Ramen is a fast food with a slow etiquette. The bowl arrives at a temperature and a texture that both start declining the moment it lands, so the meal has a clock on it, and the customs that look like manners are time management wearing a bow. Here is the working code of a ramen shop, ours or anyone's.
Taste the soup first
Before the noodles, before the toppings, take a spoonful of broth alone. The cook built that soup for half a day, and the first clean spoonful is the tasting note, you learn the salt level, the fat, the depth, and you calibrate the rest of the bowl around it. Regulars do it without thinking. Watch a counter some lunch hour and you can tell the regulars from the tourists by who picks up the renge first.
Eat the noodles fast
Ramen noodles are cooked to a firmness that assumes soup. They sit in near-boiling broth and keep cooking at the table, and the window between perfect and soft is a few minutes. This is the real reason ramen is eaten at speed, and why the bowls in Japan are served with a shouted greeting and no ceremony. Order, take your photograph if you must, but make it quick, and then eat like the bowl is serious about leaving.
Slurp if you mean it
The slurp is functional before it is cultural: pulling noodles in with air cools them to eating temperature and carries the soup's aroma up with the bite. In Japan it is accepted at any counter and taken as a compliment. In Singapore nobody will blink either. If you were raised to eat in silence, permit yourself the exception here, the noodles taste better with the air in them, and that is the whole argument.
The toppings have an order
The bowl arrives composed, and the composition is a script. The chashu soaks as you eat the noodles, fat edge in the soup, and it is ready by the time the noodles are half done, softer, warmer, seasoned through. The pickled ginger, where a bowl carries it, is a reset button, a few strands between bites to clear the palate for the next run of soup. The egg waits, most kitchens serve it cold-chilled or warm, and halving it lets the yolk run into the broth for the last act. Eating the toppings in the order the kitchen intended is not ceremony, it is pacing, the same reason the soup comes first and the bowl goes back empty.
Ordering, ours and theirs
In Tokyo you may buy your meal from a ticket machine before you sit, in Osaka you may share a table with strangers at noon, and at ours you order at the table, the chilli count first, one to sixteen, and the kitchen takes it from there. The rest of the code is universal: eat at the pace of the bowl, keep your phone off the tablecloth where soup can reach it, and when you finish, the empty bowl is the review. An empty bowl, both soup and noodles gone, is the highest compliment a kitchen receives, and the only one it counts.
The doors open at 11:30 on weekdays, one long service on Saturday from 11:30, and the code applies at 3 Pickering Street same as everywhere.