The Day I Almost Kissed a Ramen Chef in Tokyo

I pointed at something on the menu with the confidence of someone who definitely did not understand what they ordered. The chef nodded like a samurai accepting a duel.

And then—magic. He sliced, stirred, swirled with the elegance of a Michelin-level ninja. I watched, hypnotized. This wasn’t cooking. This was a culinary opera.

Then came the bowl. I took a slurp—loud, as Japanese etiquette demands—and nearly wept. My ancestors felt that broth.

I looked at the chef. My heart said, kiss him. My brain said, at least don’t make it weird. So I settled for a deeply respectful bow and a mental love letter to his hands. And that, dear friends, is how I almost kissed a ramen chef in Tokyo.