by Andy Raskin
Suddenly, Ando’s voice came over a loudspeaker:
“I didn’t know what I was doing. No matter how many times I tried, nothing came out right. I simply couldn’t produce an ideal noodle. The hardest problem was drying the noodles and infusing them with flavor. In the beginning, I was completely in the dark. I brushed the noodles with the seasonings, but when I exposed them to hot air, they fell apart.”
Ando was talking about noodles, but I couldn’t help thinking about Maureen and Harue and Kim and all of my failed relationships.
I walked out of the shack, but Yamazaki was gone. I found him again in the gift shop, and when he saw me, he looked down, sucking air through his teeth.
“I am filled with regret,” he said, “because I just found out that it’s going to be very difficult to arrange a meeting with the chairman.”
I already knew the answer, but I asked why.
“I found out that it would be too difficult,” Yamazaki said.
Dejected, I said good-bye and walked to the museum’s front door alone. When I got there, a banner was hanging from the ceiling. The writing on it faced the museum’s interior, which is why I hadn’t noticed it on my way in. Four characters and one hiragana symbol were drawn several feet high in jet-black ink. The brushstrokes were bold and alive, and Ando’s signature was at the bottom.
The banner said JINRUI WA MENRUI.
In my mind, I translated it into English.
MANKIND IS NOODLEKIND.
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 10 : SALT AND THE FROG
Driven by his torture-induced revelations about the importance of food, Ando supplemented his real estate activities with a venture to make salt. On a beachfront lot formerly owned by the Japanese Army, he hired young boys to pour sea water onto large iron sheets:
We placed [the sheets] side by side on the shore as far as the eye could see. It was a grand sight to behold. The sheets were slanted to accumulate seawater, which began to evaporate when exposed to sunlight.
He launched his second food venture in 1947, founding what he called the National Nutritional Chemistry Research Institute. Two years had passed since the end of the war, but it was not yet uncommon for Japanese people, especially hospital patients, to die of malnutrition. The institute’s mission, therefore, was to develop a cheap, nutritious food product. One evening, Ando lay in bed thinking about potential ingredients, when he heard a frog croaking in his backyard.
“I instantly recognized this as a potential source of nutritional food.” (Magic Noodles)
Ando captured the frog, gutted it, and placed it in a pressure cooker.
My wife and newborn son, Koki (presently CEO of Nissin Food Products), were sleeping in the next room. About two hours later, a loud explosion shook the house. The contents of the pressure cooker flew all over the tatami room, creating a mess on the ceiling, lintel, and sliding doors. My wife scolded me.
“You didn’t have to do that in here!” she said.
My experiment in using the frog as a source of nutrition had failed, but it tasted good.
Ando eventually produced a paste from cow and pig bones, which he sold to hospitals under the trade name Viseicle. It was a minor success, but more important, it put Ando in contact with officials at Japan’s Ministry of Health and Welfare. Under the American Occupation, the ministry had been promoting flour-based foods because the United States had made available its large surplus of wheat. Ando had no problem with flour, but the ministry’s approach irked him:
The Ministry was promoting bread and biscuits at school cafeterias. So I shared some thoughts with Kunitaro Arimoto, who was then the manager of the Ministry’s Nutrition Division. . . . “With bread,” I told him, “you need toppings or side dishes, so you’re asking people to westernize their diets. In the East there’s a long tradition of eating noodles. So why not also promote noodles, which Japanese people already enjoy, as a flour-based food?’
At the time, noodles were manufactured solely by small outfits incapable of feeding a mass market. Pointing this out, Mr. Arimoto asked, “Mr. Ando, if you are so enthusiastic about it, why don’t you do some research on how to produce such noodles?”
Actually, I had virtually no knowledge about noodles so I left it at that. But over the years, that long line at the stall and my conversation with Mr. Arimoto stuck stubbornly in my mind.
I had been expecting Yamazaki’s no. I was prepared for it, thanks to Ramen Discovery Legend.
