scene like the one in her favorite book ( except that my genitals survived intact ) . Now everything was going to be OK, I thought, because without saying anything, Kim had basically told me that she loved me.
I spotted a blueberry bush on the side of the road.
“Let’s get out and pick some blueberries,” I proposed.
I pulled over, but Kim didn’t get out of the car. Picking blueberries by myself, I felt the panic return. How could a woman say no to picking blueberries by the side of the road with a man she loved? The only explanation I could think of was that she didn’t love me after all, and that she was still planning to break up.
We flew together as far as Chicago; from there Kim returned to New York and I to Detroit. I complained to the Avis agents about being upgraded to a midsize and left Detroit Metro Airport in the front seat of a purple Pontiac Grand Am. The next morning I was so obsessed with whether Kim was going to break up with me that I found it impossible to write about bar code labels. In the middle of the workday, I drove across the street to Saks, where I picked out a lacy white bra and matching white panties that made me hot just looking at them, and the thought of Kim wearing them drove me crazy.
That night, in my hotel room, the phone rang.
“We need to talk,” Kim said.
I don’t remember anything else she said, but she made it clear that she wasn’t happy and that she wanted to be apart. After I hung up, I threw the phone receiver at the wall so hard that it made a hole. How’s this for self-delusion, Momofuku? I convinced myself that I was the victim, and that Kim had betrayed me.
The next morning, I left the hotel and got into the purple Grand Am. It was almost Thanksgiving, so the air was cold and heavy; Big Beaver Road was veiled in a thin layer of snow. I drove across the street to Kmart headquarters and parked in a spot directly in front of the Kmart Corporate Head. The lingerie I had bought for Kim lay on the passenger seat, in the bag from Saks. I felt that I should get out of the car because people were expecting me in the Cross-Dock Team office, but I just sat there, staring at the Head. Then I began to cry. Snow was falling now, partially obscuring the view through the windshield, but I could still make out the Head hovering in front of me.
Just then, I thought of Go Forth, and in the front seat of the Grand Am, I tried screaming the line from the show.
“I wanna ___!”
I got the first two words out. But I couldn’t think of anything—not a single thing—to fill in the blank. This put me in touch with something I can only describe as horror. It was a horror I must not have been ready to face, because I only let myself feel it for an instant.
Sincerely,
Andy
A fter being asked his favorite question in the world, Masa told me that Ramen Jiro was a small restaurant on a triangular plot near the edge of Keio University, the elite school in Tokyo where he had been an undergraduate. Ramen Jiro served ramen, Masa explained, and eating ramen was all anyone did there.
“Yet,” he insisted, “Ramen Jiro is not about ramen.”
I asked what it was about.
“Difficult to explain,” Masa said. He seemed to struggle for the right words. “I guess it’s something on another dimension.”
I ordered more sushi. For the next thirty minutes, Masa related his experiences at Ramen Jiro.
The first time he went, he was a freshman at Keio University. A senior had invited him, explaining on the way to the restaurant what to do and what not to do.
“The first rule,” Masa said, “is that no matter what, you can’t talk to the owner. He’s this serious-looking old man, and you can only talk to him if you’re on the university judo team. That’s because he sometimes works out with those guys. Anyway, I was on the tennis team, so no talking. The second rule is that you can’t leave any noodles or soup in your bowl. That is difficult because regular chashu men [a bowl
I spotted a blueberry bush on the side of the road.
“Let’s get out and pick some blueberries,” I proposed.
I pulled over, but Kim didn’t get out of the car. Picking blueberries by myself, I felt the panic return. How could a woman say no to picking blueberries by the side of the road with a man she loved? The only explanation I could think of was that she didn’t love me after all, and that she was still planning to break up.
We flew together as far as Chicago; from there Kim returned to New York and I to Detroit. I complained to the Avis agents about being upgraded to a midsize and left Detroit Metro Airport in the front seat of a purple Pontiac Grand Am. The next morning I was so obsessed with whether Kim was going to break up with me that I found it impossible to write about bar code labels. In the middle of the workday, I drove across the street to Saks, where I picked out a lacy white bra and matching white panties that made me hot just looking at them, and the thought of Kim wearing them drove me crazy.
That night, in my hotel room, the phone rang.
“We need to talk,” Kim said.
I don’t remember anything else she said, but she made it clear that she wasn’t happy and that she wanted to be apart. After I hung up, I threw the phone receiver at the wall so hard that it made a hole. How’s this for self-delusion, Momofuku? I convinced myself that I was the victim, and that Kim had betrayed me.
The next morning, I left the hotel and got into the purple Grand Am. It was almost Thanksgiving, so the air was cold and heavy; Big Beaver Road was veiled in a thin layer of snow. I drove across the street to Kmart headquarters and parked in a spot directly in front of the Kmart Corporate Head. The lingerie I had bought for Kim lay on the passenger seat, in the bag from Saks. I felt that I should get out of the car because people were expecting me in the Cross-Dock Team office, but I just sat there, staring at the Head. Then I began to cry. Snow was falling now, partially obscuring the view through the windshield, but I could still make out the Head hovering in front of me.
Just then, I thought of Go Forth, and in the front seat of the Grand Am, I tried screaming the line from the show.
“I wanna ___!”
I got the first two words out. But I couldn’t think of anything—not a single thing—to fill in the blank. This put me in touch with something I can only describe as horror. It was a horror I must not have been ready to face, because I only let myself feel it for an instant.
Sincerely,
Andy
A fter being asked his favorite question in the world, Masa told me that Ramen Jiro was a small restaurant on a triangular plot near the edge of Keio University, the elite school in Tokyo where he had been an undergraduate. Ramen Jiro served ramen, Masa explained, and eating ramen was all anyone did there.
“Yet,” he insisted, “Ramen Jiro is not about ramen.”
I asked what it was about.
“Difficult to explain,” Masa said. He seemed to struggle for the right words. “I guess it’s something on another dimension.”
I ordered more sushi. For the next thirty minutes, Masa related his experiences at Ramen Jiro.
The first time he went, he was a freshman at Keio University. A senior had invited him, explaining on the way to the restaurant what to do and what not to do.
“The first rule,” Masa said, “is that no matter what, you can’t talk to the owner. He’s this serious-looking old man, and you can only talk to him if you’re on the university judo team. That’s because he sometimes works out with those guys. Anyway, I was on the tennis team, so no talking. The second rule is that you can’t leave any noodles or soup in your bowl. That is difficult because regular chashu men [a bowl
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