Four Flavors

We have 4 flavors, please choice according to one's taste:

Mild: It is mild taste.
Hot: It is one more scoop hotter.
Very Hot: It is very hot. You will fully sweat.
Extremely Hot: For the goal-getters.

This is from my favorite Korean sundubu joint in Tokyo, Toyko Sundub. I want to live in a country that has Korean fast food. Although if I'm going to be honest--and when am I not?--I asked for mild this time around. We can't all be goal-getters all of the time.

Fistfuls of gyoza

"This is all you need to be happy," my friend Julian kept repeating as we shoveled dumplings into our faces washed down with quarts of ice cold beer. It was a dumpling joint in Harajuku called Gyoza Rou (I think) that Julian eats at three or four times a week whenever he is in Tokyo. I don't think he actually meant that one can survive on beer and gyoza alone, but this place sure makes a case for it.

The menu was limited: pork dumplings, chive and garlic dumplings (which also have pork, obviously) served either steamed or fried. There's chicken soup with rice and they serve three starters, chunks of cucumbers in a sweet miso sauce, cabbage and bean sprouts liberally doused in pork.

In Japan, they don't consider pork meat, just a necessary addition to many foods. My friend Erica is a vegetarian who lives in Japan. The other day she ordered an egg and cheese burger without the burger. She explained several times, in Japanese, that she didn't want meat on it. So they served it to her sans burger, but with the addition of a slice of bacon. Because pork isn't meat, it's just delicious.

At my urging, we ordered everything on the menu. One order of each type of gyoza steamed and one order of each fried. Plus the three starters. Plus chicken soup and rice.

As a nightcap, we added another round of fried pork gyoza. Julian is convinced that cold beer and dumplings can make a person happy. Always striving for as much happiness as possible, I managed to beat my recent record of 14 gyoza in a sitting.

Renkon chipusu

I'm a big fan of ketchup, and pretty much only see fries as a vehicle to get ketchup into my system. So when I saw these deep-fried lotus root chips, I fell in love. Renkon chipusu are often served at izakayas and random burger joints in Kawasaki. They have all the power of really good fries, and the plentiful surface area allowed me to use them a shovel to inject the ketchup directly into my face.

Pilgrimage to the Ramen Museum

The Shin Yokohama Raumen Museum (hereafter referred to as the Ramen Museum, god knows why they need that extra U) is one of the beter known Japanese food theme parks and claims to be the first food amusement park to be created anywhere in the world. It features a museum documenting the history of ramen, a pretty bangin' gift shop, and perhaps most excitingly, a two floor "theme park" built to represent Japan in the year Showa 33, 1958, the year instant ramen was invented--a pivotal time in the history of ramen--and before the modernization of Japan.

As you wander around what is essentially a two floor basement designed to look like Japan when it was still dirty, the strains of retro Japanese music and cats yowling (seriously) are piped through the sound system. In the theme park, there are 9 ramen restaurants that are branches of "long established institutions from different regions of Japan." Basically they have nine of the best ramen places in the country slangin' noodles in the place just to make people like me happy.



My plan had been to spend 12 hours at the Ramen Museum, from opening time at 11. This was to make up for my only other trip to Tokyo where I insisted that we go to the Ramen Museum for dinner and ended up getting us lost on the subway for what felt like hours. We made it in to the museum for last call and ended up with scant choices, as most of the ramen shacks had already closed up for the night and the ones that were open gave us a move it or lose it ultimatum. One small bowl of ramen later and they closed up shop, and I was terribly unhappy.



This time, I vowed, I was going to do it right. Over the course of 12 hours I could easily eat four or five bowls of ramen, right? And since they offer "small bowls," I could probably make it through most of the nine possible ramen stands. A few hiccups started the day. The trip to Yokohama from Tokyo should take around 40 minutes. With my exception geographical skills as well as my deft handling of the Japanese public transport system, I managed to clock nearly two hours door to door. On arrival I tried to take in a bit of the educational side of the place, but as the displays were all in Japanese, I didn't learn much. However, I was pleased to see the giant pile of cocaine in the middle of the place--apparently it's an integral part of the ramen-making process.



I had a serious strategy going into the museum. I was going to try as many ramens as possible, starting with the north of of Japan and working my way south. This way, I reasoned, by the time I began to feel sick, I'd be getting to areas of Japan that I'd visit in a few weeks anyway. Still geographically confused after the harrowing train ride and not starting in Sapporo as I should, I decided to have my first bowl of ramen from Ryushanhai, a restaurant based in Yamagata. Ryushanhai is credited with creating this incredibly savage bowl of ramen that features a giant red glob of "karamiso" on top. I'm still unclear as to exactly what karamiso is, but it's got some kick. Apparently the word on the street is that it's too spicy when you mix in the whole glob of karamiso. Just like all of the other words on the street in Japan, though, I didn't understand and just ignored it.