In an episode titled “Make Those Really Thick Noodles,” a burly youngster named Kano shows up at Fujimoto’s ramen stall in the park. Kano, it turns out, also dreams of dassara and wants to open his own ramen restaurant. His plan is to apprentice at a ramen shop called Yodonaga (known for its unusually thick noodles), but when Kano asks the grumpy old Yodonaga owner to take him on, the man refuses. Undeterred, Kano returns to Yodonaga every morning, falls to his knees, and begs. On the thirtieth day, the owner relents, making Kano his apprentice.
The day after touring the museum, I woke up at seven thirty and ate salmon-filled rice balls in the park near 7-Eleven. By eight thirty, I was standing in front of the entrance to Nissin headquarters. Yamazaki reported for work a few minutes later, and when he spotted me, he seemed afraid, as if he thought I was stalking him. Well, I guess I was. Luckily, I did not have to fall to my hands and knees before he invited me inside. He ushered me past the Greek statues and the bust of Ando, and we rode the elevator, silently, to the twelfth floor. He excused himself while the same woman from two days earlier led me to the same small room near the elevator.
I sat on the same sofa again, away from the door.
This time, when Yamazaki joined me, he was accompanied by a man who looked to be in his early forties. The older man wore black-rimmed glasses and a blue suit that looked more expensive than Yamazaki’s. He took the seat nearest the door, and Yamazaki sat next to him.
“I am Matsubara,” the other man said.
Matsubara handed me his business card, and from his title, his seat, his age, and his clothing, I understood that he was Yamazaki’s boss.
“I am Raskin. I’m sorry that I don’t have a business card.”
Matsubara sucked air through his teeth and looked me straight in the eye.
“We are truly honored that you are so interested in the chairman. But—I am deeply sorry to say this—the simple truth is that he does not do many interviews.”
“I see.”
“He’s ninety-four years old,” Matsubara reiterated.
I paused to indicate that I was not taking Ando’s age lightly.
“It’s just that I came all the way from the United States.”
The two bowed their heads and took deep breaths. I knew that it would not be easy for them to have a man travel all the way from the United States and not get what he wanted. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. In general, Japanese people can endure silence better than Americans can, but it was Matsubara who spoke first.
“You know, the chairman is going to do his annual press conference at a club for Osaka journalists in late August.”
I didn’t know.
“If you come back, you can attend.” It was just a few weeks away.
“I would love to attend!”
“You probably won’t be able to speak with the chairman directly,” Yamazaki said. “But you could be in the same room.”
I was filled with hope. I was so excited that I began telling Matsubara and Yamazaki about how ramen had helped me get through college, even though it was a bit of an exaggeration.
“We hear that a lot,” Yamazaki said, and I realized that he probably did. “Anyway, I’ll arrange a pass for you to the press conference.”
Matsubara excused himself for a moment, leaving the room while Yamazaki and I sat together in another uncomfortable silence. When Matsubara returned, he presented me with two books. The first was the catalog to the Instant Ramen Invention Museum. The second was The Story of the Invention of Instant Ramen, N
issin’s self-published English translation of Magic Noodles.
I accepted the books, thanking Matsubara with the most polite version of “thank you” I could muster. (There are easily over a dozen from which to choose.) While thanking Yamazaki, I backed my way onto the elevator. Walking out past the Greek sculptures and the security guard, I imagined the question I would ask Ando. Why did you suddenly commit to inventing instant ramen? I imagined myself asking it in Japanese at the press conference, even though Matsubara had said I wouldn’t get to ask any questions. Out on the street, the humidity seemed bearable now. I passed gas stations and electronics shops and restaurants and it struck me that Japan was not really so different from the United States.
When I entered the hotel lobby, the front desk clerk called out my name and handed me a phone message. “Please call. From Yamazaki.” It would have been expensive to call from my room, so I walked back outside and found a phone booth. Japan still had plenty.
“Moshi moshi,” Yamazaki said.
“This is Raskin. You left a message?”
“Mr. Raskin. Yes . . .well, I just checked with the press club, and I’m afraid I have some bad news. It turns out that you have to be a member of the club to attend the chairman’s press conference.”
“Can I become a member of the club?”
“Mmm. Difficult if you’re not a Japanese journalist.”
My jaw tightened and I felt cold, even though my shirt was soaked with sweat. I hung up the phone, and for a few minutes I just stood on the sidewalk. There were several things I could have done next.
