“A look like this in Canberra would mean that no one came through the door,” but columnist HUGH SELBY finds himself licking his lips with anticipation of a meal in faraway Hakata, south-west Japan, world famous for its ramen and gyoza.

Recall for a moment the smell, the taste and the look of what is, for you, a favourite dish.

Perhaps it is something that one of your parents or grandparents prepared when you were a child.

It might be from later in life, something special that your partner or a much-loved friend made.

To you, it doesn’t matter that others, such as siblings or offspring, either don’t like the dish or don’t remember it. To you it is real, it is delicious, it is a good memory.

Of course, that memory is more than the food. It also brings back the atmosphere when you enjoyed that food.

Perhaps it was helping the cook to prepare, by mixing ingredients, bringing in an ingredient from the garden, sifting something, pouring a splash of this or a cup of that into the bowl. 

It may even have been licking the bowl or the beaters so that nothing was wasted.

And, surprise, when you think about it, you can remember that dish being served, and whether you, like Oliver Twist, asked for more. You did, didn’t you?

Nothing upmarket about this place

It so happens that the local restaurant that I am about to describe encourages patrons to ask for more noodles so that the soup isn’t wasted, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

There’s nothing upmarket about this place. The entrance is off putting – a single aluminium door on the ground floor of an uninteresting building. The parking is across the road, almost right on the railway line.

Coming towards the door, it opens outwards so that full-stomach patrons can leave. They push past as you look into the noisy, lively place.

In the centre is a large cooking area. There are three cooks, all middle-aged, two of them women, working flat out. Cold and hot noodles are being rinsed and cooked, the slicer is making thin cuts of pork, large vats of stock are giving off a wonderful aroma.

Your fellow eaters are young and old, dressed in overalls, visi-vests, business attire and retiree casuals. 

Mobile phones are out of sight. The tables are full with people who are eating, drinking beer, water or tea, and talking.

An old guy, who seems to have been there forever, points every new diner to the ticket machine at the back of the room.

Choose your noodle dish from three or four, add any extras such as fried dumplings, put your money in the machine (no cards, thank you), get ticket, hand ticket to old guy, give him your drinks order, sit at table and wait for a couple of minutes max.

That gives you time to look around. There is nothing chic to be seen. A look like this in today’s Canberra would mean that no one came through the door.

The chairs and table are scarred and dented timber. There’s no padding. The floor needed resurfacing a decade ago and it will wait another decade. But the place is spotlessly clean.

The noisy kitchen space is filled with shiny metal cooking pots, pans, friers and drainers. The crisp whiteness of the cooks’ attire is a sharp contrast to the tiredness of the rest of the surroundings.

Ah, here is the old guy, looking a bit past it, but very agile when it comes to delivering drinks and large bowls of steaming ramen, along with the chopsticks and the soup ladle.

Oh, the smell, the smell. It’s been years but here is heaven on earth.

It looks so plain that if looks meant anything it would be sent back. A plain bowl, with a nondescript, off-white soup, with some corners of sliced pork sticking up like mini icebergs, and lots of freshly cut spring onion floating on top like seaweed at the beach.

Try the soup. No more justification for the trip is required. Why isn’t it as good anywhere else? Too much salt? Much too much, but, heh, once in a decade or more it won’t kill.

Pull up some noodles. Perfect. Made on site. Immediately understand why diners go back for more. Listen to the chatter all around, hear the slurping of the soup and the noodles.

Have a fried dumpling with a bit of soy. Have another. Tangy filling of mince, garlic and scallions, with the skin quickly cooked in a very hot pan with just enough oil and water to get a crispy finish.

The place has filled, emptied and filled again in the short time we have been inside.

This is a small business dream in hospitality: loyal customers, word of mouth, mostly locals, but also drawing from further away.

It’s not every decade that I get to Hakata in Kyushu for their ramen and gyoza.

Our eclectic columnist Hugh Selby usually focuses on things legal, but not today!