From the Block

Grill a chicken thigh with salt and pepper till its skin turns a crispy amber, and I WILL SHOW UP.

If you are worried that Japan has forgotten how to have a good time, it hasn't. Shortly after our return, we went to a Children's Day festival in Takanawa. Lots of stalls with food and toys. This meant all kinds of begging from the kids. And me. The Professor gave in, needless to say. First came the ridiculously juicy and crusty chicken.

There is no way to do this at home--it has to be a big, sketchy grill.

Then the toys. Son of Z. talked his way into a ray-gun that lights up and makes a very loud noise that is the precise sound of parental buyer's remorse. Mini Z. went for the traditional mask.

It's a mask of Hello Kitty wearing a mask of Ultra Man. Very meta.

 Then more chicken. This time from the lovely little Portuguese place down the street. Several restaurants from the neighborhood set up stalls with all kinds of goodies. The Portuguese chicken was more garlicky and charred--very nice. The same restaurant had a guy carving prosciutto from one of those stands. In my dream home, there is a similar set-up on the coffee table, right next to the remote.

Delicious chicken--but what to do with the one skewer?

Street prosciutto! I can't believe we beat New York to this.

Baby octopi on a stick!

Big 'ol tub of margarine--not butter--at the hot potato stand.

 Then I saw the cake van. CAKE VAN. Why can't I be abducted in one of these?

Tragically, they were out of cake. Really. I was forced to look longingly at photos of their usual selections. So now I have to get all stalker and track them down at their next venue, when the whole point of the cake van is that the cake comes to you. Damn you, cake van.

Pumpkin cheesecake, chocolate torte, baked cheesecake, and what, some kind of custardy thing? Curses!

Literati

A few months ago, before the quake, I had an amazing meal at Robata over by Yurakucho station (1-3-8 Yuraku-cho). Jane Hirshfield, poet, essayist, translator, and foodie, was in town for a reading, and the infinitely connected Leza Lowitz suggested this place, which has been host to Allen Ginsberg and Octavio Paz, among others. I've actually passed it for years, wondering how a crooked, blackened little building like that managed to survive. Who knew?

Inside, the place is an absolute warren, with tables tucked into nooks, and a counter covered in gorgeous plates of food, from which your meal is chosen for you. The proprietor, Inoue-san, is beyond old-school in his kimono and round glasses, and he speaks so softly I had to ask him about the dishes over and over. And yet he is no strict traditionalist--the cuisine is a mix of Japanese and European flavors, but without the showiness of the usual fusion. The plates are a carefully curated collection, some of which are made by the master craftsman Morioka-san, who Leza tells us is something of a wild mountaineer. I still can't believe I didn't break anything.

The first platter was like a Japanese antipasto, with grilled asparagus, tofu and goya (bitter melon), smoked salmon, cured mackerel, kabocha salad, and something like an eggplant caponata with sweet caramelized onions. We grazed until there was nothing left but a streak of tofu cream.

 Asari clams, potato, and shimeji mushrooms cooked with garlic and wine.

The dishes kept coming. Jane said it was the Chez Panisse of Japan, which was not crazy talk. The clams and shimeji mushrooms had something French going on with the wine and brine, and the oyster risotto had a little Venetian vibe, but everything retained a Japanese character with the local ingredients, like sweet, melt-in-your-mouth daikon radish.

A creamy risotto of oysters and mushrooms--just a little sweetness

Bonita sashimi with daikon, shiso sprouts, and little yellow pods that evidently grow into trees if they aren't tossed in a light ponzu dressing and gobbled up.

A crispy fried fish covered in a sweet and sour sauce, sauteed vegetables, and raw apple slivers.

The fruit over the fish was amazing, and the sauce was made with black vinegar. We picked the bones down to Smithsonian cleanliness.

