Welcome to Dotonbori, Osaka — nedla by Alden Boon

Smartphones poised in mid-air, their owners craning their necks to capture the dazzling sights and sounds, from the 3D prancing Akita Inu on the façade of a building to vendors preparing their foods. Along one pathway that overlooks the river, street musicians bang on plastic barrels and belt out tunes to a captivated crowd; at another, a rola bola artist struggles to drum up even a scintilla of attention. People staking their earned spots in restaurants' and eateries' delineated queue zones — their companions rejoin them and ply them with freshly made gyozas and viral ten-yen pancakes. Ebullient tour guides at the bow of river boats, microphones in hand, hollering familiar Japanese greetings to hype up both their guests and pedestrians. Young bar promoters vying for the patronage of reluctant passers-by.
Welcome to Dotonbori, Osaka.

I arrived in Osaka, Japan, after a six-hour flight on a late Friday afternoon. In the months leading up to this trip — my first in four years — my excitement was tempered by anxiety: as someone with a laughable sense of direction, would I be able to navigate Japan's complex public transport system or find my way around its labyrinth of busy streets and quiet alleyways? I would have leaned into the fear and chosen the easy way out, which was to grab sustenance from the nearby Lawson and call it a night. But whatever gnawing fear I had was dulled by something else: the lure of Ichiran's famed tonkotsu ramen. Dotonbori, being home to Japan’s largest Ichiran building (and another one that doles out pork-free renditions), thus beckoned. And so, my inner glutton stirred, I grabbed my photography gear and headed out.

Getting on the wrong track of the Osaka Loop Line complicated what should have been a mere four-minute train ride from my hotel to JR Namba Station. And from the station, it would be another twelve-minute walk to my destination. As the sky began to darken, I hastened my footsteps, dreading the impossible dinner queue I was sure was already forming. My view, at first a monotony of office buildings and humble stores, soon changed. Passers-by were no longer clad in blazers and power suits but in fashionable outfits. Winding through the streets, I ended up in an alleyway that led to the back of the Ichiran main building. As I turned the corner, an unrelenting onslaught of neon signs and illuminated billboards greeted me: there was no mistake, I had reached my destination.

Crowd at traffic junction at Dotonburi, Osaka, Japan — *For a homebody who prefers quietude and solitude, the unceasing traffic and cacophonous sounds was at first discomfiting.*

Dotonbori, a four-hundred-year-old bastion of indulgence

Ever humming with activity, Dotonbori is one of Japan’s foremost entertainment and shopping districts. Its history harks back to 1612, and is owed to an entrepreneur by the name of Doton Yasui. Dedicating much of his wealth, he ordered the excavation of the river in hopes of expanding commercial opportunities. Indeed the area prospered, and over the next few decades kabuki and bunraku theatres sprang up.

For four centuries, Dotonbori’s status as an entertainment epicentre has prevailed and flourished. Today, it is a hodgepodge of clashing, ostentatious signboards, vending machines and congested pathways. In this microcosm of modern Japan, there is such a surfeit of food, retail and lifestyle options that it would be a herculean if not futile task to explore them all.

The Glico running man

Synonymous with Dotonbori is this marathon runner striking a victory pose. First installed in 1935, the current billboard is the sixth generation, and its manufacturer has jettisoned the use of neon lights for LED ones. The mascot was created for Glico’s first-ever product: the nutritious, heart-shaped Glico Caramel, whose tagline was a promise to fuel runners with enough energy to complete 300 metres on just one serving. Over the years, the mascot has become a symbol of triumph, used to commemorate the country’s achievements on the sports field.
Excited tourists clamour for an ideal photo spot, then gleefully throw their hands up to replicate this pose.

Canal bridge along Dotonbori River, Osaka, Japan — Ebisu Bridge
The Japanese are a superstitious people. So it is no surprise that to the main pedestrian bridge in Dotonbori was yoked an urban legend called ‘Curse of the Colonel’. In October 1987, fans of baseball team Hanshin Tigers congregated at the bridge to celebrate an upset victory against the Seibu Lions. There, rambunctious doppelgangers representing each of the team’s players leapt into the waters. But because they had not in their midst someone who resembled MVP American slugger Randy Bass, they raided a nearby KFC outlet, took a Colonel Sanders (who like Bass sported a beard) statue and tossed it into the river.
That was an ill move that greatly angered the Colonel, who cursed the baseball team. The Hanshin Tigers suffered an eighteen-year losing streak, and it was said that the curse would not be broken until the recovery of the effigy.

