Keizo Shimamoto, whose ramen bun went viral in Brooklyn in 2013, has reopened in a shared kitchen with little signage, meaning diners now hunt for lunch the way their grandparents hunted for speakeasies
The Bun Returns
IRVINE. The ramen burger is back, according to LAist’s report on the viral ramen burger and its lowkey Irvine kitchen. Keizo Shimamoto, who in 2013 replaced the bun on a hamburger with two cakes of ramen at Smorgasburg in Brooklyn and set off one of the decade’s great viral food crazes, opened Shimamoto Noodle in early August in a shared kitchen at Smart Kitchens in Irvine’s Sky Park Business Center. The restaurant has little signage. Customers find it through word of mouth, social media and occasional posts linking to an online order form. Bowls and burgers cost 16 to 20 dollars.
For Orange County diners, accustomed to restaurants with valet parking, neon signs and staff who greet them by name, the experience of tracking down a nearly invisible kitchen in a business park has the thrill of a treasure hunt, if treasure hunts ended in broth.
The Business Park Mystery
Irvine’s business parks are famous for many things: tidy landscaping, identical beige buildings and parking lots that stretch to the horizon. They are not famous for ramen. Diners attempting to find Shimamoto Noodle for the first time report driving slowly past rows of near-identical structures, squinting at suite numbers and calling friends for directions. A software engineer from Tustin said it took him twenty minutes to find it. I drove past the same accounting firm three times, he said. On the fourth pass, a man walking to his car smelled like tonkotsu. I followed him. Best decision of my year.
A marketing consultant in Newport Beach said the lack of signage was, in a way, brilliant. In Orange County, everyone wants a place nobody else knows about, she said. A secret kitchen in a business park is the ultimate flex. You tell your friends, I found this incredible ramen place, you would not know it. And they ask where. And you say, Irvine. And they say, which part. And you say, the beige part. Which does not narrow it down.
The Viral Years
In 2013, the ramen burger caused lines that stretched for hours in Brooklyn, spawned imitators across the country and turned Shimamoto into a reluctant food celebrity. He later ran a Queensbridge Ramen Shack and a short-lived Orange County shop. The original craze came during the golden age of hybrid foods, alongside the cronut and other creations that made people wait in line for things they could not quite explain. Many of those foods faded. The ramen burger, like a band reuniting for a tour, has returned to find that its fans never really left.
A food historian in Los Angeles said the early 2010s were a special time. People stood in line for three hours for a croissant that was also a doughnut, she said. They stood in line for a burger that was also noodles. Nobody asked why. It was a simpler time. A sillier time. Now the ramen burger is back, and frankly, after the last few years, we could all use something silly and delicious.
The Menu
According to LAist, the menu features five ramen bowls, including the Signature Shoyu, the Negi Shoyu, a 13-ingredient gyokai-tonkotsu called Quiet Storm, a Ganja-style tsukemen and a Shoyu Tsukesoba, along with two versions of the ramen burger. Shimamoto says the current ramen burger is his best yet because he makes the sauce, noodles and buns himself. He describes the signature broth as resting for two weeks before service, which, Orange County residents note, is longer than many local relationships last.
A Laguna Beach chef who has eaten the burger said it was an engineering marvel. The challenge with a ramen bun is structural integrity, he said. Noodles want to fall apart. Burgers want to fall apart. Combine them and you are fighting chaos. He has solved it. I would not trust most people to build a ramen bun. I would trust him to build a bridge.
The Philosophy
Shimamoto told LAist he wants to eat a great bowl every day rather than make the best ramen in the world. It is a refreshingly modest goal in a food culture obsessed with rankings, awards and superlatives. Angelenos and Orange County residents, who are accustomed to restaurants declaring themselves the best in the world on their menus, their websites and occasionally their napkins, found the humility disarming.
A Costa Mesa ramen enthusiast who has visited three times said the approach shows in the food. It does not taste like someone trying to win a contest, he said. It tastes like someone cooking what he wants to eat. That is the secret. Also the two-week broth. Mostly the broth.
The Critic Effect
Shimamoto says he now sells close to 50 bowls and 20 to 25 burgers a day after a Los Angeles Times critic covered the restaurant. The secret kitchen, in other words, is becoming less secret, a familiar problem for hidden gems everywhere. The cycle is well established: a place is discovered, beloved, written about and then overrun by people who heard about it from the article. Early fans react with a mixture of pride and resentment, insisting they liked it before it was cool.
An Irvine resident who claims to have been the third customer said he was conflicted. I am happy for him, he said. He deserves success. But now I have to wait. In August, I walked in and got my food immediately. Now I see people with cameras. Influencers. A man filmed his burger for six minutes before eating it. The burger was getting cold. I wanted to report him to someone.
Ghost Kitchens And Shared Spaces
Shared commercial kitchens have become an increasingly common way for chefs to launch or relaunch businesses without the cost of a full restaurant. They allow cooks to focus on food while keeping overhead low, with ordering handled online. For diners, they offer access to excellent food in unexpected places. For chefs like Shimamoto, they offer the chance to cook on their own terms.
The Last Word
On a Thursday afternoon, a woman in a business suit emerged from the shared kitchen holding a paper bag, a look of triumph on her face. She walked across the vast parking lot to her car, sat in the driver’s seat and unwrapped a ramen burger. Asked how she had found the place, she smiled. My colleague told me, she said. His cousin told him. Somebody’s barber told the cousin. That is how good food travels in Orange County. Then she took a bite, closed her eyes and said nothing for a very long time, which, as any food critic will tell you, is the highest possible review.