The Ramen King and I
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART I - LETTERS TO ANDO
PART II - MOMOFUKU AND ME
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 1 : HALLEY’S COMET
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 2 : NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 3 : SOMETHING CUTTING INTO HIS HEART
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 4 : WARTIME ENTREPRENEUR
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 5 : THE INVENTORY PROBLEM
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 6 : TORTURE
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 7 : THE HUNGER STRIKE
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 8 : THE LINE
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 9 : THE MYSTERY OF HIROTOSHI
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 10 : SALT AND THE FROG
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 11 : SUGAMO PRISON
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 12 : A MIND TORMENTED WITH REGRET
PART III - THE FUNDAMENTAL MISUNDERSTANDING OF HUMANITY
PART IV - MANKIND IS NOODLEKIND
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
RAMENADVICE.COM
Acknowledgements
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, May 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Andy Raskin
All rights reserved
“Ramen in the Morning” (Asa Kara Ramen no Uta) and portions of “Afterword 1” (Atogaki Sono 1)
from Spider Monkey in the Night (Yoru no Kumozaru—Murakami Asahido Cho Tampen Shosetsu)
© 1995 Haruki Murakami. Reprinted with permission.
Gotham Books and the skyscraper logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Raskin, Andy.
The ramen king and I : how the inventor of instant noodles fixed my love life: a memoir /
by Andy Raskin.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-03281-7
1. Raskin, Andy. 2. Raskin, Andy—Relations with women. 3. Journalists—United States—
Biography. 4. Editors—United States—Biography. 5. Authors, American—21st century—
Biography. 6. Man-woman relationships—United States. 7. Ando, Momofuku, 1910-2007.
8. Noodles—Japan—Miscellanea. 9. Japan—Description and travel. I. Title.
CT275.R2656A3 2009
973.931092—dc22
[B] 2008032423
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FOR MY FAMILY,
WITH THANKS TO CAROL WASSERMAN
PROLOGUE
“It is said that real human nature reveals itself under extreme conditions. As I starved in prison, I realized that eating was one of the highest forms of human activity. Perhaps I have to go back this far to trace the origins of the development of instant noodles, though I did not have the slightest idea for Chikin [sic] Ramen at the time.”
—Momofuku Ando, Magic Noodles: The Story of the Invention of Instant Ramen
There used to be a Japanese TV show in which two young hosts—a male and a female—would scream, “I wanna ___!” They always filled in the blank with some crazy thing, like “sing a duet with Yasir Arafat!” Then they would go out into the world and try to do what they screamed about, with one catch. They had to go apo nashi—without an appointment.
Among the show’s best-known episodes were “I wanna eat Akashi-style dumplings with United Nations representative Yasushi Akashi!”; “I wanna officially change my first name, in honor of the Barcelona Summer Olympics, to Barcelona!”; and “I wanna get treated to sushi by the wife of the manager of the Hanshin Tigers baseball team!” In their most famous adventure, the hosts screamed, “I wanna trim Prime Minister Murayama’s eyebrows!” and Japan’s then highest official—an aging member of the Socialist Party—let them do it.
I was thinking of that show as the train sped from Kansai International Airport toward downtown Osaka, birthplace of Nissin Food Products. I was certainly arriving apo nashi. It had been two months since Mr. Yamazaki, a low-level employee in Nissin’s public relations department, stopped answering my e-mails. His silence suggested that there was very little chance I would get to meet Momofuku Ando, the ninety-four-year-old billionaire who, in 1958, invented instant ramen in his backyard.
As for why I wanted to meet Ando, I wasn’t entirely sure. I suspected, though, that it had something to do with my love life.
PART I
LETTERS TO ANDO
I should be thinner. I should do yoga. I should be married like the people in the New York Times wedding announcements. I should be richer. I should be able to hit higher notes on the trombone, given that I have been playing the instrument for more than thirty years. I should be more discreet.
I should live closer to my parents so I can spend time with them, because one day they will die and I will feel more alone than I can imagine.
I should not be so concerned with my parents, given how old I am.
I should eliminate processed sugars from my diet. I should find great parking spots, the way my father always does. I should be less afraid. I should call my sister more. I should reestablish contact with my high school friends Dan and Dave and Sam, because if I ever do get married, I’ll have few old friends at the wedding, but mostly because I miss them.