Wagashi sweets to end the meal

More wagashi studded with pistachio

The dense little sweets were a perfect ending. We were full and swooning already when we heard that a very statuesque woman at the next table was William S. Burroughs' daughter. Is that possible? I think I misheard, but I like imagining how that might have been possible. Upstairs, we took a little tour of the salon where there are sometimes readings, special meals, and such. You know, like with artsy types. Every corner was crammed with books, paintings, and drawings--even a little sketch by Juliette Binoche. What? She's artsy.

The third floor salon

Inoue-san and Jane upstairs

It was a marvelous evening of lingering over each dish. We thanked Inoue-san for taking such good care of us, and stumbled back into the street, happy and amazed.

Yuzu Ramen

The yuzu zest is ground to near invisibility.

Things got back to normal in Tokyo pretty quickly, even when they weren't quite normal yet. We are back to work, drinking the water, eating the vegetables, and done hoarding. The food supply is safe, which is good, because even if it was glowing with radiation, we would still probably be eating the ramen. Which actually sounds like the start of a good superhero comic book.

The line starts early, and the pressure to rush is strong. Resist.

The Professor took me to a place near Yurakucho station--just across the street on the Ginza side, in a run-down basement. He had me at "run-down basement." It's one of those wood-paneled shopping corridors under an office building where only the elderly seem to shop. Camera repair, musty stationery, blouses with rhinestone-eyed cheetahs. The ramen shop's lilliputian layout is enough to impress, but the line that forms before it opens at 11:30 tells you it's going to be special.

The master at work in his micro-kitchen

The soup is a light shoyu broth, and the pork is a substantial half-inch slab of belly. Indeed. Every person at the counter ordered the house special, yuzu ramen, with a little scoop of grated citrus rind tossed into the bowl along with a little mitsuba. The result is bright, without adding any sweetness. Has a ramen ever tasted this new without being gimmicky? (I worry about the gimmick potential of yuzu--every time I read about a new restaurant in New York, someone is shaving yuzu over something and I am afraid it's going to go the way of the swan-shaped cream puff.) It is such a truly Japanese fragrance. Afterward, you have that warm ramen-tummy satisfaction, but with a little zing on your tongue. This might be the only bowl of noodles I will dare to eat hot this summer.

The shop's teeny-tiny ticket machine--if this was New York, somebody would have walked off with it by now.

Memory of Miyagi

By now, you have seen footage of the coastal towns of Miyagi Prefecture being swept away by tsunami. There is little I can write to make anyone, including myself, comprehend any better the homes and people utterly lost, or the unmooring heartbreak of the survivors. The beautiful country there, and all the towns that dot the rocky, forested coast are now defined by their destruction.

My mother is from Sendai, a city in Miyagi that was a small town when she left it. In the 90's, she went back with my brother and I for the first time in decades. It looked a little like Northern California, with pines growing on the beach cliffs, lush greenery, and fog. I had visited as a child, and I have a memory of going out into a forest in the drizzling rain to pull baby bamboo shoots--I slipped and fell pulling one, and cried in the mud, to the amusement of all. The bamboo forests this time were tall and lush. And less muddy.

We visited her aunt, who lived alone after the death of her husband a few years earlier. We met her at the train station and she hurried us up the winding, stone walled roads to her house. She had ordered some sushi to be delivered, and was concerned the neighbor's cat might find the big, lacquer tray on the doorstep. We beat the cat to the fish, and had a lovely lunch. She showed us around the house and all the souvenirs she and her husband had collected from around the world. He had been a scientist, and he'd taken her to all his conferences, which was quite unusual. They had a dagger from Turkey that she was very proud of.

Not many Japanese people of her generation drank coffee regularly, but she and her husband had a standing coffee date at home every day of their marriage. They collected cups and saucers in pairs, and every day they would choose a set and sit down for coffee together. She offered us some, and we went to the cupboard and chose our own cups, as well as one for her husband's shrine, which was against the living room wall, like a little mahogany cabinet with his picture inside. The custom was not new to us, but her affection for her late husband was so strong--not her grief, but her love of him, something the shrine gave her a way to express. She passed away a while ago, and I am still moved when I think of her pouring his afternoon coffee into a green-banded china cup, smiling to herself, and to him. My mother was carrying the cup to his shrine, when her aunt called her back. She had forgotten the sugar.

