Eighteen hours before you sit down, the pot is already talking to itself.
Pork bones, split and rinsed, go in at three in the afternoon the day before. They roll at a hard boil through the night and the next morning, collapsing into something cloud-white and heavy enough to hold a spoon upright in your memory. We do not rush it. We do not strain it early. The broth decides when it is done, and it has never once been wrong.
Noodles are cut in-house every evening: thin, firm, low hydration, built to stand up to the pot. The tare is a family of aged soys and a smoked salt we will not describe further. Some things belong to the kitchen.
Loud is better. The chef is listening, and silence worries him.
A bowl has about eight good minutes in it. The noodles will not wait for your conversation, and neither should you.
No reservations, no exceptions, no arguing with the chalkboard. When you finish, let the night have your stool.
The bowl arrives the way it was dreamed. Extra chashu and extra noodles are always available, because dreams can grow.
It is 2am and you ordered the level-five tantanmen. We saw nothing.
1142 Shelby Street
Fountain Square
Indianapolis, IN 46203
Look for the red lantern. If it is lit, the pot is on.
| Tuesday to Saturday | 9pm to 3am |
| Sunday | 9pm to 1am |
| Monday | Dark |
Cash and card. No reservations. Twelve seats at the counter, first come, first fed. The kitchen closes when the broth runs out, whichever comes first.