“Excuse me, do you know where I can get good wanko soba?”

There are some things you would never imagine you would have to say when travelling. There are some situations you would never imagine happening. Stopping a Welshman in the square to ask for some good wanko soba was one of them. But it happened.

I was desperate for some wanko soba. It’s the thing to do here. It’s very good for you, a lot of fun, and this is really the only place you can get away with doing it, all night long.

So I picked a westerner at the train station who looked like he was just leaving, because I reckoned he would have been up for some wanko soba in his time here too. We westerners love the chance to wanko, soba or not.

“Excuse me, do you know where I can get good wanko soba?” His reply: “Oh my god!” (Leaps up in genuine happiness). “You speak English!” Yes travelling in Japan can have this affect on you - where you are not just happy to hear English spoken but so happy you don’t realise someone’s asked you for wanko soba.

Between us we could only come up with one wanko soba place, a little dear but we both agreed, worth it for a chance to wanko soba. As I left he called out to keep in touch. “I want to know how many you can do.”

A local hotel worker ended up taking me to wanko soba. At this point, I should clarify what wanko soba is. It’s nothing to do with masturbation while refraining from drinking. Apart from being one of the funniest words I’ve used here (besides nooki nook) wanko soba is a noodle dish. It is served to you in bite sized portions. A waitress stands over you and slops more and more wanko soba at you until you clear your bowl completely and can get the lid of your bowl back on top before she can get more soba in the bowl.

I ate at Azumaya, a reputed wanko house, and was seated with a French Canadian couple I met on the train. They were perfectly cool, beautiful, intelligent and sweet. I was about to become their entertainment. First the bib - a big bib - was tied to me. Then about a dozen small side dishes of chicken, sea weed, yam, radish, tofu, things I didn’t recognise by taste or texture.

I was given a small book in English explaining the rules of wanko soba, and then she was there. Diminutive, sweet faced, the prettiest little waitress who was about to turn into a demon. “Dozo” she screamed, and threw the first biteful into my bowl. Chopsticks were hard work. No sooner was it in my mouth, than “dozo”, and the next was in my bowl. The Canadians commentated and watched, and in between mouthfuls I made smart comments. By bowl ten, I stopped to pick up some side food and then realised this was going to be tough. I needed to concentrate. The slurping and slopping began, my chopstick rhythm picked up pace. The waitress followed suit. “Hai - dozo” she ordered, instructing me to throw my soup in the large wooden bucket on the table. Soup consumption just got in the way of the number of bowls she intended to stack up on me.

A moments breather as she returned with a tray of another 15 bowls and it began again. At 20, I began to slow down. Sensing this, my waitress came to life. Her orders became louder. She moved closer to the edge of my bowl with every slurp I made. By 25, I was an inch from the bowl, moving it away from her with one hand, the same hand trying to perfect my chopstick technique (you cannot end with a single noodle in your bowl) and the other hand on my lid. If I could get that last noodle and get the lid on, I could finish eating. But no, my waitress had sharp eyes and could spot the elusive two noodles that my chopstick ability was unable to pick up. And no matter how small the space between me and the bowl, she managed to get another lot of noodles in there. Every time my head went back to swallow (you are encouraged not to chew so you can get through it faster), she would take advantage and throw more in. I was slowing down and she was able to plan her moves. The Canadians were counting me down. Every bowl that I thought was going to be the last had one more coming. And then - 30. “She has to get a new tray” the Canadians warned me. And with one noodle left in my bowl, I threw the soup, sealed the lid and declared “game over”.

A certificate was brought out to testify to my consumption of 30 bowls of noodles. The waitress was a sweet young thing again. Sated and full, I went home to dream of wanko soba and other funny named pleasures.

Wanko soba: the visuals