Ivan Ramen Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Ivan Orkin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ten Speed Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  www.tenspeed.com

  Ten Speed Press and the Ten Speed Press colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Photographs on this page and DK01, DK02, DK03, DK04, DK05 to DK06, DK07, DK08, DK09, DK10, DK11, DK12, DK13, DK14, DK15, DK16, DK17, DK18, DK19, DK20, DK21, DK22, DK23, DK24, DK25, DK26, and DK27 by Daniel Krieger, copyright © 2013 by Daniel Krieger

  Photographs NY01, NY02, NY03, NY04, NY05, NY06, NY07, NY08, NY09, NY10, NY11, NY12 to NY13, NY14, NY15, NY16, NY17, NY18, NY19, NY20 to NY21, NY22, NY23, NY24, NY25, NY26 to NY27, NY28, NY29, NY30, NY31, NY32, NY33, NY34, NY35, NY36, NY37, NY38, NY39, NY40, NY41, NY42, NY43, NY44, NY45, NY46, NY47, NY48, and NY49 by Noriko Yamaguchi

  Photographs IO01, IO02, IO03 to IO04, IO05, IO06 to IO07 (top left, top right, and bottom left), IO08, IO09, IO10, and IO11 from Ivan Orkin

  Photographs SIP01 and SIP02 (bottom) by Sharp Images Photographic, www.sharpimagesphotographic.com

  Photograph CY01 by Chris Ying

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Publisher

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-60774-446-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60774-447-4

  Illustrations by Walter Green

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated to my father, Leonard Orkin, who

  died suddenly on February 1, 2013, shortly before its

  completion. He was the source of so much inspiration,

  and my inability to share this book with him leaves

  me deeply saddened. His presence is in these pages and

  in my heart. Like any great father, he prepared me for

  all the challenges I’ve met over the years. My success

  is his. Although at times it must have seemed that

  I heard not a word he said to me, I was always listening

  very carefully. Thanks, Dad. This book’s for you.

  Contents

  Foreword by David Chang

  PROLOGUE

  BEGINNINGS

  FIRST ENCOUNTERS

  A COOK’S LIFE

  THE OBSESSION

  Answers from a Master: Shimazaki-San

  SO?

  THE SHOP

  Confessions of a Noodle Addict: Ohsaki-San

  THE ABSURDITY

  EPILOGUE

  IVAN RAMEN’S SHIO RAMEN

  Shio Ramen: The Complete Bowl

  Fat

  Shio Tare

  Katsuobushi Salt

  Double Soup

  Toasted Rye Noodles

  Menma

  Pork Belly Chashu

  Half-Cooked Eggs

  NOW WHAT?

  Flavored Fat

  Schmaltz-Fried Chicken Katsu

  Chicken Teriyaki

  Omu Raisu

  Ozoni

  Dashi Maki Tamago

  Cold Tofu with Menma

  Menma Sauté

  Chashu Cubano

  VARIATIONS ON A NOODLE

  Roasted Garlic Mazemen

  Chile Mazemen

  Toasted Sesame and Spicy Chile Tsukemen

  Four-Cheese Mazemen

  Ago Dashi Ramen

  Ago Tsukemen

  Breakfast Yakisoba

  Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato Mazemen

  SIDES AND SWEETS

  Steamed Rice

  Pork and Tomato Meshi

  Roasted Pork Musubi

  Lemon Sherbet

  Tomato Sorbet

  Acknowledgments

  A Few Words about Sourcing Ingredients

  About the Author and Contributors

  Index

  Foreword

  Hey Ivan!

  First off, congratulations on—and thank you for—this book. Back when I was a twenty-nothing noodle-slurping lost sheep wandering from ramen shop to ramen shop, trying to decode the secrets of the soup, there was nothing like this in English, or maybe in any language. There is so much essential, indispensible information here for readers who want to learn something about ramen beyond the instructions on the side of the Styrofoam bowl. And then there’s your story, which is beyond remarkable: I couldn’t get a job in a decent shop when I was in Japan. You’ve broken through the ramen barrier in Tokyo, put your name on the map. Incredible.

