Shaking off the Ghosts Through Ramen

Revelations found at the bottom of the bowl

For several few months I had been feeling like I’m trying to pass—or get past—what I can only describe as an emotional kidney stone. Feelings of stress calcified from an overloaded plate of mealy to-do list items that became a knot roiling over one another constantly, infiltrating my sleep with prompts like “It’s 3:30 am: you better make that to-do list now,” or “check that bank balance again” or my favorite, “You’re trying to meditate to get back to sleep? Well let me bring four other things to the forefront of your mind instead so you don’t forget.” Lying in bed awake at night or catching myself staring off into the abyss during the day, it felt like trying to shake off the ghosts no matter the hour.

I haven’t experienced this state of overstimulation in my body in a long long while, mostly because I had employed modalities for coping—or so I thought—like taking those baths every week, going for walks, processing outwardly in the safe keeping of my mother’s living room sofa or with a girlfriend over brunch, saying “no” to engagements, tasks, etc., digging into my bag of crystals and herbs to speak good intent over myself and blessing it with a tea concoction for stress relief. None of these techniques am I so green as to misunderstand them as miracle fixes, but as remedies to cope with every day little anxieties niggling at me, staying close enough to my body’s desire for relaxation enough to guilt me into feeling I was not worthy of experiencing it.

And then I went to dinner one evening at Tori Ramen with my partner. We live in St. Paul and have driven past this place—an otherwise nondescript out-of-commission train car on a quiet strip of West 7th—at least 100 times before even thinking to explore it. It was after one recent trip down the street where my husband googled and saw it was a noodle shop. We went by immediately that weekend.

Tori Ramen in St. Paul used to be Tori44 in Minneapolis, a glorious noodle shop in the Camden neighborhood of North Minneapolis. It served up and continues to serve speciality noodles that are free of pork but full of robust flavor combinations like the Salted Duck ramen with citrus, soy, dashi and daikon radish, or the Bali ramen with tahini, poached egg, chili and fried leeks. You might mistake Tori—as we did— for a place serving seafood or classic American fare because of the anchor on its logo, but what is St. Paul if not a jewel box of a city with hidden gems that ask you to invest time in unearthing them?

Inside, Tori unveils one of the coolest train cars-turned-dining space with dark wood accents, hanging plants and one of the best cocktail bars in the city. Elaborate and ornate wallpaper vibrantly colors the walls, making the space feel larger and more open than it appears from the outside, and vintage stain glass lamps line each table. Everything is made from scratch, nothing goes to waste.

But about the ramen, because that is what brought both you and me here today.

I waffled between the Korean ramen and the Oxtail because you get ramen in order to be cradled by hearty, fatty flavors. I found myself trying to contemplate how I really felt about oxtail—the food most associated with Caribbean cuisine—being used in a ramen dish that cost $30, knowing how much oxtail has been co-opted and up-charged in upscale dining over the past decade. But I really fucking love oxtail, and so I ordered it. And it’s amazing how one of the best bites of your life allows your brain to forget. Forget what the question that preceded it was. Forget whatever dilemma felt more urgent just a minute before. Forget I’ve been eating crumbs and small meals during the week so that I didn’t cut into being “productive” too much. Forget that I’ve been so preoccupied with inhaling that I forgot to exhale…

I devoured that bowl, the smoky heat of black garlic chili peppers and sharp scotch bonnet leaping from my lips with each inhalation. Tender noodles swirling drunkenly in a broth of sesame, chili, onion, radish and herbs. Beautifully braised meat, soft and both sweet and savory on my teeth. The spice was so intoxicating it made me euphoric, simultaneously wincing from the heat and giddy from the rush of flavors to the head, tossing it back, laughing to keep from crying while a tear sprung up in my left eye anyway. Because it needed to.

Something about that experience of being so present in my body, moving to get both from under the heat and closer to it, turned on a lightbulb in me. I must have forgotten that in order to shake off my ghosts I only needed to move. Move my body physically, my hips to let loose the tension blocking safe passage for my pleasure. Free my throat by letting the vibration of my shouts—whether of jubilation or frustration—free from my lungs. Remind myself that my feet nor my feelings were tethered to their current station to grow weeds.

I left dinner that night thinking of all the delicious ways I would untether myself from feeling stuck and start to break up whatever was forming a solid knot inside of me. And so, I’m off to my first cupping appointment as we speak for some body work to relax my muscles, and I have plans let my body and mind flow like a noodle in a bowl of delicious broth for awhile, becoming loose and tender.