I have a memory of the most amazing ramen in Kyoto. It wasn’t perhaps the best around, and I don’t remember it being super sophisticated- but it came at just the right time. Winter. Cold drizzle and fog were upon us. We saw somebody exit this shop near us. When they opened the door, a cloud of steam blasted out and crystallized in the frozen air. We had to go in. Inside it was entirely wooden, a bit like you picture a mountain cabin. The atmosphere was foggy and the smell of broth so thick you’d swear you’d already started eating. I vaguely remember eggs, pork and onions. But the gist of this memory isn’t any one specific ingredient, it is the incredible warmth of that moment.