Salty with the flavor of Epsom
I slunk into my favorite ramen joint and took the seat at the far end of the bar. The mid-afternoon crowd chirped quietly to each other over the sound of a Japanese boy band oozing from the TV. I pulled my phone out and placed it on the bar next to me as I always did when I was working. Hundreds of files flicked across the screen in my notes app, each a different visit to a different restaurant with a different dish. Years worth of food reviews and the pictures to go along with them.
The cook acknowledged me with a booming “Irasshaimase,” that felt at odds with his hunched back and tired eyes. His white apron was stained with a hundred flecks of brown broth. At least the first part of my plan had worked. He didn’t recognize me under my hoodie and chunky Devil Wears Prada sunglasses.
When I’d first started my food critique column in the college paper I’d come here at least three times a week for the pork broth. Rich and creamy, alternating between spicy and umami, I’d never tasted anything like it. Girlfriends dumped me, professors failed me, jobs fired me, but the one constant in my life, the one thing that could pick me up no matter what I felt was this bowl of deliciousness. Even now, ten years into a career dedicated to food, I still felt that same craving every couple of months.
A thin sliver of fear dripped down my spine. The surgeon had said he’d been careful. The neurologist had said they’d taken every precaution possible. And still—
But it was too late to back out. The cook strode over and I signaled him for a bowl. I watched intently as he tossed a handful of hand rolled noodles into an aging pot that had been boiling since the morning hours. He carefully ladled out the broth, picking up a few slices of pork and grabbing an egg from the twelve gallon bucket I knew they kept hidden under the bar. What I loved most about the ramen here was that there was no pretentiousness. There were only four ingredients: rich broth, a thick slab of pork, thin noodles, and an egg that oozed golden cream when broken into. Perfection required attention and fresh ingredients; not needless complication.
The steam from the bowl fogged my glasses almost immediately after it was placed in front of me. I took my time unwrapping my chopsticks, rubbing the smooth wooden fingers against each other in a ritual as familiar to me as breathing. And then, with no other way to delay the inevitable, I closed my eyes, leaned forward until my nose blistered from the heat of the broth, and inhaled as deeply as I dared.
The spice hit first, searing its way across my nasal passages with an intensity that rivaled any party favor I’d ever had. I swallowed back against the heat and took another deep breath. Underneath the spice I could sense — I could almost make out —
My palms gripped the sides of the textured clay bowl until my fingers recoiled in pain from the temperature. I inhaled again, deeper this time, fighting through the tangy spice, searching for the rich umami flavor that I knew lay just underneath.
Nothing. The scent of clean, fresh air. Without opening my eyes I could have been in a hospital ward breathing pure oxygen.
I yanked the deep bowled spoon off of the bar, trying to ignore the rising panic in my throat. Think about the tasting notes. Concentrate. Find the flavor.
The first slurp of broth felt like hot lava burning through my mouth. I swallowed anyway and took another desperate slurp, holding the broth in my mouth as long as I dared. I tasted nothing but pain from the heat mixed with a mild saltiness. I might as well have been drinking bath water mixed with Epsom salts.
“All good?” the cook grunted in my direction.
“Yeah,” I lied, feeling my dreams fade as quickly as the steam from my glasses.
My phone stared up accusingly, waiting for me to tap out the tasting notes that could catapult a restaurant ahead, or close it forever. But who needed a food critic that couldn’t taste? ‘Salty with the flavor of Epsom’ wouldn’t sell a damn copy.
My eyes flicked up to scan across the bar. Smoke drifted from an incense stick burning at the end of the bar. The cook grabbed a wire basket of karaage from the deep fryer and tossed them into a waiting bowl to shake the excess oil off. The two women at the bar next to me laughed, one scrolling through pictures on her phone while the other held on to the bar to keep from sliding off. They’d been here before me, and still two untouched bowls sat cooling in front of them.
Jealousy tore through me like a starving tiger watching through cage bars as their zookeeper stomped a fresh steak into the dirt. How could a phone screen ever hope to be as interesting as this elixir of life poured into a bowl? How could they dare to ignore something so precious?
And then, as suddenly as it came, the jealousy rushed out of me within the space of an exhale. I tossed cash on the bar and left without another word. It was only after I got home, after I was hidden under my comforter with the snores of my dachshund to keep me safe, that the tears came.
Salty with the flavor of Epsom was originally published in Sixty Minute Stories on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.