After I ingested what amounted to more than my body mass in ramen while abroad in Tokyo, it was probably inevitable those wiggly wheat noodles would find their way into my blood, and now I simply can’t let their slippery taste go. Luckily, I am not the only one stricken with ramen infatuation. The rest of Japan spent so much time salivating over the stuff that they went so far as to invent instant ramen to shave an already short ramen-stand waiting time down to a fraction of its former self, and to ensure such a dish was available to anyone anytime of the day for under three dollars in just under three minutes. They even have a movie devoted to the quest for the perfect ramen (if you haven’t seen it, Tampopo is a cult classic). Coming from the country to have invented Iron Chef, it seems only fitting that their regional ramen be a more competitive field than the sake trade.

I have piqued your interest, I can tell. Iron Chef? you ask. Steaming hot tureens of salty goodness wafting up at you? you dare to imagine. Sliced pork? A whole egg? A hefty garnish of green onions so generous you could smuggle drugs underneath? I hope that’s what you’re envisioning, because otherwise you’re thinking of the wrong dish. I know it’s tempting to believe the good old orange packet of Maruchan or the brown styrofoam container of Nissin cup’o'noodles is the real deal, but don’t kid yourself. In a city as rife with authentic ethnic communities as Los Angeles, you’d be nuts to pass up the opportunity to get some of the most legit noodle dishes you can sniff out stateside. Last month found me wandering aimlessly in Downtown Los Angeles when suddenly I am on first street and before my feet can protest, my stomach leads me straight to a steamy bowl of the stuff. Today took me into the heart of Little Tokyo on a day so sweltering the usually packed shop was as lethargic as it was empty, where a bowl of the tskumen chilled noodles await my grumbling tummy.

It’s a one-two punch, because not only does California have more Chinese immigrants than Japan (no matter how obsessed the Japanese are with the dish, the Chinese are ramen’s original inventors), but California has more Japanese immigrants than any other state, making all Angelinos privy to the good stuff any day of the week. Of course, if you aren’t in the Japanese know, don’t subscribe to Giant Robot, can’t read Kanji, or don’t live on Sawtelle, it can feel just the opposite. Don’t panic. There is hope for you yet, because I’m giving you the skinny on LA’s most authentic ramen dive: Daikokuya downtown. Turns out, though I mentioned it off hand as LA’s heavyweight ramen stop on the circuit nearly everyone’s been dragged into at least once, not everyone knows of the reigning champion. So I thought I’d take the time to write it up as it should be, as the quintessential ramen experience, only somewhere that accepts US dollars instead of Japanese yen.

A dingy yellow storefront on a strip of Little Tokyo, Daikokuya has everything you’re looking for in a ramen shoppe: absurdly low lighting, business suited salarymen slurping loudly, long lines out the door, a limited menu, and of course, unbeatable noodles. While the oversized red lamps at the door and the misplaced ’50s kitsch won’t exactly send you into the heart of Asakusa, the marbled broth and ramune soda selection will. Best of all, for under $10 you’ll walk out of Daikokuya with both a full stomach and a full wallet, rare in the city of angels. What do you order? Do not be deceived by the multi-page menu. You’ve come for the ramen. Which one? Ha. Amatuer. You need only to utter the word and you’ll be slipped more broth than you can handle in just a few minutes time. So indulge as much as you can hold, slurp until you’ve splattered your sunglasses, and be sure to enjoy that Asahi on draft before the place closes at midnight. By the end of your excursion you may not be able to understand what the staff are saying to you (a combination of the food coma you’ve just induced and your complete lack of Japanese pronunciation skills), but it’s enough to know you’ll be back, if not for the piping hot bowl of ramen, than for the escape into the Japanese side of Los Angeles. And for that ability alone, Southern California deserves one great big arigato gozaimas.