A Japanese Ramenya-san Just Tried to Grab My Dick

Still writing the huge update, but a quickie to tide you over. Writing this is a little difficult, as I am a little drunk, and I keep having to go back and rework spelling mistakes in damn near every word.

So, around 6:30 or 7PM tonight, six of us went to a very special ramen-ya (shop). It is housed within, I shit you not, a shipping container. The decor is great – the walls are covered withwooden panels from wine boxes, there’s a tv resting on top of a stack of smutty gravure mags, the lamp at the end of the bar looks like it was stolen from some Art-Deco hotel in New York, there’s a mirror behind the bar, etc… I got some pics, so I’ll upload those soon.

The guy made the best goddamn karaage (fried chicken chunks) I’ve ever had, and his ramen is Japan’s best, IMHO. I had the miso ramen.

But the best part is the guy’s attitude. He seems to have a real calor humano, to borrow from Portuguese. He was genki, but not excessively so. He riffed with us, tit-for-tat in a very American or British manner.

The best part, however, was the sabisu, or service. In Japanese, sabisu translates best as trim – the free things a shopkeep gives you to reward (or perhaps ensure) customer loyalty. In this case, sabisu encompassed the following, in order; booze of all varieties (including some 30-year-old whiskey), fish caught from Lake Biwa fried right there, several songs played on guitar with some excellent singing, and a tour of his house, located adjacent. Then more booze.

Suffice to say, I love this man. What really impressed me was the quality of his musicianship. He could play the guitar and harmonica like he’d given his soul in a Faustian deal, with a soulful, smoke-tinged voice to match. Hearing him belt out some classic Japanese rock, singing along, with the sake coursing through my veins, it was fun beyond my ability to describe, even in my native tongue.

After we’d said our gochisousamadeshita’s, we went outside, and he proceed to hug me. Not because he especially appreciated my role in the Renaissance (he had come to the conclusion that I was Leonardo da Vinci earlier), but because he was impressed with my height, and he wanted to ensure that distance did not interfere with his height metric. After consulting with the one Japanese (he refused to believe this, constantly asking if Yoshi was actually a nihonjin) person with us, he decided that I was, in fact, tall. I’m 6 foot 2, so I guess that’s an accurate assessment. He then noted that my hands, too, were large. Doing the math he then surmised that “that” must also be large, and proceeded to do a “hands-on” examination of the crotchal area.

I didn’t really mind.

Afterwards, we walked backed to JCMU. Before we got there, we passed by the “Love Shack”, as I like to call it. I seriously hear that song every time I pass by. It’s a rather unassuming yellow shack on the road running my JCMU. Inside, as I discovered, there are three vending machines. One selling panties (sexy ones, but not used – sorry, fellas), one selling toys (with the phrase “SUPRISE! CHEAP!” written on it), and one selling DVD’s of a salacious nature. The best part was how the one selling the pantsu had a “Cigarettes” label across the top of the machines.

I finally got back, and watched Rob play God of War whilst drinking a beer and eating an ice cream cone. Next, I began writing this while listening to Project Chaos. Despite having a painful test earlier today, I’d like to think it turned out well. I’ll be going back to that ramenya soon.

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You went uptown ridin’ in your limousine / in your fine Park Avenue clothes / you had the Don Perignon in your hand and a spoon up your nose / when you wake up in the morning with your head on fire and your eyes too bloody to see / don’t wanna cry in your coffee / but don’t come bitchin’ to me

~ by ferricchef on March 30, 2007.