  And now you’re going to open a shop in New York! Well, let me be the first to congratulate you on a terrible decision. Here’s the best advice I can give you about trying it back home:

  1. Do you know the classic 1992 Wesley Snipes–Woody Harrelson buddy basketball movie White Men Can’t Jump? Of course you do! What you might not know is that your next year is going to be an infinite loop of a sad variation of that film: White Men Can’t Eat Ramen.

  When you put a hot bowl of ramen in front of most Americans—white or otherwise—they will wait for it to cool down. It defeats the purpose, but they do not know this. It’s the equivalent of ordering a burger, and then when it comes, you don’t touch it! You wait for it to cool down, the lettuce to wilt, the cheese to congeal.

  Americans think it’s rude to slurp noodles. They have no concept that the noodles are continuing to cook in the soup. They have no concept that they should drink the soup first. And they will think the soup is too salty! They don’t understand that the soup is part of the noodles.

  I know this. I’ve seen thousands and thousands of bowls at Momofuku. People have been leaving behind noodles before it was cool to be gluten free.

  These will be your customers!

  2. Prepare to compromise.

  I’ve been to ramen shops in Tokyo. It’d be nice to serve sixty people a day in a twenty-seat restaurant, two bowls at a time. You won’t be able to do it like that here. The economics of New York are different.

  While you can sell ramen relatively expensively in Japan, you can’t do it in America. People will unblinkingly pay $20 a plate for spaghetti pomodoro—which is just canned tomatoes and boxed pasta—but they will bitch to the high heavens about forking over $20 for a bowl of soup that requires three or four or five different cooked and composed components to put together. Plus, you will rake yourself over the coals looking for ingredients that even approximate what you can buy down the alley from your shop in Tokyo.

  You’ll have to find a way to make food faster, and that means doing some things that may be sacrilegious in Japan. You’ve gotta make the compromise between having the soup hot, but not so hot that people can’t eat it. If you serve dishes with ramen, it’s going to slow the experience down. People will have a conversation instead of eating. That’s the main difference. In Tokyo, if you go to a really good ramen-ya, you hear nothing but slurping. In New York, people want to chat over their soup! It is unthinkable to those of us who have prayed at the altars of the ramen gods, but it is a reality you must confront.

  3. Get ready for the most ridiculous complaints ever known to mankind.

  You should shave your head now so that you have no hair to pull out when the Internet gets revving on you.

  Get ready for criticism from the whole Asian demographic. Half the food bloggers in the world are Asian women. You’re going to be their bread and butter. They’re going to laugh at you and yell at you. They will be upset that your food isn’t “authentic” or that it’s not Japanese enough.

  White people will say, “I’ve lived in Japan, and this isn’t authentic.” You’re never going to have seen so many people express their feelings. Everybody is going to have their opinion on what Japan is. They may not have been to Japan, but you know what? They might have dated somebody from Japan.

 
People are going to look at you like this weird thing, like the Eminem of ramen. I can almost get away with doing ramen because I’m Asian. You’re probably fucked.

  Fifty percent of people will be cheering for you, and the other 50 percent will want you dead. Get ready to accept that people hate you and want nothing but your demise. Use it as fuel.

  4. It’s like in Band of Brothers when the guy says, “The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you’re already dead.”

  When I opened up, people in New York didn’t know anything about ramen at all. The funny thing is, people know even less about ramen today. New York is so far behind the world of contemporary ramen in Japan—a world I can’t quite fathom how you conquered or why you’re leaving.

  What I originally loved about ramen shops in Japan was that it was a whole fascinating world. I can eat something really delicious for ten or fifteen bucks. It’s exactly like going to In-N-Out and knowing the secret menu. Once you’re in the know, everything’s good. You know what to order.