Well, This Is Awkward.

 Valentine's Day is actually a thing in Japan, though with a twist: it's the day when women give men chocolates. I know. A month later, we have White Day (why stop at one made up holiday?), when men give women chocolates and/or gifts. The problem is that the Valentine's stuff is clearly more interesting, particularly since white chocolate abounds for White Day, and I am not so into it. Plus, it gives men the upper hand--if you already know what her gift is, say, a month in advance, then you can match it without worry. No risk of going overboard or looking cheap. Even though girlfriends might score some goodies, wives routinely get ripped off, which is just wrong. Call it a cultural difference if you want to, but when a woman is denied gifts of chocolate, I call that oppression.

I like the idea of conversation hearts, but not the taste. So I made these awkward conversation heart cookies. I feel like they would actually be helpful in some situations. Although in some cases, you are going to need a much bigger cookie.

And now some uncomfortable moments brought to you by the sweets aisle at the convenience store.

 

Where to begin. They are actually kind of a cookie coated with a Nestle-crunch-type chocolate. The Crunky bar is basically crispy rice and milk chocolate, and I think the name is meant to suggest crunchiness, as opposed to Mary J. Blige's "Doesn't matter if you're white or black/Let's get crunked 'cause Mary's back." But what the unfortunate choice of "Nude" is meant to tell us, I have no idea.

Speaking of racial politics. That's a chocolate melon pan-- a sweet-crusted bun--that shows through the package as a fro. (Oh, and for a great poem about Afros, check this out.) I actually think there should be more Black Power snacks.  And this one is so Mod Squad. And tasty. What bothers me is the idea of eating something that doubles as hair on the package. See what I mean? Awkward.

They Are Not Playing Around at the New Mitsukoshi

Lurid piles of kimchee and other Korean delights at the new Mitsukoshi

Department store basements in Tokyo are a cornucopia of yumminess from all over--iterations of foreign and Japanese foods spill forth from the stalls, many of which change week to week. The hawkers (upscale hawkers with nice clean aprons, mind you) often ply one with samples on little plates or proffered toothpicks. Mitsukoshi, that famous department store at the main intersection in Ginza, has incredible "depachika" floors, as they are known (depa= department, chika=underground), and may forever ruin your enjoyment of weekend samples of frozen taquitos at Costco. The new Mitsukoshi branch is just around the corner from the original, and is something like a Death Star--not a real planet, but capable of tremendous things.

About those samples: I am powerless before them. Note the little cups of picks in the lower left corner of the kimchee photo. This is a system that relies equally upon honor and an assumed sense of personal shame. Sometimes this stymies me--how many varieties of pickles, or chocolate, or ham, for example, can one nibble at one stall before one is obligated to either purchase something or slink away? Luckily, I have plenty of experience feeding my feelings, so when I get nervous, I just buy something tasty. 

Mom's favorite--satsuma-age--mild, fluffy fish cakes. These here are made with onion and bacon.

More fried goodness: shimeji mushrooms and pumpkin.

And yet, the sample is a double-edged sword. Or toothpick. Because you also need to be strong in the face of samples you do not want. That whole thing about the Japanese being non-aggressive falls apart here. You don't colonize half of Asia without being a little pushy, folks. Once, when snacking my way through a depa-chika with a Canadian friend, I was presented with a stewed grasshopper on a toothpick. The little old lady had jammed the toothpick in my hand saying, "Inago! Oishii!" At that time, I knew oishii meant tasty, but the very important noun before it--not so much. It was almost in my mouth before I realized what it was. I couldn't insult the lady, and I was not about to back down in front of a Canadian. The grasshopper was not bad, after all--something like the small, sharp-shelled shrimp cooked in heavy soy sauce and sugar for new year's--but I didn't feel the need to bring any home.

Italian delicacies, including breaded cutlets and tripe

Ham and cheese rolled up, breaded, and fried. The Professor calls this "haute trailer."

