Ah, the lengths that ramen addicts go to in order to find a cult noodle joint. That’s what we were asking ourselves (or at least Mel was asking me) as we wondered around the concrete neon jungle of Shinjuku for what seemed like hours. Foot-sore, hungry, and delirious from the incongruity of Japan’s address “system” and the crapness of Lonely Planet maps, we had asked at least four people for directions. Whilst each appeared very willing to help, the directions they provided were vague in the least, plain incorrect at the most.

“Ramen Jiro wa doko desu ka?” we asked a shoe salesman in heavily accented Japanese.

“Ahh, Ramen Jiro, hehehe,” he knowingly laughed, as if mocking the slavishness with which we were trying to find this infamous ramen chain. With pointed finger, he sent us onwards into the concrete sprawl.

Whilst researching ramen places on the Internet, I stumbled upon Ramen Jiro, which had developed somewhat of a cult following in Tokyo. It is not an official franchise but rather a series of branches dotted in various locations in Tokyo, all of which serve this particular style of noodles. The infamy of Jiro stem from the soup, a tonkotsu-based broth with added shoyu and garlic that is so rich, porky and garlicky that it can’t be stomached even by some native ramen eaters. The Japanese blogs that pay homage to Jiro far outnumber the English-language ones, although I had a craving for this ramen after reading about it on the Ramen Tokyo website (which reviewed individual branches) and I was literally drooling on my keyboard after watching this YouTube video about Jiro.

Prior to Shinjuku, the first Ramen Jiro branch we tried was in Ikebukuro. Nowhere near as difficult to find as the Shinjuku branch, we easily located the signature glaring yellow sign of Jiro, which drew us in like moths to a naked flame. As with most popular ramen joints, a line snaked out the front. We eagerly queued with the hungry throng.

It must be said that we were pretty nervous at this stage. Far from the relatively safe confines of the Shin Yokohama Ramen Museum, this was our first, true bona fide ramen shop experience! We were perturbed by our lack of language skills and Jiro’s quirky ordering procedure (more later). We were also wondering what to do should we be split up, as seats are taken up as soon as they are vacated; they do not necessarily cater to couples.

Whilst in the line, we bought tickets from the vending machine. After reading the Ramen Tokyo website, we went the “Small” size which was ¥600 a bowl - a wise move as we discovered later. A spritely Japanese lass marshalled the “front of house” and allocated seats in a manner resembling the Soup Nazi. “Did you buy a ticket? Please do so at the machine! Please be seated. Here. No, HERE!” We meekly gave her our tickets and stood waiting for places to free up. Luckily, a couple left just as we hit the front of the queue, and we were given their seats. Phew - we breathed a sigh of relief and wished good karma on the departing couple.

The next step in the ordering procedure is that you will be asked what extra toppings you would like. These varied from branch to branch, but will usually include yasai (usually beansprout), ninniku (garlic), or even abura (extra fat from the pot). I asked for yasai mashi mashi (extra extra veggies) whilst Mellie stuck with no extra toppings.

Look at this bad boy!!! When my ramen arrived, we exhaled in awe at the pimped-up mountain of sprouts, and I was wondering how the hell I was going to finish it, and how on earth could people order anything other than a small?? Well, this was what I had waited for. Full of expectations, I sipped my first spoonful of soup. HOLY SHIT! HOLY FRIGGIN’ SHIT!! I swear to God that I had never before, in my 32 years on this planet, tasted anything like what I was sipping at that little noodle shop. It was like LSD for my tongue - my taste buds were taken on a trip. The thin-looking soup totally belied the richness, complexity and depth of flavour of the broth. It was salty, porky, and garlicky, and with each additional sip the aftertaste raised this triumvirate five-fold (and I’ve just drooled on my keyboard as I write this). Digging through the mass of sprouts, I found chashu (sliced pork) that was so meltingly tender and fatty that it rivalled the slow-cooked meats of top restaurants. The noodles were thick, curly, and of the most perfect consistency. There and then, I proclaimed to Mellie that this was the best noodle dish that I have ever tasted in my life. Seriously, it was THAT good.

Well, I managed to nearly finish mine; Mellie didn’t fare so well. We stumbled out of the shop into the night, overdosing on Jiro broth and MSG, but even then I swore to myself that I would have Jiro again before I left Japan.

My wish came true on our second last day when we went to the Shinjuku branch of Ramen Jiro. After searching for hours, we eventually managed to find the shop, which was far smaller and greasier than the Ikebukuro store. In other words - heaven.

Again we went the small, but this time I wisely didn’t get as much toppings as I did last time. The Shinjuku ramen was very good, the soup wasn’t as fatty as the Ikebukuro one and the chashu was leaner, but in my opinion, the Jiro here was eclipsed by the first one I had. Because this was my second time round, I had developed my Jiro stomach, demolishing my bowl, and polishing off the last of Mellie’s (paid for it later though!!!).

Sure, Jiro is a dieter’s ni
ghtmare - you would probably accumulate two day’s worth of calorie intake with just one bowl - but if you’re after a flavour punch that not only wounds you, it knocks your block off, Jiro is your thing. Artery-clogging goodness, and my favourite noodles in Japan. Now that I’m back in Melbourne, I get the shakes and need to find a Jiro Anonymous.