Oodles of Noodles

As part of my interaction with the neighborhood project I couldn't help but submit to the temptation that arose from the intrigue between Jiro and Ikkei. The plan was simple, go in and determine for myself which of the two pleased my palette pleasantly. In all gastronomic fairness the two meals had to be split into two days to allow the tastes to settle into the remains of each day. And that was a wise decision considering the portion at Jiro. Eating at Jiro is more of a threat or dare than an invitation. The varying degrees of satisfaction on the customers' faces comes not from one's assessment of the shop but from the quality of each of his effort. Although later I found that nearly half of those that have tasted Jiro walked away questioning the hype. First hand, I can say that it was not a culinary achievement. For those with sheepish tolerance to size and seaonsoning; be warned. This is the "Iron Man Decathlon" of noodle joints. There's a reason I haven't seen any OLs or pristine metrosexuals coming in and out of the ramen stall. It's a gruff boot camp of a grub hole for the rough and starved. The hour plus wait standing on line allows the hungry fellow a chance to build upon an appetite that'll hopefully be large enough to come out victorious by meals end. But after getting your plastic meal chip dispensed by the rickety vending box, even the voracious may be stunted by the thick dank air swirled with sour steam rising off angry pots of starchy water, eerie dark ooze along the walls, sludge collected from countless soles lathered on the floor, scurrying flashes of roach that thread the crevices, ingrained food resin plating the countertop, or the murky stock of inarticulate sections of pork, blood, and bone that bubble in an ancient cauldron stirred with a weather beaten wooden shank by a jolly, but sweaty, soup-smith. Whether out of homage towards this local legend or simple starvation, I have not seen a customer leave prematurely before eating. I saw that nearly every customer brought a can or bottle of drink with them which left me wondering in puzzlement over everyone's trust in the food but not the water. What awaits when the time has come, like the reverberation of the bell of doom, is simply and robustly a steaming bowl of swampy stock brimmed by a heavy web of rope-like 'men' topped with an unsinkable hot mound of boiled cabbage ringed with minced garlic. At that moment one just prays. What I assumed was the halfway point of my chewing trek I realized eating through this meal was the antipode of climbing a mountain. It was as if I were drilling into the core of a planet unaware of the depth that remained. I assumed a zen approach to my dilemma and ignored sensing the pile of my previous heapings starting to back up into the bottom of my throat. After several rests and momentary blinding white flashes, I was done. Key note, there is a reason customers are not given a spoon. The stock is inconsumable. Doing so, I would imagine, will guarantee radioactive offspring. An '84 Buick could win the Indy 500 on this stuff. The potent stock is meant only to season the otherwise bland cabbage and chords of noodles. My slurping muscles were sore but I had conquered Jiro. For those interested/insane, they offer a large size as well!!