Michael Berdan ‘22
Opinions Editor
In early elementary school, my friend Kevin was a character. I remember his frumpy bowl cut (it was the mid-90’s, not that my own kids don’t rock the bowl in 2020); I remember him saying a bad word to the teacher on at least one occasion; and I remember him taking his shirt off in line and getting scolded for it. I remember very little bold misbehavior of this kind at my idyllic suburban elementary school in Washington State, so Kevin’s antics stand out like paint splatter all through my early childhood.
Kevin disappeared for several years, though, before resurfacing in high school, returning from the Christian school where he’d been transferred. He rode my bus, since he lived in the nicer subdevelopment that exited onto my street. We became friends, as was easy to do back then. Videogames, girls, books, and food: four bridges between us that we crisscrossed in conversation every morning at the bus stop, on the bus, and after school. At least once a week, Kevin would come to the bus stop clutching a thermos, or a packet of foil, either one containing some delight concocted in the twilight hours—Kevin kept an irregular schedule. “Holy shit, Mike B. Just, taste this,” he’d almost shout as he approached, “You’re gonna fucking die.” I’d step back, wondering what it was he was going to present to me. More often than not, he didn’t give me an option. “No, dude, trust me. Open your boca.” He would often insist on pouring the homemade saffron-chai tea or habanero-Baileys hot chocolate into my mouth himself. Or on dropping a bite of bananas foster, swimming in rum, onto my tongue. Or he would crack the crust on one of three variations of crème brûlée, and spoon it into my mouth with a flourish. “Taste. That. Shit. Are you a little turned on right now? I am. God, Mike B, you’re looking sexy with that crème brûlée. Feel the cream on your lips? So good. Ugh. Right?!” Then he’d launch into a minutely detailed explanation of his process. “So. I chilled the eggs overnight. I used a candy thermometer to try adding the eggs to the milk at three different temperatures…”
Food is like this. It’s the perfect meeting point between human basic need, sensual satisfaction, intellectual exploration, and interpersonal connection—food is intimate. That’s why restaurant ventures will always have a special intimacy to them. Every time I notice that a mom-and-pop restaurant has closed, I imagine conversations the proprietors must have had about dollars and cents, stamping out the creativity and generosity of spirit that drove them to open their doors, until there was no way forward.
COVID-19 has been uniquely cruel on this front, particularly crushing restaurants that rely on in-person diners. It struck in this way against a unique restaurant in our city’s culinary tapestry: Druknya House, the only Tibetan restaurant in the area, which closed and vacated recently. I cannot speak to what it means for one’s cultural cuisine to lose its single foothold in the region, but I will say that we should be intentional about supporting unique cuisine in Charlottesville. In the place of Druknya House rose Mashumen, a new midscale ramen spot, and, in a twisted form of penance for not having saved Druknya House, my wife and I went to the soft opening on Saturday night.
Mashumen has a fairly extensive menu, though the owner says it will expand further after the soft opening period. It includes several kinds of ramen: clear tonkatsu broth, creamy broth, miso broth, and all the variety of toppings you’d expect, over either straight or wavy noodles. There are also a variety of appetizers, vegetarian options, soupless noodles, rice bowls, and even handmade pastries for dessert. My wife and I had the Spicy Miso and the Mayu (creamy) ramen. Both were excellent.
Pictured: This isn't your $.25 ramen. Mashumen knows what they're doing. Photo Courtesy of Michael Berdan '22.
The owner came out to our table, greeted us, and asked us for feedback. “How was the soup? Was it too salty? Too spicy? Were the toppings all good?” I’m both the right and wrong person to ask, as I’m obnoxiously opinionated even when not invited to share, but I’m not a ramen connoisseur. I can wax Proustian about burgers, tacos, or pie, but ramen isn’t my niche.
Talking to her reminded me of Kevin. She wanted me to like what she made. She wanted the next person to like it. She was willing to be vulnerable to see that happen. Kevin’s vulnerability often came masquerading as arrogance, and it got him into trouble. One day, in junior year, he stopped showing up to the bus stop. He wasn’t at school, and didn’t return my calls. No one knew where he was. Weeks later, I ran into his mother at the store where I worked, and she told me they had shipped him off to a boot camp program in Utah. Kevin had been drinking heavily, sneaking out, stealing things, being aggressive with his parents, and despite his brilliance, failing school. When we connected on Facebook several years later, I found out he’d gone to a wilderness program, then an elite boarding school for academically gifted youth with behavioral problems. I haven’t seen him since he disappeared, though I hope to. I want to cook something for him.
Mashumen: 2208 Fontaine Ave, Ramen Bowls $12 - $20.
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mwb4pk@virginia.edu