Andy Raskin's book is difficult to define. On one level, "The Ramen King and I: How the Inventor of Instant Noodles Fixed My Love Life" recalls the writer's deep and utter fascination with Momofuku Ando, "the 94-year-old billionaire who invented instant ramen in his back yard." It charts his career as founder and chairman of Nissin Food Products in Japan.
On another level, Raskin's work examines the ways in which Ando affected him personally. Through a series of frank and reflective letters he directs to the chairman but does not send, the San Francisco resident learns from his own mistakes with women he has dated. He discovers reasons for his infidelities and insecurities. He vows to do better.
Still, on another level, "The Ramen King and I" offers occasional looks into Japanese food and drink, both in the Bay Area and abroad, as well as Japanese films and comics. Raskin references these throughout his narrative, citing cinematic warriors, for example, and manga titles such as "Shota's Sushi" and "Ramen Discovery Legend." It is a tangle of threads. But it is a tangle that mostly succeeds.
With great enthusiasm and substantial clarity, Raskin talks of Ando's early days and experiences. He was born in Taiwan in 1910 and raised alongside two brothers and a sister by his paternal grandfather, a textile distributor. He considered the old man "a strict disciplinarian" and "an excellent role model for life as an entrepreneur."
In 1958, Ando experimented in a shed in his back yard in Japan and figured out a way to flash-fry noodles. This led to the creation of instant ramen. (A replica of the shack now stands "like a shrine" at the Momofuku Ando Instant Ramen Museum in Ikeda.) Thirteen years later, Ando developed Cup o' Noodles, utilizing a foil that would "serve as the top of a revolutionary packaging design in which instant noodles could be sold, cooked, and eaten." The product was subsequently renamed Cup Noodles.
Raskin devours as many books and articles by and about Ando as he possibly can, often quoting passages from autobiographies such as "Conception of a Fantastic Idea," "Magic Noodles" and "Thus Spake Momofuku." He attends a massive memorial service at Kyocera Dome Osaka when the chairman passes away in 2007, too; it is among the most endearing and compelling moments in the story.
The time the author spends researching Ando's beliefs, values and accomplishments coincides with the time he spends abstinent. He decides to stop dating in order to give himself the emotional distance necessary to understand his failures.
Heeding advice from a friend in a local support group, Raskin begins to pen letters that reveal intimate details of his fears and faults. Instructed to select a deity or a spirit to whom to address the letters (and thinking constantly then of ramen), he chooses Ando. His correspondence becomes an exercise in honesty. It is therapeutic and enlightening.
Eventually, Raskin realizes that the goals Ando established for ramen applies to his situation as well. The inventor wanted noodles that were tasty, long lasting, economical, healthy and safe. In the end, these words "also described the kind of healthy romantic relationship that had eluded me."
Does Ando actually repair Raskin's love life, as the author suggests? That is still debatable. The connection between the two men remains somewhat of a stretch. Though Raskin tries repeatedly to arrange interviews with Ando in Japan, for example, they never meet face to face. They never interact personally or professionally. The bond is tenuous.
For some reason, however, Raskin's memoir is oddly entertaining. Perhaps it is his earnestness and determination. So long as he believes Ando will guide and support him, who are we to spoil the illusion?
Perhaps it is the way Raskin peculiarly juxtaposes love with food, history with pop culture, and his life in San Francisco with his travels through Asia. Perhaps it is his voice, confident yet humble, self-effacing and unassuming. Or perhaps it is simply how he reminds us of the guys we knew in college, the ones who frequently faltered but genuinely meant well, who were inherently flawed but had significant potential, the ones who carried themselves a certain way, in short, the ones we couldn't help rooting for.
(A version of this review runs in the
San Francisco Chronicle.)
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