite the roughness of the cascading water, left me feeling calmer. A coffeehouse sign caught my attention but coffee isn’t food and so I turned around and resigned myself to something within the shopping complex.

Orochon Ramen was the busiest.

People were seated outside, despite the chill in the air, huge bowls of soup sending tendrils of steam into the air around them. I passed by twice, scanned the other restaurants and decided that this was a time when following the crowd was in my best interest.

I ambled up to the bar seating against the window and ordered a miso base (mushrooms, green peppers, green onions, and pork) and added egg and sprouts. Orocho asks your heat/spice preference as well, something I’m not accustomed to in ramen. I went middle of the road – described as subtle heat but nothing that burns. I shrugged and waited, sipping an ice filled cup of water.

The huge bowl arrived with the contents artistically presented. 

I rubbed my chopsticks together, removing little splinters of wood as I did and then dove in.

The broth was rich. The heat was subtle – something livelier than pepper, pleasantly tingly but not at all offensive or overwhelming. The green peppers, a thing I usually avoid because I find the taste of them both unpleasant and overwhelming, surprised me. The slivers retained a slight crunch even to the last bites and slurps of my soup, and rather than tasting antiseptically green (it doesn’t make sense but that is what it tastes like to me- an antiseptic color) it instead tasted fresh and inviting. The egg held the bright orange yolk of free range chickens – I have no idea if they were. But as soon as I looked down I was reminded of the eggs my Ugandan chicken laid on my couch each morning –like the beautiful manifestation of a an LA polluted sunset. 

I’m accustomed to the pork in ramen bowls to be fancy, coiled somehow and almost paper thin, and impressive less for their taste and more for their presentation. The pork in my bowl floated with no uniform shape. The brown flesh surfaced between noodles and shredded mushroom and found itself tangled in my chopsticks periodically. And each time it was a delight. Tender to chew and a small burst of the joy that pork brings to most things. A hint of salt. A flash of something warm and substantive that melted away in a chew or two.

With my first few bites I worried that I should have ordered extra noodles or an appetizer, worried that the bowl would be delicious but leave me less than sated. I was wrong. As my chopsticks toured the bottom of my bowl,  searching for stray sprouts and tiny crumbs of egg, my stomach was full. Whatever little space was left I filled with sips of water.

The check came, $10.07 and I felt as if I'd gotten over somehow; as if someone hadn't realized a mistake in the pricing. A gentle-voiced server asked if I’d like more water and graciously filled my cup. I sipped a little longer and then slipped out into the brisk night, full moon shining down on me from its perch, already high in the early evening sky.