The rain fell on Tokyo in a relentless, shimmering curtain, turning the neon signs of Shinjuku into blurry watercolors. Inside the ramen shop, it was warm and steamy. The air was thick with the rich, savory scent of long-simmered pork broth, the sharp tang of ginger, and the low murmur of conversation. It was a small, immaculate place, with a counter of polished cypress wood and a handful of dark, private booths. In one of those booths, a bowl of tonkotsu ramen sat before you, its surface a per...