Addicts will tell you that addiction can sometimes lead you to cold, dark places, inhabited only by a few desperate souls who share your particular weakness. My affliction is considered by some to be a weird fetish that can generally only be truly indulged in Asia. And they would be right. Step forward, tsukemen-style ramen, where pillowy, chewy noodles are dunked and coated in a rich hot broth. Like most good things, these are terrible for you – pork fat, carbs and salt get you no closer to your five a day, but will give you a fix that lesser noodles just can't seem to muster.
My fellow addicts at Fujiyama 55, a typically petite ramen shop hidden away in Causeway Bay (there is also an outlet in TST), all appear to be 23 year old Korean girls and their boyfriends, which is not bad company as a group of junkies goes. In fact, despite looking like they have never been near a carb in their life, 23 year old Korean girls tend to know what they're talking about when it comes to ramen. Sadly, this also means that, like any good ramen shop, I stood freezing my ass off in the street for 45 minutes before I got a table, whilst having the anthropological excitement of watching young couples relentlessly snapchat one another whilst standing on the same paving stone. To make matters worse, when I did get inside, I was lucky enough to be seated both directly under the air con and in front of the door so that the icy blast continued on two fronts.
But I came for the food and, anyway, you can't really complain about the waiting or the atmosphere at a ramen joint – that isn't really the point.
Perhaps bolstered by my desire to stave off the cold, I ordered the "spicy" tsukemen and waited with baited breath. Happily, they were just as expected. Bouncy, dense noodles and a wonderously thick (slightly fishy? slightly porky? slightly chickeny?) and satisfying broth. I wolfed the lot in five minutes flat before pausing for breath, which I think suitably impressed the Korean girl next to me (but perhaps not her boyfriend), which was only partly the point. If I was less afraid of inadvertently belching loudly if I opened my mouth, I would have flashed her a cheeky smile and maybe made some incredibly charming comment which would have won her over immediately. But I didn't. Instead, I paid my bill and scuttled out of the door for the warmth of my apartment whilst wondering if ramen speed dating could be a thing.
The part of me which wants to remain relatively trim and healthy into later life is glad that at good ramen-yas like this the queues are long, the wait annoying and the seating incredibly uncomfortable, as it means there is always a reason not to go. Otherwise I would be there most nights, living out my most seditious carb and pork fantasies until one day my hot Korean wife would stage an intervention, strap me to a bed and wean me off the stuff Hollywood A-lister style.