Nothing beats a bag full of depa-chika treats when you don't feel like cooking. It's a game changer, since all the delights you are never going to cook at home (deep frying? whole duck on a hook?) suddenly become options for a weeknight. 

Char-siu pork and roast Chinese duck

Um, those are huge sushi rolls wrapped in plump, succulent, cooked and shelled crab legs.

The gentleman above is working in a plexiglass booth, like a culinary David Blaine, but not creepy. This draws a crowd now and then, since rolling up those massive crab futo-maki is a feat. It's engrossing watching someone truly skilled up close. I once stood in a supermarket with a crowd of housewives watching a whole tuna being filleted with what could only be called a sword. Now that was a show.

A sandwich shop's open-faced display case

Spicy ham and cheese baked in french bread

Over-specialization is not a problem for me. The shop below deals only in sweet potatoes, which are displayed on a bed of hot stones in a glass case. Some are yellow and chestnutty inside, and some, native to Okinawa, are a crazy, bright purple.  They sell them baked, or in the form of puddings, yokkan (blocks of pureed bean or potato cooked with sugar), and tiny, dense cakes that are moist like cheesecake, but even less Atkins friendly.

Yakimo! A high-end display of the baked sweet potatoes often sold from trucks.

Sweet potato confections

When it comes to pastry, French is king in Japan (sorry, Italy and Austria). And like so many things, Japan has taken the refinements and the presentation and run with them, sometimes surpassing the original. (Sorry, France.) The little individual cakes, puddings, and tarts are like jewels under glass. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Who could not feel joy looking at all those little pastel macaroons? Of course they get a Japanese twist, with flavors like green tea and yuzu citron. Watching Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette, which was a huge hit with the ladies here, it occurred to me that a life spent eating colorful desserts and trying on endless pairs of shoes might actually be enough to make me happy. In that moment, I knew the depths of my shallowness. Thanks a lot, Sofia.

Meringues! Mont blanc! Strawberries and spongecake!

Let them eat macaroons! You know, the whole "let them eat cake" thing was only mean because she didn't actually come through with the cake. Seriously, a basket of muffins. Something.

Double-cream puffs with whipped cream and airy custard; delicate roll cakes filled with fruit and cream

The Latest Happy New Year Ever

Ozoni, mochi soup to start the year off right.

Happy Year of the Rabbit! All the more important now that the zodiac has been thrown into upheaval, don't you think? Actually, I am early by the lunar calendar, which is also my standing excuse for missed birthdays and such. We spent New Year's eve on the plane back to Tokyo from California, hurtling toward the international dateline. The celebrating we did a couple of days earlier at my mom's, with the traditional ozoni soup. It's a very light and clear dashi broth with bamboo shoots, carrots, greens, mushrooms, and mochi rice cakes. The mochi gets hot and gooey, like mozzarella on steroids, which is fun to slurp at, especially for the kids. I've seen warnings on Japanese TV about the choking hazard for the elderly around the end of the year, and I can see why. This time Mom did seaweed broth instead of fish, since my soul-sister Monster S, who was in attendance with her homemade Korean fried noodles with tofu, is vegetarian. Mom even cut the carrots into little flowers, which Mini Z loved. Mochi is deceptively simple, and once its density becomes apparent, about two bites in, one is grateful the soup is not heavy. Besides, the brightness of the vegetables is such a treat in the middle of the winter. Even in LA.

Tofu japchae and a side of kimchee

So good. And japchae is not something in my repetoire, which makes it even more of a treat. Monster S stood over the pan with chopsticks and wooden spoons, pulling sesame-slicked noodles and vegetables into the air and tossing them. The smell in the house was so rich and wonderful. We were actually to full to eat it and so waited until the kids had gone to bed a few hours later to dig in. You have to do noodles on New Year's, and in Japan we do buckwheat soba--long noodles for long life. As a kid, I hated the obligatory shot of sake from the sharp, flat little silver cups that sat in the cupboard all year. As with most things that took a lot of explanation, we were just told it was good luck. Then we sat down to a big bowl of noodles at midnight.