The Ramen Shop That Remembered My Order

When I moved to Tokyo for work, I didn't speak Japanese and didn't know anyone. On my first night, I wandered into a tiny ramen shop near my apartment with eight seats at a counter and a cook who looked about seventy.

I pointed at a picture on the wall. He nodded and made me the best bowl of ramen I've ever had. I went back the next night and pointed at the same picture. And the next.

By the second week, I'd walk in and he'd already be making it before I sat down. He'd put an extra egg in, without asking, and nod once. That was our whole conversation for a month.

Then one night he said, in careful English, "You, every day. Good." I said "Arigatou" with my terrible accent, and he laughed out loud.

I lived in Tokyo for two years. I ate there four hundred times, at least. On my last night, he wouldn't let me pay.