Onomichi ramen andhomemade okonomiyaki

My day in Onomichi began with ramen. Onomichi ramen is made with a broth of dried sardines from the Seto Inland Sea, seasoned with soy sauce and topped with minced pork back fat. When I lifted the flat noodles, beads of fat glittered in the clear soup. On top sat slices of chashu, bamboo shoots and chopped green onion.

Light and rich at the same time, in a single bowl: a luxurious taste. Behind the counter, noodle strainers stood in a row, steaming. On the side I had jako-gohan, rice topped with Setouchi whitebait and an egg yolk, and a plate of chicken with salt and ponzu, packed with flavor.

On the wall hung a poster for a video game set in Onomichi. All the leading actors and supporting characters give great performances, I thought, and that went for the ramen, the rice and the chicken too.

Just outside the shop ran the railway line, and a yellow train crossed right in front of me. At the entrance to the arcade hung a sign reading Center-gai. Onomichi's main street is a shopping arcade about 1.6 kilometers long, running east to west between the sea and the hills.

I walked under the glass roof. A freight train slipped past at the end of an alley, and I passed a former public bathhouse that still carries the name Yamato-yu, said to have opened around the end of the Meiji era. Beyond the awning of the Ekimae shopping street, a hillside packed with houses came into view.

Onomichi is famous as the setting for many movies and anime. Just walking around, you keep meeting scenes you have seen somewhere before.

On a corner of the arcade stands a small cinema. This is a movie theater that once closed its doors. In 2001 the last cinema in the city shut down, and the movie town was left without one.

The current manager, who I was told was in her twenties at the time, founded a nonprofit with film-loving friends, asked the townspeople for donations, and in 2008 reopened the old theater building as a cinema. It still operates today as the only movie theater in Onomichi.

Beyond the streets reflected in the glass doors hung a round sign. Next Week's Screening, read the board, above a wall covered in posters. Through the glass, a bag of popcorn faced the street. The story felt like something out of a film, and my heart fluttered.

Leaving the cinema, I climbed an alley up the hill and looked up at the drifting clouds.

As the sun went down I wandered the alleys. A sign reading Out for Delivery hung on the glass door of a liquor shop. On a corner of the arcade glowed the sign of Keima, a fish-cake shop founded, I learned, in 1913.

I walked back to the house along a stone-paved lane.

I had bought some locally grown Setoda lemons. Setoda, on Ikuchi Island in Onomichi, is one of Japan's biggest lemon-growing areas, and Hiroshima Prefecture produces more than half of the country's lemons. The ones in my hand were still green. From autumn onwards, I was told, these brightly colored green lemons come onto the market.

I cut one in half, poured soda water over ice, and squeezed in a wedge. The lemon bobbed among the bubbles. Sitting by the window, looking out at the garden, I took a sip. The refreshing sourness felt wonderful after a day of walking the slopes.

The other plate held fritters from the fish-cake shop in the arcade. Okonomiyaki-ten is a fried fish cake made from fresh Seto Inland Sea fish, with cabbage and noodles mixed in. Beside it I set nitamago-ten, a soft-boiled egg wrapped in fish paste and fried, its yolk still runny.

A squeeze of lemon, and a bite. Local ingredients meeting local food: a pleasure to eat. Out in the garden, the table and chairs caught the evening light.

In the evening I went out once more. Walking along the railway, past the sign for the Senkoji-mae crossing, the town opened out before me. From the high ground, the sea glinted beyond the rooftops, and a yellow train threaded its way through the houses.

The crossing lights flashed red and a train rolled by. By the time I got back, the lamp under the eaves was lit.

Dinner would be okonomiyaki. Onomichi's version, I had heard, includes chicken gizzard and squid tempura among its ingredients. I wondered what it would taste like.

I cut a cabbage in half and sliced it thin, fried the gizzard in a pan, and mixed the batter in a bowl. Under the kitchen lights, everything came together.

Unlike a restaurant, there is no griddle here, but I really wanted to make it, so I took on the challenge with a frying pan. Over a thin layer of batter I piled shredded cabbage and yakisoba noodles, then scattered the fried gizzard on top.

I slid it onto a plate, then flipped it back into the pan. Now the browned batter was on top. Pressing down with the spatula, noodles and cabbage spilled out around the edges. I think this is going to go well.

In the empty pan I cracked and stirred an egg, then moved the whole thing on top of it to cook once more.

A generous pour of okonomiyaki sauce, a sprinkle of dried green seaweed, and the Onomichi-yaki is ready. I carried it to the table, pan and all, with a glass of lemon soda alongside.

Lifting a piece with my chopsticks revealed the layers of noodles and cabbage. The cross section is beautiful. I served some onto a plate and took a bite. The flavor of the squid tempura and the crunch of the gizzard do a fine job.

Retro, yet modern, and packed with all sorts of things: a fun taste. Just like the town of Onomichi.

Night deepened under the red glass lamp. On the shelf sat a mug and a cat-shaped cookie. I tidied the kitchen and ended the day in a house still glowing with light.

I wonder what kind of life I'll find next.