Hooked On Hot (Part II): Nakamoto

I've been dreaming about going to Nakamoto for about three years now. The obsession began thanks to a Korean Airlines in-flight entertainment system, where peppered among the current Hollywood hits and classic movies, were several short Korean documentaries. One of them, subtitled in English as "Addicted To Hot Food," was hosted by a twenty-something guy who traveled with a small camera crew, visiting several places noteworthy for their spicy cuisine. These hot spots, if you will, included Calabria-the hot pepper capital of Italy, Avery Island in Louisiana-home of the world famous Tobasco Sauce, and a close up look at the fiery delights of where I was headed, South Korea.

Stirred into the mix was a segment about a special noodle bar in Tokyo, Japan. While Tokyo is stuffed with noodle bars, this particular one has created a rabid cult following of 'hot' fanatics. In droves, they line up outside the doors to sample the spicy ramen and accept their punishment.

I had to get to this place. But unable to catch the name, I was worried I may never get to try one of these flaming red rivers of fury. I went to Japan last year and was grateful that Kay, a Japanese friend who works in the music industry, was able to track it down based on what little information I'd given her. But due to scheduling, there was no time for me to visit. However, my luck changed this year with a return to Japan and a tour that included a night off in Tokyo. This presented the opportunity to fulfill my pilgrimage of pain.

The menu at Nakamoto consists of about a half dozen varieties of Ramen bowls, with a spiciness level of one to five. Figuring that I'd waited so long and traveled so far, I decided to go with the hottest and most famous, known as Hokkyuku or 'North Pole.' It hit me hard, immediately rivaling any hot dish I've ever had. This included Indian Vindaloo and Korean bul dak or 'fire chicken,' which I'd learned about from that same short film. The 'North Pole' ramen was, like its name suggested, white hot, an onslaught of spiciness and intensity of flavor.

Taking a break to wash it down with some beer, I noticed the cooks wearing these really cool black jerseys. They were not for sale to the public and only worn by the staff. The sleaves had the Chinese symbol for 'good luck' and, adding to the fortuitousness, had the English number "1968" on the back. This is my birth year and, as it turns out, also the year the restaurant opened. I couldn't help but think there was something very symbolic about this whole experience.

Kay explained to them in Japanese that I was a 'famous' American guitarist, born in 1968 and told the story of me seeking out the restaurant. The staff insisted on picking up a brand new shirt for me from their warehouse the next day. In my limited Japanese, I thanked them and in English, promised to wear it for my photo shoots, including Burn Magazine, Young Guitar and other Japanese music magazines. I would end up wearing it onstage for all the remaining shows in Japan as well.

Back to the task at hand: finishing my bubbling bowl of lava. The beer wasn't doing much to quell the pain and with sweat pouring down my forehead, my brain contemplated whether or not to 'abort mission.' But then, like settling into a musical piece, it seemed the more I hung in there, the more tasty it got. The flavor felt so alive and molten, like I was eating liquid fire. I managed to consume about 3/4 or more of the ramen and its shiny red broth, the hottest single meal I've ever had.

"Are you alright?" Kay asked afterward. I couldn't tell if she was impressed or bewildered by my madness, probably both. Having ordered the 'level 1,' she was safe. That made one of us.

"I'll be fine" I lied.

I felt like I was on drugs, blinded by the lights of the Shibuya District, setting of one of my favorite films, "Lost In Translation." I could hear the film's atmospheric soundtrack in my head. My stomach hurt and I was a bit fearful about the next morning. A little cold sake at a tiny bar nearby helped ease the pain, but I knew there was no avoiding the inevitable: I was heading for an extreme 'hot' hangover.

So how did I feel the next morning? I'll put it this way: I'd recently read about a statue of a Greek war hero who, captured by the Turks and sentenced to death, was impaled through his rectum. Let's just say I felt his pain.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. I'm happy to say I tried the "North Pole" ramen, although next time I'll probably go with a level 2 or 3. It was a 'mildly' dangerous adventure and a fun story to tell. I'm thankful to the staff for making the experience even more memorable and to my friend for taking me. Though I don't think I'll be ordering their hottest ramen again, I eagerly look forward to going back to Nakamoto.


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