  What drew me to cooking ramen was—and I hate to use this term—the punk aesthetic. It was a contrarian stance. You take something deemed by the world as junk food and pour passion into it, and make it the most delicious food possible. In that conflict is what I love about ramen. At the end of the day, it’s just soup and noodles. It’s one of the simplest forms of food, but also the most beloved. And of course you know that. You’re making Jewish comfort food through a Japanese lens.

  And down there on the Lower East Side, where Jewish chicken soup has roots more than a century old, you will slowly build an audience that understands your soup.

  Americans will fail you more times than you can anticipate, but if you’re smart and steeled and shrewd—or maybe just incredibly fucking lucky—you will get what you’re looking for: your customers.

  There will be babies born and nourished on your food. One day they’ll be nine years old, and it’ll be really weird: they will have formed memories in your restaurant, on your ramen. They will learn to eat the way you want them to. You will learn from them.

  You’re feeding people, you’re going to bring people a lot of joy. It’s a heavy-duty thing when you get past all the bullshit. But do not underestimate the bullshit.

  Congratulations!

  —DAVID CHANG

  PS: Once you open the restaurant, all of the emails you will ever get will look like this: Can I have a reservation for 6 people at the ramen counter at 8:30 tonight? I know it’s Saturday and you just got reviewed but I’m coming in with this great group of …

  Prologue

  I’m sitting at the counter of what used to be Ed’s Lobster Bar Annex, on Clinton Street in the Lower East Side. All the stools but mine are upside down on the bar. The chalkboard on the wall advertises coconut shrimp and lobster fra diavolo as the day’s specials.

  The restaurant has been closed for a few months, but it still looks like it’s just waiting for someone to walk in, flick on the lights, and open the doors. Except no one will, because the keys are in my pocket. With any luck, in four months this will be Ivan Ramen New York.

  There’s nothing notable about someone opening a restaurant in New York. God knows how many people do it every year. These days, it’s not even particularly newsworthy for someone to open a ramen shop in New York. But I didn’t just show up with a folder of recipes and a pocket full of dreams. I took a more circuitous route.

  In 1987, I was a disorganized, confused twenty-something. I wasn’t a student. I wasn’t a chef. I wasn’t really anything. I had a degree in the impractical subject of Japanese literature, but I’d never even left the country. For no reason other than it seemed like the right thing to do, I bought a ticket to Japan. I ended up spending thirteen of the next twenty-five years there, as a slacker, a teacher, a computer component salesman, a husband, a widower, a father, and a chef. I opened a ramen shop in Tokyo, and then another. Eventually, a lot of people started coming to the restaurants, critics began heaping praise on my food, and journalists followed me around with cameras and microphones and questions. Me, a Jewish guy from Long Island with no prior ramen experience to speak of.

  It has always struck me as somewhat odd to read a book that a chef has written about himself. But, for some reason, chefs have captured the American imagination. There’s something mystical in the way they create something new out of the mundane. And maybe that’s the appeal of my story. A screw-up white kid from New York, nothing about him screaming BORN FOR GREATNESS, succeeds wildly as a chef in Tokyo.

  When I put it like that, it doesn’t even seem real to me. It’s a fairy tale, and my selfish reason for writing this book is that I want to see my fairy tale printed, bound, and displayed on a shelf. Cookbooks are special to me, and I love peering into chef’s lives, sharing in their triumphs and failures and learning about their cuisines. But when I tried to learn more about my own world—the idiosyncratic, obsessive, delicious world of Japanese ramen—I didn’t find much. I’ve told my story thousands of times in Japan. People write me letters, saying they want to start their own shop, asking for advice. I’m always happy to share. But this book will be the first opportunity I’ve had to address my compatriots—my fellow Americans!

  I’m a chef. I don’t really open a cookbook to cook from it, and I don’t know if many people do. I read cookbooks because I want to know why someone cooks the way they do, how they arrived at their recipes. It doesn’t matter if the recipe is complex—molecular, whatever—or a simple one. It could be a pancake recipe, but I want to know why the author’s excited about it. This book will teach you how to make an authentic bowl of Tokyo ramen, but I also encourage you to stray as much as you want from the recipes. This book is not intended to be a set of rules, but rather a window into a world I tumbled into years ago and have happily dwelled in ever since.