I should not write about the letters.
I should be in the m
oment. I should be taller. I should employ more adverbs and similes, and rely less on anaphora. I should own a big house on Belvedere Street and decorate it for Halloween. I should glide on the dance floor. I should have no cavities.
On Saturdays, when playing Ultimate Frisbee in the park, I should make smart throws and spectacular diving catches. I should not want attention or validation. I should give things another shot. I should be more organized.
When Grandpa Herman bought me the Partridge Family album for my tenth birthday, I should not have cried because it was not the album with “I Think I Love You” on it. I should be friendlier with the guys who run the body shop. I should keep things under wraps. I should not be suffering from what the inventor of instant ramen identified—just prior to inventing instant ramen—as the Fundamental Misunderstanding of Humanity.
Because then there wouldn’t be so many shoulds.
But there you are.
I should start in Uji City, on January 2, 2007.
Blessed by a stunning mountain landscape and famous for its fragrant green tea, Uji City is situated midway between Japan’s ancient capitals Kyoto and Nara. The region is home to Byodo-in, the 950-year-old Buddhist temple that decorates the back of the ten-yen coin, and to the tourist destinations known collectively as the Ten Spots, each in some way associated with one of the final ten chapters of The Tale of Genji.
On January 2, 2007, three days and two months shy of his ninety-seventh birthday, Momofuku Ando played a round of golf in Uji, at the Nissin Miyako Country Club. The inventor of instant ramen shot a 109—56 on the front nine, 53 on the back. He founded the club himself, he once said, “due to my earnest desire to pursue golf as my hobby and to enjoy the game to my heart’s content.” In fact, Thus Spake Momofuku, a published collection of Ando’s famous utterances, contains no fewer than twelve sayings about golf, including:
“As far as I’m concerned, eighteen holes is the only happiness that money can buy.”
“Don’t worry. If I’m playing, the rain will stop.”
“To be on a golf course when I die—that is my true desire.”
Two days later, Ando gave a speech at the Osaka headquarters of Nissin Food Products, the instant noodle empire he had launched nearly fifty years earlier. He addressed an assembly of Nissin employees for thirty minutes and enjoyed a serving of Chikin Ramen in the company cafeteria. Expressing his desire for peace in the world, he unveiled a slogan for the New Year. His practice of coining, brush drawing, and officially unveiling New Year slogans dates back to 1964. Because the slogans were often somewhat cryptic, Nissin’s public relations department began issuing official explanations in 1986.
Ando’s slogan for 2007 was Kigyo Zainin, Seigyo Zaiten.
According to the official explanation, it meant that a company can be built by humans, but its success will always depend on God.
The next day, Ando suffered an unusually high fever. He was rushed to a hospital, where his wife, Masako, and several Nissin executives stood at his bedside. He was not on a golf course when his heart stopped beating, but at least he had played very recently.
In the weeks that followed, newspapers and blogs hailed Ando as a food pioneer. Many obituaries cited the number eighty-six billion, which was how many servings of instant ramen had been consumed on Earth in 2005, the most recent year for which data on worldwide demand was then available. Some journalists did the math: nearly twelve bowls for every person on the planet. An airline pilot who blogged on Salon.com declared, “The aviation world was rocked” by the news, explaining that he carried five packages of instant ramen on every flight. Another blogger joked that mourners might pour boiling water into Ando’s casket, turning down the lid for three minutes. The Economist ran a story on Ando’s death. So did Time magazine. For three days the most e-mailed article on the New York Times Web site was an opinion piece by Lawrence Downes titled “Appreciations: Mr. Noodle.” It began, “The news last Friday of the death of the ramen noodle guy surprised those of us who never suspected that there was such an individual.”
I laughed when I read the Times piece. I laughed because I was not a person who never suspected there was an inventor of instant ramen. Here are excerpts from e-mails I received in the wake of An-do’s death:
“Saw this on a blog today and thought of you.” (Carla)
“Are you OK?” (Matt)
“Saw the death of Mr. Noodle. Couldn’t help thinking of you.” (Josh)
“Not sure if condolences are in order.” (Ellen)
My father sent me the Times clipping in the mail, along with an obituary that ran in the Long Island newspaper. He attached a note on his personal stationery. “It even made Newsday,” he wrote.
