I have decided to begin a new series documenting my travels of connoisseurship across the world. I am a culinary Magellan, writing on the many intricacies of soup culture in my personal history.
This specific day in soup history begins on a wistful afternoon in 2018. It was a sunny day, as I recall, in the city known as Los Angeles. There were several clouds in the sky, and a pleasing sound was emanating from the 405 highway. Though I was a city of actors and surrounded by Instagram influencers, my mood was soaring. I should have been prepared for the doom that was coming next.
I was in that neighborhood in the western part of Los Angeles known as Little Osaka. For my uncultured readers, Osaka is a city in Japan. People refused to name this neighborhood after Japan's largest city of Tokyo, which tells you all you need to know about it. With this in mind, it is shocking I was not aware of my impending peril from the start.
Some of my more perceptive readers may be wondering, "If your experience was so harrowing, so disturbing, so unspeakable, then why is this considered a 'great day' in soup history?" It is in the same way that World War I is called the "Great War". Like World War I, this was a tragic event (Austria-Hungary, the country with easily the best soups in the war, did not win).
I am not afraid to speak the name of this dastardly establishment, because they hold so much tyrannical hegemony on the soup scene of this unholy city of angels that it is time someone spoke truth to power. I name Tsujita LA, a disturbing purveyor of ramen-like "food".
The name itself is disturbing. This restaurant was originally started in Tokyo, and so its establishment in LA is part of some insidious food imperialism, where Angelenos must suffer at the pale of this terrible colonial outpost.
Another disconcerting memory that comes to mind was its cleanliness rating. It had a rating of "B". Now, most people know that a score of "B" equals "Best" for most restaurants. This fact is undeniable. If this had been a Chinese restaurant, I would have been overjoyed by the rating. But this is a Japanese restaurant, probably the only one where I would expect an A rating, due to the sensitivity of the food being served there. One can see why I was so apprehensive to enter the restaurant.
It is time I spoke of my experience within the prison cell of the restaurant. I was seated at a bar-like area with my friend, and we remarked how difficult it was to communicate with one another. I could have let this go, but the events that happened afterward are so unsettling and dismaying that I absolutely cannot extricate them from my memory.
Alas, I saw the prices. The food was extremely overpriced, so it seemed. As a man who cares about prices for a variety of reasons, this was extremely hurtful and offensive. But like an unwitting man walking into a soup rip tide, I took my chances.
My dreams were crushed when I saw the quantity of the food. The price did not match the quantity of the food. Now, everyone knows the price+quantity property of restaurant food. If the quantity cancels out the price, then the food may be satisfying. In this school of logic, if the quantity of the food is high but the price is low, the food is at its utmost enjoyable. Philosophers before me have, of course, postulated the antithesis. If the quantity of food is low while the price is high, this is a fate worse than death.
So was the case as I viewed my food. Food, dare I say, is a generous term for what this was. Because what I saw before me was cold noodles, a small bowl of pure broth, and a lime.
You call this soup? The drums of doom rang in my head as this question echoed through my very soul. This was soup? The noodles, not even hot! The lime, sitting there lifeless and useless! The broth, one of the most horrifying sights I have ever seen! There was no pork in the broth, either. It was just broth. Just broth!
I am surprised I did not pass out at that very moment. Somehow, I composed myself and managed to eat the steaming heap of garbage in front of me. Or, shall I say, I ate it while it was steaming, because the "soup" became cold very quickly. Because, you see, the idea is to dip the noodles in the broth. I say this is an affront to men everywhere. This is an affront to our shared cultural values. And I will permit it no more.
This meal does not deserve a viscosity score. There was none to speak of, because my enjoyment of the liquid was so little.
You may be thinking, certainly, that this was the worst experience of my entire life. That would be quite perceptive, but you would be incorrect. Because this was not even the worst experience of the entire afternoon. I name to you a horror worse than even the worst soup —our waiter was a white man speaking fluent Japanese.
Yes, you have read that correctly. If your eyes have not gone blind, I shall explain. He spoke Japanese like a Japanese man. I do not know why this man would do such a thing. Here was a man, with a tonkotsu-like skin complexion, speaking a language which hurt my very ears, because it was spoken by a white man. What was the purpose of this? If you are a white person who enjoys watching anime, that is grounds for deportation enough. But to speak Japanese at a Japanese restaurant as a white man? Truly reprehensible.
I was ready to stagger out of the restaurant. Then it came time to pay. And here was the worst part of the day.
Cash only.
Cash only restaurants should be wiped off the face of this planet. I know not a soul who carries around cash anymore. If you do not pay in credit, you are an outcast and recluse, and deserve to walk amongst the philistines. And this restaurant, this restaurant, they even had an Automated Teller Machine. Imagine the insult!
So I paid and left the restaurant. I breathed the fresh air coming from the 405. And like Orpheus, I turned back to look at this hell of hells. And from that day forth, I vowed to be a soup connoisseur, and adjudicate once and for all what should and what should not classify as a soup.
Soup Score: 2.2/10
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