In the Skinjuku district there's a tiny three to four block neighborhood known as Golden Gai. For as small as it is, there are several hundred bars and restaurants stacked on top of each other. The entire neighborhood is no higher than two stories though, so the slew of earthquakes Japan has seen haven't phased it. These buildings are a vestige of an older Tokyo untouched by any signs of redevelopment. The entrances are no wider than three paces and so tightly compressed that no bar I saw seated more than seven. Some of them are marked with only a sign of cat or an enigmatic handwritten sentence in kanji on the door.
This is where I find the first ramen shop of the trip, Nagi, which specializes in a sardine broth ramen.
Our group waited single file in an unlit alley until a voice beckoned through a pvc pipe to "come upstair" one by one. At the top of an impossibly steep staircase (that could double as a ladder honestly) was a tiny ticket machine from the 80s. I inserted my money, pressed the photo laminated button of my desired ramen, and took my printed ticket to the counter without a word.
From an operations standpoint, this place runs like a machine. There literally is no back of house. The prep counter is a tiny cutting board precariously balanced over two pots of steaming broth, the dry storage is a tower of boxes neatly stacked to the ceiling behind us, and the "line" itself is so narrow that the two cooks had to turn face to face in order to pass by each other—looking almost like dance partners spinning over boiling cauldrons of cooking noodles.
The countertop was so shallow that my knees pressed up against the counter underneath when I leaned forward to slurp up some of the soup.
What they made was sublime. The broth had a wonderful level of saltiness, and wasn't overwhelmed by the sardines. It had a slight smokiness, akin to a dashi, but with sardines instead of katsuobushi. The longer the ingredients stewed in the broth, the softer they became and blended more harmoniously. The fat from the all-important chashu (marinated braised pork) slowly started melting into the broth, making it an incredible soup all on its own without any of the accompaniments.