Zen just typed a text message that said, “He is died.”
Three weeks after Ando’s death, I stuffed a cup mute and a plunger mute into a knapsack, carried my trombone out to my car, and drove to rehearsal. The group I played in was a full big band—five trumpets, four trombones, five saxes, and a rhythm section—and it rehearsed in a warehouse in San Francisco’s South of Market district. Some of us called it the Monday Night Band, but there was no official name.
We never had gigs. We only rehearsed. We rehearsed on a cement floor surrounded by drills, saws, and workbenches. Many of the men in the band were more than twice my age. The lead alto saxophonist had just turned ninety-two. His tone sometimes wobbled, and he had trouble hearing instructions. The average age of the rhythm section hovered around eighty. By comparison, the trombone section was downright youthful. Aside from me, everyone was in their seventies. The band was led by the bassist, a thin man with a white beard who, when he wasn’t plucking his upright bass, worked in the warehouse building props for photo shoots and conference booths. A human figure made out of cereal boxes stared down at us from an open loft, and a golf cart dressed up to look like a spaceship (in which a telecom executive once made his entrance at a trade show) was permanently parked next to the grand piano.
Setting my trombone case on one of the workbenches, I screwed together the bell and slide sections and slipped in a Bach 7 mouthpiece. I blew a few notes, mostly low B-flats, to loosen my lips. I was playing the third trombone part, so I took a seat between the first and fourth trombonists, because that’s the traditional trombone section arrangement.
“One hundred twenty-two,” the bassist called out.
The sheet music was numbered. I searched the folder on the music stand in front of me and found “122” stamped on a Sammy Nestico composition titled “This Is the Moment.” The bassist counted off two measures in a laid-back swing feel. The band jumped into it. The third trombone part wasn’t very exciting—mostly whole notes and background figures—but I enjoyed harmonizing with the other horn players and trying to match their phrasing so we all sounded like one instrument. That’s the goal when you’re playing a Sammy Nestico chart.
The bassist had just waved his hand to cut off the final chord when Gary, the first trombonist, leaned toward me.
“Son, how much would you pay for a thick, juicy slice of prime rib, a baked potato, and a side of vegetables?”
Gary played a silver King Liberty from the 1940s with intricate floral engraving on the bell and a sound that filled you up. It was the third time in as many Monday nights that he had asked me the question about the prime rib, the third time he was going to share with me the deal he had found in Millbrae. I’m still not sure whether his memory was failing, or if he was just really excited about the deal.
“I don’t know,” I said, feigning a guess. “Twenty-three dollars?”
There was a time not long before all this when I would have informed Gary that, first of all, I don’t eat a lot of red meat, and second of all, he was about to share his tip for the third time. But one of the things I had come to realize was that I loved when Gary shared restaurant tips. That his sharing of them was the point, not the tips themselves.
“Well, son, what would you say if I told you there’s a spot in Millbrae w
here you only had to pay sixteen ninety-five?”
As Gary repeated the name of the restaurant, the bassist called out, “Eight.” It was the number for “Four Brothers,” the up-tempo Woody Herman classic that showcases the saxophone section.
“By the way,” Gary continued, pulling the music for “Four Brothers” from his folder, “I read the news.”
At first I had no idea what he was talking about.
“About your ramen guy.”
I had forgotten telling Gary about Ando.
“Oh.”
Gary normally lifted his horn to his lips long before an entrance, but even as the bassist began counting down to the first bar of “Four Brothers,” Gary’s silver King Liberty remained perched on his knee.
“Tell me again,” he said, “why did you go to meet the inventor of instant ramen?”
Before I could answer, we had to start playing.
The trombone parts on “Four Brothers” consist mainly of short hits punctuating the saxophone melodies, and there are long rests while the saxophonists take their improvised solos. What I’m saying is that I had plenty of time to ponder Gary’s question. I had plenty of time to sum it all up. Yet as we approached the fermata at the bottom of the page, I still wasn’t sure what to say.
Dear Momofuku,
Matt says I’m supposed to tell you everything. He says this is the only way. The problem is that I don’t remember many details, especially about the first time it happened. Matt says I should start with that first time and tell you what I remember, even if it’s not that much.