When done correctly, ramen is the sausage of the soup world. It all goes in. Feet, bones, flaps of skin, and fat; all the bits you don’t want to think about in this perfectly sanitised life, chucked in and simmered until the broth is so full of collagen it should set to a jelly at room temperature if left to it’s own devices. It’s a tale of time and patience, a slow rolling boil to a milky broth dotted with fat. It takes skill to do ramen well.

The broth is the best bit of the ramen at Ramen Don, a smart new restaurant in the spot behind Broad Street that I still describe twenty years on as where Zinc used to be. The broth here is made of the same undesirable bits of pig, blended with goose fat so that the viscosity is a touch flabby. It has depth and heart, giving the impression that they understand the processes. The noodles are good, the egg is okay, and the charsu pork tastes a little like luncheon meat and has a weird gassy note lingering. It’s not quite there just yet but it’s close.

We share chicken karage with this. It’s unevenly fried with a burnt bottom and sitting in a pool of oil, but it’s a decent attempt at it using good quality chicken. Omar pays but I’m guessing that with the two bottles of water the bill is a touch over £40. Today, four days after lunch at Ramen Don, I bumped into a chef who knows a thing or seven about ramen. He concurs with much of what I thought, adding that he’s sure it will improve as they understand their craft. Rome wasn’t built in a day, I guess neither is great ramen.