This turned out to be a brilliant decision because it was so spicy that it nearly blew my face off. I like this feeling because it reminds me that I'm alive. The homemade noodles were thicker than any I'd had in ramen before, and the noodle to soup ratio was very high. You couldn't compare this bowl of ramen to anything I found in London. This bowl was heaven in my mouth, paradise on my tongue, sweat pouring down my face. Even though I had gotten the "small" bowl, I quickly realized that I was in trouble. Finish the bowl because it was so freaking good and risk taking up valuable space that could later be occupied with other ramen? The choice was clear. One in the face was worth two in the theme park, so I finished the bowl and wandered out, dazed and runny-nosed.



My plan for the day had been to have a rest in 1958 Tokyo in between bowls. I pictured lounging on comfortable post-war couches, letting the ramen settle and having a covert read of my book, 70 Japanese Gestures. When I went to the museum last year, there was a fifties-style bar serving Tom Collins and and Old-Fashioneds, and I thought I could always skulk around there for a bit. Sadly though, the bar didn't open until 5pm (what a strange, repressed culture, eh?) and the only seating in the place were a few benches and tables, most of which were occupied by groups of racous Japanese people, who seemed to find my presence and my e-book slightly amusing. I did a full loop and circled the museum a few times, trying to burn off a few calories before I headed in for bowl two. I didn't have the energy to wait until I was hungry again, I just managed to lope around the place to the point that I wasn't still uncomfortably full, and then headed in to Eki from Sapporo.

I didn't go in right away, of course. At the ramen museums, as at most ramen places around here, they have a vending machine out front. You put some yen in, push the button that correlates to what you want, and then take the ticket it gives you to the counter. This is especially fun for me when they don't have pictures on the vending machine and just have Japanese characters. Usually on these occasions I stand at the machine until someone finally comes over and asks me something in Japanese. I shrug and make and adorable "I don't know" face and wait for someone to just push a button for me. This is a good plan if you have an adventurous stomach. Luckily Eki had pictures. The thing is, they all sort of look alike. You can tell the difference between a bowl of ramen with an egg and one without, but sometimes it looks completely identical and there's no easy way to tell what the hell is going on. In these cases I just pick the first one, assuming it's probably their specialty. Why would you bother putting your speciality in the middle? I had considered ordering one of their shoyu (soy sauce-based) ramens, just because I had already had a miso ramen but an hour earlier. But then I thought, eff it, let's do this right and I ordered the Eki speciality.



The Eki specialty was basically the best thing I've ever tasted. It was also miso-based, but the broth was so complicated and perfect I couldn't even begin to try and figure out what else was going on in there. Filled with thin noodles and topped with green onions, slices of pork and fried onions, the bowl was pretty boring looking. You can tell the Eki guys looked at each other and said "dudes, let's liven this up. You can never have too much pork, right?" And so they threw on a scoop of minced pork, some squares of what appeared to be pure pork fat, and then leveled the whole thing off with a half inch of fat covering the top of the bowl. This was not a bowl of ramen to take lightly, you could give your life for this.

Eating ramen in Japan is a pretty in-and-out affair. People don't linger, or often even sit. But in the state I was in, I could only hope to get through this bowl of ramen by dragging it out and taking a while. The staff was certainly confused as to why the foreigner was taking 45 minutes to eat a "small" bowl of ramen, as three or four other groups had come in and finished during that time. I was at the end of my rope. I didn't think I could eat this ramen, but I most certainly couldn't not eat this ramen.

So I slogged through, alternately thinking this is the best thing to ever happen to my mouth and oh god, someone put me out of my misery. Finally, I finished the majority of the bowl and managed to stumble out of the place, disoriented and borderline obese. I barely managed to drop a few thousand yen in the gift shop--Hello Kitty and ramen co-branded stationary, postcards, freeze-dried ramen, etc--and have a go at the photobooth before I waddled out the door.

Perhaps I had failed at my original goal of 5 bowls of ramen. But in losing, I won.

Oh, okonomiyaki

One of my long-cherished rants is about products that are touted as being extra-specially awesome because they have you do the work and pay extra for the privilege. Fruit on the bottom yogurt, bead shops and Korean barbecue spring to mind. Don't get me long, you'll have a long day in hell searching for someone that loves Korean BBQ more than I do. But frankly, I am just as happy when the restaurant or my dad do the grilling for me. The reason I pay for things is so that other people will do the work for me. If I wanted to do the cooking, I'd stay at home. 

Until... 
Okonomiyaki

It's a Japanese savory pancake that is basically one of the best foods ever. You pick the ingredients, such as pork and squid and they bring them to you in a bowl with some flour and egg. You mix it and throw it onto a tabletop grill and make yourself an amazing dinner. Once it's cooked (and flipping these bad boys is no easy task), you coat in with okonomiyaki sauce which is sort of like a cross between BBQ and Worcestershire sauce, paint on sweet Japanese mayo in a criss-cross pattern, then sprinkle liberally with katsuobushi and nori flakes. Somehow, I know that proportionately it would not even be 40% as good if they brought it out to you pre-cooked. The labor is part of the beauty of the okonomiyaki.