An abundance of food options

All the stalls regaling takoyaki and beef skewers could not distract me from my goal: I beelined for the Ichiran building. Joyous was I to see the short line coiling about the retractable queue poles right outside the restaurant; that quickly devolved into disappointment when I realised the queue in fact extended to a longer one right by the river’s edge. As I waited, I looked upon the earlier birds waiting in line and those exiting the restaurant with great envy.

Before long, I was at the front of the queue, order chit in hand, circling my preferences as to how I would like my ramen done. Eating at Ichiran was my initiation into Japan’s rather curious meal ticket system. It requires you to mull over your choices before a vending machine, the watchful gazes of other impatient patrons crawling all over your back. Then, you pass the dispensed ticket to a waitstaff, who seem to be able to decipher your taste buds from that slip. And it is not just restaurants that employ this method: bathhouses such as Kin No Yu in Arima Onsen, Kobe, uses it to facilitate admission.

For many (non-Muslim) tourists visiting Japan, enjoying a bowl of Ichiran’s tonkotsu ramen is a bucket-list item to cross off. My personal obsession developed years ago, ever since I tucked into my first instant-noodle bowl prepared by my sister. Very amazement took me: the enveloping umami note was incredible. I thought if the instant-noodle version could be that good, surely the real thing would be otherworldly.

Much has already been documented about Ichiran’s unique style of dining. Patrons take their places in partitioned booths. Waitstaff lift the bamboo-woven curtains to take the meal tickets or to serve the ramen, their faces kept obscured the whole time. The service was quick and before I knew it, a bowl of freshly made tonkotsu ramen was set before me. I took a sip, expecting it to unlock some ‘I-have-found-the-meaning-of-life’ revelation and for the world to stop spinning at once. There and then, I realised my folly to have overly high expectations. It was still good, of course, but I felt not any euphoria, nor did I feel it warranted a return trip.

After draining the bowl of the last drop of broth, I wondered: how would the waitstaff know when a patron was done and was leaving? How would they know when to clear the clutter? I shuddered to think there were weight sensors installed on the chairs. Not knowing what the next step was — no video chronicling the Ichiran experience ever touched on how to actually leave the restaurant — and wanting to be considerate of the waiting patrons, I pressed the call button and left the table. While retrieving my things, I threw a backward glance when I heard a loud greeting. A young waitress, squatting just below the curtain so that her full face was revealed, thanked me with a big smile. I reciprocated, wondering if she had just broken with Ichiran tradition.

Ichiran Dotonburi Tonkotsu Ramen Oldest — Ichiran

The unctuous blobs hinted at the richness of the broth. Having tried my sister’s homemade slow-braised pork belly which she paired with the instant noodles, I found the char siew, which was a tad dry, to pale in comparison.

Leaving Ichiran feeling underwhelmed, I decided a supplementary round of eating was much needed. I searched high and low for that gargantuan octopus grabbing a signboard: that was the signal that I had reached Kukuru. There were many patrons in the line for the takeaway option, but the line to get inside the restaurant was non-existent. Boy was I glad of the choice to do so. It was certainly a more dignified way of enjoying the piping hot snack. Instead of paper boxes, the golden-brown balls were served on an exquisite copper plate. I went with the kikkuri takoyaki, which had oversized chunks of octopus protruding out of their crisp-edged hosts. But once again, because I had romanticised Japan as this food paradise where every meal would be surpassing in taste, they fell short of expectations.

A5 grade wagyu buffet at Yakiniku Rikimaru Dotonburi Osaka — Yakiniku Rikimaru
On my third day in Osaka, I found myself hankering for one of Japan’s proudest specialities: wagyu, and of the highest grade (A5). A meal at a restaurant would burn a hole in my pocket, and quite frankly a slender two-hundred-gram piece of meat would leave me unsatisfied. And then I remembered a Grif’s Food and Travel video that documented his trip to Yakiniku Rikimaru, which offers A5 wagyu buffet. There are many Yakiniku Rikimaru branches across Japan, but the Dotonbori outlet is one of few that offer the premium option. Indeed, Dotonbori seems to answer the prayers of every hungry epicurean.
For the last time I made my way to the entertainment district, and on a Sunday afternoon, the crowd was just as fervent and jostling. I have no qualms dining or doing anything alone, but wandering into a buffet all by myself marked a first. But I was in good company, so to speak, as my neighbour was a skinny female solo diner, and so no shame fell upon me. The waiters made me feel right at home, their service eclipsed only by the sublime wagyu cuts, all grilled to a lovely smokiness. Right there, my memory of Dotonbori was made fond.