One was that I could have gone back to Nissin the following morning. I had gone back only once so far, and the man in Ramen Discovery Legend went back thirty times. I hadn’t even gotten on my hands and knees. Zen once told me a story about Masayoshi Son, the billionaire founder of Japan’s biggest software and Internet company, Softbank, who Zen said got his start thanks to similar persistence. According to Zen’s story, Son had no idea what to study in college, so without an appointment, he visited the office of Den Fujita (Zen’s favorite author) to ask for advice. Fujita’s secretary told Son that a meeting was out of the question, but Son returned every morning for thirty days (what was it about thirty days?), until finally Fujita noticed and asked his secretary about the kid who was always sitting on the steps outside. In the meeting, Fujita supposedly told Son, “Study computers.”
Another thing I could have done was to research the curse of Colonel Sanders. I had been intrigued by the supposed curse for years, and I thought of it right then because I was standing in front of a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a life-size Colonel Sanders mannequin was staring at me from inside the restaurant. In the rest of Japan, KFCs proudly displayed their Colonel Sanders mannequins outside. But Osaka KFCs often kept their Colonels indoors. The reason was that after the Hanshin Tigers won the 1985 Japan Series (Japan’s World Series), ecstatic fans supposedly grabbed a Colonel from outside one of the restaurants and tossed him into Osaka’s Dotonbori Canal. According to those who believe in the curse, as long as the Colonel remains at the bottom of the polluted waterway, the Tigers will never again reign as champion.
(The Tigers reached the Japan Series in 2003 and again in 2005, and each time, fans reportedly dredged Dotonbori Canal. They failed to raise the Colonel, and both years the Tigers lost.)
I could have done either of those things, but in order to do them, I would have needed to be in control of myself. And when I got off the phone with Yamazaki, I was not in control. I went back into the hotel and packed my clothes and ramen comics, checked out, and walked to New Osaka Station. I reserved a seat on the bullet train to Tokyo. It’s amazing, looking back, that I knew exactly what to do to get what I wanted. “Wanted” is probably not the right word, though. Maybe “craved.” I knew where to go, which was Tokyo. I felt more comfortable in Tokyo. I knew my way around.
On the bullet train from Osaka, I tried to write to Ando about what was happening, but something else came out entirely. It was in the second person, and in capital letters.
Momofuku: (64 days) YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF. YOU SHOULD STOP WASTING PEOPLE’S TIME. YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO GET SOMEONE LIKE HIM TO MEET YOU. I MEAN, HE’S NOT THE EMPEROR, FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD. YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN A MORE IMPORTANT PERSON AND THEN MAYBE HE WOULD HAVE MET YOU. YOU SHOULD HAVE WORN A SUIT AND TIE. WELL, THINGS NEVER WORK OUT FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE A NO-GOOD, UNGRATEFUL, DIRTY, ROTTEN IDIOT.
The words scared me, even though I was writing them with my own hand. At the same time, they seemed familiar, like an old friend.
A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MOMOFUKU ANDO, PART 11 : SUGAMO PRISON
In 1948, a few days before Christmas, Ando hosted a farewell party for an American military official. The party was held at one of his downtown Osaka buildings and attended by several luminaries, including Bunzo Akama, the governor of Osaka. When the party was over, Ando walked out the back of the building. Just as he was about to get into his car, two American military police officers grabbed him, shoved him into their jeep, and drove off.
The Occupation government had filed charges against Ando for tax evasion. The problem, Ando claims in his autobiographies, was roughly fifty dollars a month that he paid the boys who made salt. Ando claimed that the money was akin to a scholarship and should not have been subject to income tax. Not persuaded by this argument, a judge gave Ando a choice. Leave Japan for good, or submit to four years’ hard labor.
Aided by a team of lawyers from Kyoto University, Ando counter-sued. While the legal battle dragged on, he was held in Tokyo at the U.S.-run Sugamo Prison. (General Hideki Tojo, who was later executed for war crimes, and future prime minister Nobusuke Kishi were also prisoners there.) Meanwhile, the Osaka tax authority took possession of Ando’s salt factory, all of his commercial real estate holdings, his home in Izumi-Otsu, the mountain in Hyogo Prefecture (where he was still making charcoal), and virtually every asset in his name, auctioning off most of them to the highest bidder.
