In Tokyo, A Bowl of Udon That is Famous

When I say that these udon noodles are famous, what I mean to say is that my father-in-law still talks about them, without prompt occasionally, some two years after he slurped his bowl dry.

When I say that this eight- to ten-seat soba/udon stall, located within the compact maze of yakitori joints and izakayas clustered in what’s known as Piss Alley, just outside Shinjuku Station—one of the most wonderful train stations in which you will ever step foot—is famous, what I mean is that rare is the occasion that one walks up and takes a seat without first suffering a short wait. During primetime lunch hours, in particular, a line of mostly salarymen snakes back into the alleyways, sometimes 10 deep, sometimes more, sometimes less, but the wait is never long, because like at so many lunchtime eating houses in Tokyo, the food may be enjoyed, silently, but it is not to be savored over a long, languid sit.

Here, you order your noodles and the noodle master serves your noodles in less than 30 seconds and you attack and deplete your noodles in less than 10 minutes, tops. There are people waiting, after all, and don’t you have somewhere you need to be? Those people waiting for your seat sure do.

At night, when black suit jackets are slung over shoulders, ties are stuffed into briefcases, and the top collar button is unfastened—it was a long day, but now we eat and we get fucking wasted—the wait for a bowl of hot udon or hot soba tends to be shorter, but there will likely still be a wait, because this noodle stall is famous. When I say that it’s famous, what I mean to say is that these handmade noodles, and the delicate soy-based broth in which the noodle master serves them, are perfect.

Now, when I say that these Piss Alley noodles are perfect, understand that I make no claims as to knowing what constitutes a perfect udon noodle, technically speaking. I am not a certified expert in the world of Japanese udon, though many an udon noodle has passed through my body, and I do have a strong, learned sense as to which of those noodles were just okay, and which noodles sang songs of life and love and birth and death as they graced me with their noble, noodly presence. There are surely others more qualified than I to pontificate upon the finer points of the udon noodle—its texture, its girth, its charisma, the balance it brings or does not bring to The Force—so I urge those seeking missives on such matters to wade deep into the Google jungles and find your ark of the udon covenant.

For our purposes, however, allow me to exercise my learned, yet unschooled, opinion of the udon noodle bowls served at this tiny stall in Piss Alley, an area which you may also refer to as “Memory Lane,” if you prefer. As I say, the noodle master serves the noodles—your choice, udon or soba, but I implore you to opt for the former—less than 30 seconds after one places their order. When I say places their order, what I mean to say, and here I speak strictly to those who cannot speak in the local tongue, is to state “udon” or “soba,” then say “yes” or “no” when he blurts “tempura?” (for the love of god, say yes to the fucking tempura), then reply “yes” or “no” when he blurts “egg?” (up to you; I skip it).

That is how you order a bowl of udon or soba at this famous Piss Alley noodle stall. One of the great cruelties of Tokyo is that so many of its treasures—its delicious foods and cozy bars and atmospheric restaurants and secret spaces—are frankly off-limits, in practice if not in reality, to those who cannot read or speak Japanese. Here, however, we non-Japanese speaking rubes are welcome to rube-out, because ordering is easy, but please don’t embarrass yourself by lingering much longer than 10 minutes or so. There will likely be people waiting for your seat.

As for the udon noodles, what more can I say that what has already been said? They are handmade, and they are perfect, and they are famous. Tossed in a divine soy-based broth and garnished with a healthy pinch of fresh scallions, the udon are transcendent in that they are chewy and yet firm, which to my untrained tongue makes them addictive. Should you choose the tempura—and as I say, choose the fucking tempura—the noodle master shall crown your noodle bowl with it, a crunchy cake that breaks with elegance into sinking icebergs of battered vegetables adding texture and flavor, crispy at first, then soggier and soggier as the broth absorbs them.

This famous bowl of udon at this famous Piss Alley udon stall costs a modest 350 yen, or less than $3 for those of us rubes on the US dollar. But how to find it? Walk down along the western side of Shinjuku Station, going north, past the wretched Uniqlo, and keep looking to your right until you see the entrance pictured at the top of this udon missive. There you will see the udon stall on your immediate left, and there you will eat a famous bowl of noodles in Shinjuku’s famous Piss Alley; perhaps you will talk about it for years to come.