Okonomiyaki is one of my secret shames. It is the one dish that I've ever completely failed with. I had never actually eaten one, but after seeing it in a cookbook, thought I'd give it a shot. I was in Dublin so procuring the special okonomiyaki flour and toppings was no small job, but I persevered and after assembling probably €40 in ingredients, set off home to make it. Probably 2 hours later I proudly presented my brother with the finished result. He took one bite and spit it out. Seeing the distraught look on my face, he said, "I'm not going to eat this, not even for you," and then lumbered off in search of a Guinness. 

I persevered through a few bites and then had to agree with him. It was actually inedible. I later realized--and I'm terribly embarrassed to admit this--that the problem was dashi. The recipe said to include couple of tablespoons of dashi, meaning dashi stock. I didn't actually know what dashi was, so I bought a packet and put in a few tablespoons of the dashi powder, rather than making stock with it. The result was easily the most disgusting thing I've ever produced, apart from perhaps some love letter on Hello Kitty stationery from high school.

 

So it was with great delight that I tried my first "real" okonomiyaki the other day. This coincided with my first Japanese word learned, "nomihodai" which means "all you can drink" and is an option at only the most select establishments.

Not being able to resist the allure of the most satisfying of grills, I went back for more today. Oh, okonomiyaki, you're so cute and fun (just like me!), it's no wonder I love you. The only caveat is that it's not going to do you any favors in the smells department because the grill stank seeps into your pores, and more importantly, your sweater. As I was heading home tonight, someone scooted away from me on the subway, which I decided only shows that I am more dedicated to okonomiyaki than the Japanese.

Ramen discovery adventure

The ramen scene in London was weak. Like, so weak that it wasn't even worth eating, despite numerous attempts on my part to find something worth stuffing into my gob. Much like Mexican food in New York, it was best avoided so as to not ruin the memories of the fine burritos had in better California days.



So imagine my delight on realizing that even the really mediocre ramen in Tokyo is better than anything London had to offer. I'm not sure that I understand this--it's not like the country of origin (and isn't China really the country of origin for ramen?) has some sort of unique claim on their specialties. I've had terrible pasta in Italy and amazing hamburgers outside of the States--Jo Burger in Dublin comes to mind. So why is it that even the crappy ramen shacks in Tokyo are just so good?

Say a prayer for my blood pressure.

Gyoza Stadium, Ice Cream City and Tokyo Dessert Republic

A couple of days ago I decided to rouse myself out of my jetlag induced stupor to visit three of the sites on my list of most highly anticipated attractions in Tokyo. Luckily, all three were located conveniently inside one theme park, Namjatown, inside Sushine City, an enormous, soulless mall (just how I like them) only minutes from where I am staying. Namjatown is owned by a video game company, who have designed the park to give the feeling of being trapped inside a Playstation, except with really good dumplings. Namjatown is home to three food theme parks: Gyoza Stadium, Ice Cream City and Tokyo Dessert Republic.



If the thought of an entire stadium devoted to gyoza doesn't make your knees go weak, you don't have a soul. Unfortunately, Gyoza Stadium was not the American football-style stadium I had envisioned, but rather a food court. An amazing food court. Decorated to look like 1950's Japan (this seems to be a theme with Japanese food courts), Gyoza Stadium features stalls from famous gyoza restaurants from all over Japan. Only the crème de la crème of the potsticker world are allowed to slang dumplings in this joint, giving its hungry patrons the opportunity to try gyoza in every conceivable regional style.



 
The place seemed to be popular with teenage couples and as the only gaijin in the place, I definitely stood out. Without the photo menus I might have starved, but as such, I managed to consume fourteen gyoza. As I staggered through the park wondering if the Japanese would think I was fat if I ordered more gyoza, I got terribly lost while characters shouted at me in high-pitch Japanese cartoon voices. I groped my way through the hall of mirrors, got sucked into a fortune teller's booth, nearly went into the men's toilet and finally made my way out into Ice Cream City, the creamiest of spots in this nightmarish world conceived by Namco. 



A dozen ice cream shacks were set up, and with the chorus of screaming characters, screaming children and a screaming headache, I worried that my brain might melt before my ice cream did. 

 
As I set off in search of Tokyo Dessert Republic, I tried to gauge if I was indeed having fun. It was, and still is, unclear. I was certainly having one of those surreal, I'm in Tokyo and a stuffed animal is humping my brain moments. It's hard to explain the feeling that three food theme parks all contained within one giant theme park can give a person, especially when that person doesn't speak a word of Japanese. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'd go back in a split second. But sort of in the same way that I'd eat that second Twinkie if I already had the pack open. 




By the time I ordered some sort of bizarre unidentified dessert at the republic, I was ready to beat a hasty retreat back to bed. But then, I kid you not, I got lost in the theme park for more than half an hour trying to find an exit that wouldn't set off an alarm. There was a magical forest, a healing park for massages, about a hundred claw machines offering cupcakes and bags of chips, there was a horror portion to the park which seemed to exploit the Japanese fear of dirt, as the place was designed to look filthy rather than scary.



There were shrines and video games and escalators and treasure hunts and stores to buy frozen gyoza and finally by the end, there was a stomachache. Finally, seeing an exit and feeling like I had gotten my ¥300 worth, I waddled back onto the streets of Toyko, ready to conquer another day.