Sunday, 6 March 2011

I love noodles. I'm gaga for gyoza. Crazy for katsu. Bloody hell, I just love Wagamama.

It all started in my first year of University. I was going out for some lunch with my housies and my good friend Lydia, queen of all things Japanese, suggested somewhere new, somewhere exciting. I'd never heard of it before, much to the surprise of others. I slid along a bench and placed my bag under the table in the handy compartment. I gave my order. Number 71, Chicken Katsu Curry. It came. I maneuvered my chopsticks like a child clutching a pen for the first time. As soon as that chicken and that sauce touched my lips, I was converted.

If I calculated how much money I'd spent on katsu and udon since 2007, I'm pretty sure it would be enough to buy the Mulberry bag I've been lusting after for the equivelent amount of time. My habit has even worsened recently. Discovering my friend Alexa's similar addiction, simply the sound of 'waga' weakens both of us. As the clock strikes 6:30, we're off around the corner to chow down.

Last week, we found ourselves in there two nights in a row. Staff recognised us. I felt dirty, like I was being judged. Luckily, I memorised my order a long time ago so there was little hanging around. Number 44, Ginger Chicken Udon. Number 100 Gyoza. All washed down with a Peach Iced Tea. It didn't taste the same though. It tasted...bland. Could it be that I had finally had too much of a good thing?

I will be giving up Wagamama for lent this year. I hope it will be easier than chocolate (I am never ever doing that again. I lasted two days) or alcohol (giving up booze as a fresher? Come on!) Fingers crossed.

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