Hello. My name is Edmund Yeo and I think I'm addicted to Abura Soba.
Abura Soba, which means "oil noodles", is essentially ramen and toppings served without the soup, but with a small quantity of oily soy-based sauce instead.
There is a bloody awesome Abura Soba shop near the place I'm staying (it's on the way to Edogawabashi station) that's open until 3AM.
Even when it's hours after midnight, people tend to line up outside the place. Fellow addicts.
This deceptively peaceful looking shop is the root of my problem.
My Japanese dorm mate Kawabe goes there every night, and he invites my Hong Kong dorm mate Jason, who in returns invites me too.
I always look at my bowl of noodles with a mixture of fear and bliss. Fear for becoming fat and ugly again thus shallow women who care more about looks than the beauty of my delicate soul and the joy of my comedic wit will turn away from me.
Yet my newfound addiction had been too strong. There was no way to stop.
In mere moments I find myself staring at a half-finished bowl of noodles. I have turned into something that I myself can barely even comprehend.
It's just so bloody good that I can't quit you, damn it!
Behind me is Kawaba-san, the one covering his face is Jason, who went nuts when he knew I took the photo and told me to remove him from it, and I said "don't be an idiot, removing you means that I'm removing two thirds of the picture, suck it up!"
I now try to limit my visits to once a week. Maybe I can handle it. I dare not imagine what will happen if I can't.
Abura Soba, which means "oil noodles", is essentially ramen and toppings served without the soup, but with a small quantity of oily soy-based sauce instead.
There is a bloody awesome Abura Soba shop near the place I'm staying (it's on the way to Edogawabashi station) that's open until 3AM.
Even when it's hours after midnight, people tend to line up outside the place. Fellow addicts.
This deceptively peaceful looking shop is the root of my problem.
My Japanese dorm mate Kawabe goes there every night, and he invites my Hong Kong dorm mate Jason, who in returns invites me too.
I always look at my bowl of noodles with a mixture of fear and bliss. Fear for becoming fat and ugly again thus shallow women who care more about looks than the beauty of my delicate soul and the joy of my comedic wit will turn away from me.
Yet my newfound addiction had been too strong. There was no way to stop.
In mere moments I find myself staring at a half-finished bowl of noodles. I have turned into something that I myself can barely even comprehend.
It's just so bloody good that I can't quit you, damn it!
Behind me is Kawaba-san, the one covering his face is Jason, who went nuts when he knew I took the photo and told me to remove him from it, and I said "don't be an idiot, removing you means that I'm removing two thirds of the picture, suck it up!"
I now try to limit my visits to once a week. Maybe I can handle it. I dare not imagine what will happen if I can't.
