Three minutes from Naka-Meguro Station, if you know the way. Forty, if you do not.
The shop is in Nakameguro, three minutes from the station if you know the way and forty if you do not. You go past the bridge, past the second konbini, and you turn into an alley that does not look like it leads anywhere.
It does not, mostly. There is a pachinko parlour that closes at one. There is a building with no name on it. There is a black cat that lives between the bins, and a single yellow lamp that has been replaced by the same man for thirty years.
At the end of the alley, on the left, there is a stairwell going down. There is a small noren over the door. There is, sometimes, a queue of two or three people. There is the smell of tonkotsu and rain on warm concrete.
That is us.
From Exit 1, turn left onto the main street and walk toward the river. You will cross a small bridge. The water below is dark at this hour. Do not stop on the bridge. Keep walking.
Past the bridge there is a konbini on your right, lit up white against the night. It is always open. You will want to go in. Walk past it. The alley is the next left, unmarked, narrow enough that two umbrellas will not pass side by side.
Thirty steps down the alley the pavement tilts. A metal railing appears on your right. Follow it. At the bottom there is a stairwell, six steps down, and the smell of broth before you see anything else. That is correct. You are close.
The noren is the only sign. Two panels of indigo cotton, the character for night in amber on the left one. If it is out, the door behind it is open. Push it gently. There are nine seats and one of them is yours.
You leave the noise of Naka-Meguro behind in three steps. The handrail is cold. The wall is the colour of old paper. Somebody, a long time ago, stuck a sticker here.
Pork bone, scallion, the green mineral cut of yuzu. It arrives at you about halfway down. By that point it is too late to turn back, which is the joke we tell new staff.
The door is small, low-set, and slightly warmer than the wall. There is a hum from the kitchen. The noren brushes your shoulder. Inside, somebody is laughing, somebody else is not.
The room is fourteen square metres. The counter is L-shaped, the lamp is hung at the height of nobody's head in particular, and the radio is tuned to a station that plays Bill Evans for most of the night.
There are nine seats. Seat nine is the small one, in the corner, facing the wall, and it is the one we keep for regulars. If you are sat there on your first visit, it is a mistake we will not correct.
The kitchen is in the middle. The chef cooks one bowl at a time. The hands of the chef and the hands of the customer are never more than ninety centimetres apart. This is, in our view, the correct distance for ramen.
There is no illuminated sign, no menu board, no logo on the door. The noren goes out at 23:00. That is the only signal.
Reservations are taken up to three nights ahead. Walk-ins fill whatever seats remain. If the noren is out, try the door.
No card payments after 02:00. The nearest ATM is at the konbini two streets back. We do not accept American Express.