Cheap Ramen

You step off the main road and find this place — a battered ramen shop squeezed between concrete walls. The yellowed menu, printed in big red numbers, screams cheap prices: 650 yen, 750 yen, no-frills. A cartoon pig clutches a bowl of noodles on the glass door, half peeled from the sun. Inside, the world is frozen somewhere around 1988.

The air smells like pork bone broth, grease, and old steam. A row of bolted-down stools lines a scuffed counter littered with plastic condiment jars — soy sauce, chili oil, yellow mustard — all slightly sticky to the touch. A lone hand sanitizer stands awkwardly near the door, almost out of place.

Behind the counter, two old-timers in faded yellow shirts work the tiny open kitchen. No shouting, just a rhythm: ladle, noodle, bowl. Steam rises constantly from the pots, blurring the fluorescent light overhead. In the corner, a faded toy pig watches over the customers, plastic smile cracked. The walls are crowded with handwritten signs, posters offering extra noodles for free, and the occasional warning: “No Smoking,” “Cash Only.”

Time barely moves here. Customers eat hunched over, slurping fast, jackets still on, phones ignored. This isn’t a place for foodies or influencers. It’s ramen for people who need it — cheap, hot, fast — and then back to work, back to life.