April 20, 2012

My dearest,

The noodles are superb, I say. Al dente and very slurp-friendly. A smooth, noisy funnel of firm, curly strands straight from bowl into mouth. Perfect.

(The soup, however, I find hollow, entirely without character.)

The broth is amazing, you say. Thick and full of pork bone flavour. The umami is out of this world, you exclaim. I can drink this all night.

(And you do. The noodles, however, you are scornful of and spurn.)

When we finish our meal, our bowls are works of wonder. I’ve left nearly all the soup in mine; you’ve left nearly all the noodles in yours. Our dinner-mates look at us and at our bowls; one of them observes that if we combined both portions of leftovers, we’d have an entire new bowl of ramen, all the soup and noodles anyone could want.

And a little bit of extra: A taste of me and you. A perfect meal.

(Our friends gag at this, of course. Their loss.)

Yours, ever and always.