The stainless steel open kitchen hisses steam at all times, filling the warm air with the smell of pork bone broth. The cooks, all in matching brown bandanas, keep their eyes fixed to the stoves as they shout irasshaimase (come on in!) with every new chime of the opened door bell.
Families sit together around tables, while single businessmen and trade workers rub elbows at the counter. I take my seat among them and my order is taken immediately. The counter is spotless, but brown where its been worn away. The more worn, the better; the sign of a well-visited ramen shop.
The wait is short - in no time, a big-as-your-face bowl of hot ramen is placed before me. The broth is cloudy and sweet, the soft noodles buried under the lettuce, bean sprouts, and slice of pork accented by the earthy taste of the mushrooms and spicy kick of the pink ginger.
Perhaps the greatest evidence of a good ramen shop is what I and every other visitor leaves behind: an empty bowl.
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