Won't The Real Fukuoka Noodle Please Stand Up Pt.2
A dad walked up to the shop with two kids in each hand.
“Otosan, here!” Said the mother.
“Mama!” The kids ran up to her.
It’s heart-warming, if this were a Japanese movie.
Unfortunately, it was 12.30pm Sunday, and the mother was standing near the front of 15-people to a ramen restaurant.
All sun, no breeze.
They basically just cut the queue, ignoring the rest of us.
That's right. I'm queuing up again.
And the line is much longer than Hanamokoshi on Friday.
But I’m relatively at ease.
When it comes to eating in Japan, professionals know that there are different types of queues.
This place can hold up to 25 people in one go.
Assuming each person takes 20 minutes to finish a meal, even though I'm 12th in line (now 15th), I should be seated within 15 minutes.
And since I'm all alone, they'd prioritise me compared to a party of two, three, and four. Less table space for them, more counter seats for me. This is much better than being 10th in line at a place that only fit 8.
So don't worry, this is a 'good' queue.
It’s my wife's favourite ramen restaurant, after all.
Guys, welcome to Anzen Shokudo.
I’m super at ease because she allowed me to come while the rest of the family went next door for a family meal.
This is a guilt-free excursion.
While waiting, I reminisced on the first time she brought me here.
You never forget your first-ever Hakata-style Tonkotsu ramen.
The thin and hard noodles brought me back to the night stalls of wonton noodles soup in my childhood.
After the meal, in the car, I told her: “It was good, but I'm really thirsty. I think they use MSG.”
Wife: “no, we don't use MSG like you guys! You just don't have the palate to taste the difference.”
Wife's dad: “no, no, they definitely use MSG. Like handfuls.”
Earlier this year, we sat at the counter and witnessed it with our own eyes.
Two spoonfuls of white powder, per bowl.
The guy to my left ordered ramen, and the guy to my right ordered ramen.
The couple behind me ordered ramen.
I did not order ramen.
“Champon, kudasai,” I asked the lady.
I wasn't lying when I said I'm over ramen.
Carbs and fat and soup and a thin slice of charsiu?
It’s time to grow up.
Based on Wikipedia, Champon was first served in Shikairō 四海樓, a Nagasaki Chinese restaurant in 1899. And according to Shikairō's website, the roots of Champon came from Hokkien shredded meat noodle soup 肉絲湯麵. They improved it by using seasonal seafood from the waters of Nagasaki such as prawns, squid, small oysters, chikuwa (fishcake), kamaboko(also fishcake), with bean sprouts, and cabbage. Frozen ingredients are available all year round nowadays, but back in the days, one could 'feel the four seasons with a bowl of Champon.'
Initially called 'Shina Udon'(!), it became Champon around the late Meiji era. Shikairō claims it sounds like jyak peng (eat rice) in Hokkien. I've also heard it sounds like campur (mixed) in Malay / Indonesian.
The biggest difference between Champon and ramen is that Champon is cooked in the same wok. You stir-fry the protein and vegetables in high heat, then add ramen broth, then noodles to finish. The noodles are also thicker than your normal Hakata noodles with higher hydration to withstand the longer cooking time.
Champon is the best of both worlds - the child of Japanese ingredients and Chinese stir-frying technique, attached to a long history with many prefectures trying to claim their own style.
For me, it’s a dish with added dimensions - seafood, proteins, vegetables compared to ramen. Hence the higher price - the kitchen has to spend extra time and effort on the dish.
Ramen is everywhere, but if you went to Kyushu, and you didn't try Champon that's not from Ringer's Hut, you did not visit Kyushu.
Before I get into the noodles, let me say Anzen Shokudo is true to its name.
安全 ‘safe’ and 食堂 ‘canteen’.
They have a billboard, signage, counter, tables, chairs, even baby chairs. You see the woks, the noodles, the old men and women pumping out food, a true open kitchen.
There are no rules, no posters to ban kids, no English menu, no gimmicks, no Michelin or Trip Advisor stickers, no ‘follow us’ on social media, no vending machine or lottery system, no flying fucks about photography.
On the counter and tables are giant tubs of red ginger, unlimited refill of sesame seeds, and ramen tare.
The ramen is solid, but what sealed the deal was the holy trinity of ramen, yakimeshi (fried rice), Champon. This place is a three-trick unicorn (sorry yakisoba) and the people, they know. That’s why they didn’t even make a fuss when a family cut the queue. In Melbourne, we’d be watching the fight on social media, debating the ethics of queing, the mental illness and emotional burden of parenting, some social commentary about the capitalist fetishism of modern dining.
For someone like my wife who grew up here, this is how a ramen restaurant should look like. This is how ramen should taste like. This is what modern ramen restaurants are up against.
If you want to judge it based on Michelin techniques, tearwaaaah, DOP, fermentation, single origin ingredients … you have no power here.
Here, it's all about nostalgia, and consistency, it's about customising the hardness of your noodles (orders taken verbally, not by ticking a sheet of paper containing multiple choice questions), delivering the kaedamas straight from pot to bowl, the wrinkles on the chef's forehead, the bandages on the grandma's finger, warmth in the air.
And that's why Anzen has been on Fukuoka's top whatever list forever.
I've tried many different Champons, but if we're talking about wok-frying noodles using ramen stock, there's no better stock than Anzen's. No better value than Anzen's. No better volume than Anzen's.
Sure you'll get thirsty from the MSG, but are we still on about this, in 2023? If you want to look fabulous wearing heels, you gotta risk growing some bunions and corns.
Just drink more water after.
It's free.
It tastes like a combination of lor mee and the sauce you get from seafood combination crispy noodles. Like chicken rice, I feel like Asians across the world can extract some sort of childhood memory from this dish. In fact, looking at history, I won't be surprised if Jiro-style ramen took inspiration from Champon. Tonkotsu stock, with a mountain of beansprouts and cabbage? Come on, at least call it a homage.
No one will tell you how to slurp, or how to enjoy your noodles here. If your kids are crying, or if you’re sweaty in your baseball uniforms, or here to eat three serves while playing games on your phone …
It’s ok, you’re safe here.
Just like traveling to Kyushu, the hurdle is getting here.
I'm fortunate to call this 'our part of town' through marriage osmosis, so my investment is only the waiting time.
My personal experience with 'outsiders' coming mostly ends with slight disappointment.
Transposing to Melbourne, it's like driving an hour to the west and another 30 minutes to be seated for coffee, or burger. No immediate train stations too.
But, hey, didn’t you say you want local?
This is as local as it gets.
A physical time capsule.
The name’s 'canteen', not 'Maison des Pipi.'
I ordered a fried rice to go.
For later, for dinner. For the family.
The old lady said xie xie to me.
And I thought bringing the smaller camera wouldn't give me away.
Yesterday morning, I realised I'd misplaced my international driver's license.
I didn't even know when or how it happened as I simply left it in the door compartment of the car. It could've happened anytime between the first day we arrived and ... this morning.
But I waited, risking unlawful driving, until I tasted my bowl of Champon - the conclusion of my ramen-review trilogy, before handing in the keys to the family.
If it's my last day driving, I’d like to drive to Anzen Shokudo.