Outside of Goemon, the tiny new Japanese curry joint on Kenmare, a cartoon rabbit makes some dubious assertions about the "healing power" of the restaurant's cuisine. "Reduced blood pressure" "Reduced risk of Alzheimer's" "Boosted immune system" blares the cloud of thought bubbles surrounding the spokesbunny; "IQ up?" On this last claim, the telepathic rabbit is correct: you'd be a fool not to eat this curry.
I first encountered Goemon as many other noodle hounds likely have: brutal necessity. Endless Winter means my usual haunts are jam-packed with sniffling couples congratulating themselves on breaking their Tuesday night tedium. But for me this isn't a game. Thoughtfully demolishing a steaming bowl of starch after work is the grace note keeping a fugue state at bay. I'll sit at the bar, I'll get it to go, but a 30 minute wait for a date with myself is too much.
Seeing limbs spill out of Ramen Lab, and a line snake out of Cocoron, I ducked into Goemon, Cocoron's next door neighbor and sister restaurant. Empty. (Until now, I know. Fuck.)
You have but two true options: Classic or Soup.
Classic amounts to a thick, chicken and beef-based gravy. It's fragrant and sweet and just a little bit spicy. Add an egg, boiled or poached, and some cheddar cheese. The pork sausage is succulent and not too heavy; every grain of the sticky mound of rice will be used to mop up your mixture. A large order of this ($13) plus the aforementioned ad-ons ($1-$4 apiece) makes for a solid square. A vegetarian version with Japanese yams, shiitake mushrooms, zucchini and a stalk of okra is $15.50 for a large order.
The Soup curry is the showstopper. Two inches of broth—earthy, subtle, sublime—surrounds slivers of boiled potatoes, carrots, a boiled egg, and a grilled chicken leg, rubbed with spices that came off a spaceship. Next to this bowl is a small mountain of the sticky rice, whose sole purpose is, again, to ensure that none of this elixir is left in your bowl. A large order costs $18.50, and it is large indeed.
You can sub in pork and add vegetables to this mixture—lotus root, zucchini, Japanese yam—but I think I prefer it as is. Once you've cut up your vegetables, stripped the juicy bird from the bone, and mixed in enough rice, the simple joy of this dish is undeniable. This is what the mute hermit who rescued you from certain doom in the enchanted forest serves you for your first meal upon regaining consciousness.
Anything can be made spicier—there's a heat scale of 1-8, 5 being "super hot." I ordered 3 on all my visits, but regret not going to 4. Sapporo on draft is $6, and while not necessary as a spice-muting agent, it pairs fine with all the food.
The two picnic tables and handful of stools in Goemon's pizza-shaped space seat around 20 people, max, which all but ensures that this place is going to be a Code Red Shitshow and I'll be cursing The Couples again very soon. In a perfect world (a modest request!) the owners will find a bigger space nearby, just as they did with their two Cocoron franchises a few blocks apart.
Cash only. Magic hermits don't accept plastic (yet).