Nevertheless, Ando insists in Magic Noodles that his treatment at the hands of the Americans was nothing like what he had endured in the Japanese military prison:
It was like the difference between heaven and hell. I was given the same food as the American soldiers, and not once was I required to do any hard labor. I am sure I ate better than the general public. It was also at this time that I learned how to play mah-jongg. Wow, I thought, America really is a great, free country.
It took two years to work out a legal settlement in which Ando dropped his countersuit in return for his freedom and a clean record. After his release, he moved with his family to the house in Ikeda City, where he hoped to rebuild. But there was more hardship to come.
I was free, and as an entrepreneur it was back to square one. Of course, it’s human fate that once things go wrong, it gets harder and harder to turn them around. There must have been a deep unrest in my soul, and I guess it clouded my judgment.
I bought an iced green tea and a Korean-grilled beef bento box on the bullet train and read another episode in the comic book.
Sex—or sexual attraction, anyway—is an important theme in Ramen Discovery Legend. At first it’s expressed subtly, through an undercurrent of romantic tension between Fujimoto and the secretary, Ms. Sakura. They visit ramen shops together on lunch breaks, and when Ms. Sakura uses vacation time to accompany Fujimoto on a ramen research trip to Fukuoka Prefecture, coworkers gossip about her intentions. The sexuality gets more explicit when the character Kyoko is introduced. If you’re Ms. Sakura, Kyoko is your worst nightmare: a cute ramen freak drawn with impossibly large breasts. Kyoko has many ex-boyfriends, and she’s constantly showing up with a different one. “Another ex-boyfriend?” Ms. Sakura always thinks. Ms. Sakura is afraid Fujimoto might have a crush on Kyoko, but she has nothing to worry about. He’s in love with Ms. Sakura, and not tempted by Kyoko at all.
At Tokyo Station, I switched to the Yamanote Line. I got off at Ebisu Station. Why Ebisu? I kn
ow restaurants in Ebisu. I know bars in Ebisu. I feel powerful and desirable in Ebisu. Outside the station, I stood with my suitcase near a taxi stand while Japanese people jostled around me. Tokyo was not as hot as Osaka, but my clothes were already sticking to my skin. Across the street, I saw a sign running vertically along the side of a building.
The sign said HOTEL EXCELLENT.
It sounded like the setting for a Haruki Murakami short story, where behind the front desk there would be a talking goat, or something similar. I wheeled my suitcase across the street and rode an escalator to the Hotel Excellent’s second-floor entrance. The walls of the lobby were a beige shade of marble, and there was something Murakami-esque about the hotel, though I don’t remember any Murakami stories being set in a room with beige marble walls. Maybe the darkness of the lobby reminded me of the Gothic hallway at Princeton University where I met him, where he refused to explain the meaning of the woman who smelled her hand.
“Welcome to the Hotel Excellent,” the front desk clerk said.
“I’d like a room for one night.”
The clerk’s uniform was brown with gold buttons. The buttons made me think of the uniforms in the comic book series Hotel, in which the staff take their jobs very seriously and always solve guests’ problems. Like Fantasy Island, but indoors. I wondered if the clerk had read it.
“Certainly, sir.”
I dropped my suitcase in the room and walked back to Ebisu Station, where I jumped on one of the people movers. When I was a student at International Christian University, Ebisu Station was drab and quiet, but since then a fancy department store with a high-end food court had sprouted above the tracks. People movers now conveyed pedestrians to Ebisu Garden Place, an elaborate new shopping mall anchored by a Westin Hotel and a restaurant operated by the celebrated French chef Joël Robuchon. (His restaurant is housed in a full-scale replica of a French chalet.) In a gourmet grocery store that sold foreign wines and cheeses, I asked the man behind the counter for a taste of Bleu des Causses, and I was savoring its creamy, salty goodness when I noticed a woman in the shop. I say “noticed,” but I don’t think that at first I even saw her. It was more like I sensed her presence.