  Whenever I set out to make a bowl of ramen in my kitchen at home, cooking every single component—stock, dashi, noodles, pork, tare (the seasoning component), eggs—is still a bit daunting, even though I’ve gone through the process many times now, before and since moving back to New York to open up this new shop. It’s a good process—exciting, gratifying, as rewarding to make as it is to eat. You’ll appreciate it, but only once you’ve survived it.

  The same, I think, applies to life. The story in this book documents a long process—a twenty-year journey. I’ve been through a tremendous amount of shit. We all encounter obstacles that seem insurmountable at the time, but we often grow into better people for it. I didn’t know how much I’d love Japan until I moved there. I didn’t find my calling until I became a cook. And I didn’t become a man until my first wife died.

  Through the years, I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone again and again—I’m still doing it, actually—and I’ve never regretted it. There’s quite a bit to do and quite a bit to learn, if you just take a few chances. As I set out to try and open my first restaurant in America, I’ve found guidance in other people’s stories and cookbooks, and I want to provide some of the same. So for all the wayward youth, dissatisfied salespeople, travelers, cooks, entrepreneurs, and anybody who’s ever wondered, “What if I just … ?” this book is for you.

  Beginnings

  I was fifteen years old when Dean Grabsky called me to say he’d just gotten a job at a Japanese restaurant near the local train station. The place was called Tsubo, and there was another shift open, and would I be interested in making five bucks an hour—off the books—washing dishes?

  That was a lot of money for someone my age in 1978, and so it was that three days a week I found myself after school standing before huge piles of dirty dishes—dishes for soy sauce, dishes for pickles, bento boxes, rice bowls, soup bowls, bowls with the tiniest compartments I’d ever seen. No matter how hard I worked, I could never seem to make a dent in that pile. To add insult to injury, the bitchy woman from Osaka who ran the restaurant hated me and the other Americans working for her.

  The job should have sucked. The only reason it
didn’t was the chefs—an unfailingly friendly group of Japanese guys in their twenties and thirties. They took me under their wing immediately, without question. I would come to the restaurant directly from school, dizzy with teenage hunger. On one of my first days on the job, one of the cooks noticed my plight. He cracked a raw egg and whipped it with some soy sauce, poured it over a bowl of hot rice, sprinkled some aonori (powdered seaweed) on top, and thrust it into my hands. “Here, Ivan-san,” he said. “Eat this.”

  That dish—a dish I’ve had hundreds of times since and came to know as tamago kake gohan—made an immense impression on me. The hot rice steamed the egg ever so slightly, and the first slimy-creamy bite, salty like the ocean, was a bit challenging. But by the end of my first bowl, I was hooked. More importantly, I was “in” with the cooks. From then on, the staff fed me whatever they were eating: raw liver smeared in garlic, shiokara (raw squid in its own fermented guts), miso soup, the whole lineup of raw fish.

  When the owner declared that feeding the dishwashers was a waste of money, the cooks brushed it off, told us not to worry, and kept cooking for us. They took care of us at every turn. One of the great memories of my youth is the time the cooks took me and Dean to the city on a Saturday to watch kung-fu movies and drink beer at their friend’s restaurant.

  Meeting these salt-of-the-earth Japanese guys who bent over backward to take care of us was an unexpected and revelatory turning point for me. I’d always loved food, but Japanese became my favorite. By the time I was seventeen, when we’d go out for sushi and my mom and dad would order platters, I’d say snottily, “I don’t eat that way. I order by the piece.”

  Tsubo’s insufferable owner eventually became too much for me to endure, but the seeds of a lifelong love affair with Japanese culture had been planted in that year of washing dishes there.

  I grew up in a neighborhood carved out of what used to be one gigantic estate. There was the main mansion at the top of the lane, and then ten houses lining the main road. Our house was located where the pool and cabanas had once been.