A Morning Ramen Bowl in Yuriage

Before dawn on a Sunday, on the shores of the Pacific

A map from Sendai Station to the Yuriage area

The coastline of Tohoku, and Miyagi Prefecture in particular, cannot by any stretch be called warm from autumn through winter. But in exchange for that, there is a place where the environment itself becomes the finest spice. It is called Yuriage Morning Market.

For most people, five in the morning still belongs to the realm of sleep. Yet there are things that can only be tasted by shaking off the pull of a warm bed in that still-dark hour. The spice, in this case, is the cold.

Before the City Wakes

The parking lot is dim — darker still, the night’s shadow clinging on. The time is just past five. And yet many cars are already here. None of them have anyone sitting inside. Their drivers have already gone ahead, into the market, hunting for whatever it is they came for.

The parking lot is dark. The market, by contrast, is fully lit. The difference is striking. The people inside fall into three kinds: those selling fish, dried goods, and other wares; those browsing and hunting among the stalls, some of whom may well be professional cooks; and those standing in line outside the ramen shop.

The Line

In spring and summer, I always order Okinawa soba(Soki soba). It is a noodle dish from the southern islands — made from wheat flour rather than buckwheat, so not technically soba at all. As for why it can be found here, I see no need to look into the matter too deeply. You order it, it arrives quickly, and it is good. That is enough.

Okinawa soba at Yuriage Morning Market, photographed by the author.

But from autumn into winter, when the morning cold sharpens, I do something rare — very rare, for me. I stand in line. The line outside the ramen shop, waiting for it to open.

While waiting, only my hands, buried in my pockets, stay warm. Everything else grows cold. It cannot be helped. The Pacific Ocean is roughly fifty meters to the east. Some people take out their phones with stiffening fingers, check the time, then shove both hands straight back into their pockets, just as I do. Even those who came with someone else grow strangely quiet. Hunger and cold have a way of closing people’s mouths.

When the shop opens, we buy our tickets in turn and wait again. Those at the front get to sit. Most of us keep standing. When the voice of the shopkeeper — “Here you are, sorry for the wait” — reaches someone near the front, they lift their eyes from their phone. Steam rises thick in the cold air, briefly obscuring their view. But the rich, deep fragrance of seafood broth is more than enough to announce what is coming.

While waiting my turn, I watch those lucky enough to have reached the front, and to pass the time I compose sentences in my head. My turn comes. I find, with a small private satisfaction, that the words I imagined were not far off. I bring the soup to my lips. The moment arrives: I am glad I came.

Photo taken by the author at a ramen shop that used to be in the Yuriage Morning Market.

Why There Are No Houses Here

In Japan, people often order beer with ramen, at any hour. But that is not realistic here. Nearly everyone at this market arrived by car. The reason is simple: the residential areas are further inland. Where Yuriage Morning Market now stands, there were once homes. Then one day, everything was lost. Everything. That was about fifteen years ago.

Gochisousama

There is a phrase in Japanese: gochisousama. To understand it, it helps to look at the characters from which it is made. The first, chi (馳), is composed of two parts: the radical for horse (馬) on the left, and a character suggesting motion on the right. Together they convey a horse running at full speed. The second, sou (走), means simply: to run. Put them together — chisou — and you have something like: to ride in all directions on horseback. The image is of a host who, in order to welcome important guests, would personally mount a horse and gallop from place to place, gathering ingredients, making preparations, leaving nothing to chance.

That urgency, that devotion, eventually became the word for the feast itself — and then for the gratitude offered in return. Gratitude to those who made it. Gratitude to the food — to what was once alive. All of that, in a single phrase.

And yet modern Japanese people say it after a bowl of ramen.

When they finish, nearly everyone says gochisousama before leaving. I am no exception. After the finest of breakfasts, it is still not yet seven. What shall I do today? Anything is still possible. Perhaps find somewhere for coffee. I am grateful to be standing here, uncertain of what comes next. With that thought, I tell the shopkeeper: gochisousama, it was delicious — and step outside. As I do, a stranger steps in to take my place. Silently, I think: your turn now.

There are mornings when ramen is no longer just a way to end a night of drinking. It becomes something else entirely — a frame for a good morning, a reason to wonder what to do with a Sunday, a symbol of the particular privilege of being alive.

Sunrise at Yuriage Port, photographed by the author.

If you happen to eat ramen after reading this, you need not think any of this through. Simply taste it. And if it was good, tell the person who made it so.

An aftertaste, after all, does not live only in the mouth.