Sign seen at the train station.
Roughly translated: “Spitting on the train conductor is prohibited.”
No, really?
Japanese
Stephen Eats Japan: Rokurinsha, Tokyo, Japan (六厘舎）
As seen in multiple posts before (like here), I take particular delight in eating tsukemen, ramen’s less well-known (at least in the states) brother. As seemingly hundreds of thousands of international television programs and publications and snobby know-it-alls on the internet would like to tell you, the be-all, end-all must-try tsukemen is that of Rokurinsha, preferably that of the crowded Tokyo Station basement location because everyone knows food is only good if you’ve waited an inordinate amount of time to eat it.
Deep Breathing
The train was hot and crowded with drunk people, some asleep, some awake, some stuck somewhere in between, all victims of another hot summer’s evening spent drink, no doubt in some cramped small corner somewhere that smelt of stale beer and vomit caked into the walls after years and years of the same rough cycle.
This was Tokyo as he had come to know it. A sticky, sweaty, hastily slapped together swirl of lights, stress, and piss. Continue reading
Oh, Japanglish 2015 Winter Edition
As the country gets more and more tourism oriented in the run-up to the 2020 Summer Olympics, Japan’s collective English level has been slowly rising, which still doesn’t prevent the occasional awkward gem/ odd cultural misunderstanding.
Not just popular… EXTREMELY popular
Well…
The casual use of anyways here got me
Going to the Movies in Japan
So unless you’ve been living under a rock with no connection to the outside world aside from this blog for the past two years (in which case, thank you and get a life), you may well know that this week saw the release of perhaps the most anticipated film of perhaps the last decade, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Part 4.
Since this is Japan, most new Western film releases generally show up in theaters after a several year delay (only a slight exaggeration), meaning that the new addition to the apparently lucrative Alvin and the Chipmunks franchise will show up in your nearest Tokyo theater around the time that I am married with several children. So rather than watching everyone’s third favorite bunch of talking tree rodents, I had to settle for some movie called Star Wars instead.
Apparently, though I’m not quite sure, this movie was a sequel of some sort and just another cog in the Disney hype machine if I may say so myself. Talking robots, spaceships, and laser swords, this movie will probably never catch on. A box office bomb, I’m certain.
Anyways, even though I’ve been living in Japan for the past two years plus now, I broke my solemn vow of curmudgeonism and ventured for the first time ever to a movie theater in the hustling and bustling heart of Tokyo.
Now, if you’re ever planning on going to the movies, there are probably a couple of things you should know…
Hello from the Japanese Entertainment Realm
It is December 14th and I am sitting in a so-called “family restaurant” by myself typing this on my increasingly finicky laptop while lamenting the fact that I tore off a chunk of skin on my ass in the name of Japanese late-night television.
Pretty glamorous right?
My transition from faceless Japanese teacher to “entertainment talent” under the umbrella of the largest, most powerful entertainment agency in Japan has had its bumps and derailments but has certainly been, well, “something”.
One of the highlights of my foray into Japanese showbiz? Guest appearing on a Dragonball-themed TV show. Yes. That’s a thing. And it’s fun.
A Quick Update
Hey there, it’s been a while.
Sorry for the lack of updates but I’ve moved back in with my grandparents and they don’t really have a working internet connection. Besides, at this point, I’m pretty much contractually barred from saying anything interesting anyways.
Yes, I signed a contract and, as of last week, am now going to Yoshimoto Kogyo’s comedy “school” in Tokyo and will be doing so for the full year. And the company doesn’t exactly want us giving away trade secrets or talking about how hard they ride people (or not*wink*) in class and all that sort of stuff.
In other words, aside from the occasional food post, don’t expect much content up here. Sorry.
Peace out.
STEPHEN
PS You can keep up with my exploits (and all the times I get yelled at) on Twitter.
Takano in Tokyo, Japan. 多賀野
Last week I found myself making a fortuitous trip to Tokyo for a quick business meeting and with time to spare over the weekend (At least, my weekend). As anyone who has ever seen me can tell you, I enjoy eating and, while in Japan, enjoy eating ramen in particular. And eat ramen, I did.
Since I was staying with my grandparents on the southside of Tokyo, I hit up Tabelog (the Japanese equivalent of Yelp, except on Tabelog, people don’t give one star reviews because the bus boy looked like their ex-boyfriend or five star reviews because the baby at the next table was really cute) and searched for the best ramen in the neighborhood. This is what I found. On Tabelog, anything above a 3.5 rating is usually pretty darn good and anything above four stars as a destination meal. So imagine my surprise when I came across Takano, a ramen shop but a mere several kilometer walk from my grandparents’ hovel with a sterling 4.05 star rating. My gastronomical target now in my sights, I laced up my new too-big-for-my-feet Clarks and left for an early lunch.
So after a fifteen minute walk from my grandparent’s house, I arrived at the place twenty minutes before opening and still found a decently sizable (that’s what she said) line awaiting me. As it turns out, waiting in line is customary here (as with any other great ramen joint in Tokyo- or the rest of Japan, for that matter).
From the outside looking in
Once I actually got inside, I found myself at one of those classic stereo-typical L-shaped counter-only Showa-poi shops with one of those maneki-neko’s waving at me from a shelf over the stove (along with a plaque noting its place in the Micheline guide). Not exactly stunning decor but the place was clean enough and gave the impression of a place people would actually be semi-comfortable in in a sober state. I mean, I’m not taking a chick here on a date probably ever but I’d come here with food friends on a weekend.
After another ten minutes of waiting (this time seated), my bowl arrived. And what did I get for my 970 yen?
In case the sodium-laden broth or pork didn’t raise your cholesterol, the egg’ll do you in.
Quintessential Tokyo-style noodles and broth (fishy and salty but not overpowering) topped with melt in your mouth slices of char siu pork and a perfectly cooked agitama flavored egg. Worth the wait (though I still think waiting two hours is a bit much during peak hours). I just wish I wasn’t fighting a cold when I went. Guess I’ll have to come back again.
Rating: 4 and a half Stephens (out of five Stephens)
Furukawa ふる川 Mito, Ibaraki, Japan 茨城県 水戸市
Been a while as I was busy at work and all that good stuff. Also I’ve been eating a lot of food and getting fat and all jazz. One of the chief culprits? Furukawa, a new-ish ramen shop that opened up down the street from my apartment this summer and has subsequently garnered a lot of buzz online, considering the area in which it’s based.
With my days off currently being Thursday and Friday, there’s pretty much nothing stopping me from hitting up the place once a week and polishing a 1000 yen worth of noodles and the works in a thirty minute whirlwind of gluttony and stress eating.
Not an empty seat in the house.
Whilst in America, we generally refer to ramen as either the kind that comes in a styrofoam cup and will give you a heart attack or the kind you get at a Japanese place, ramen in Japan is itself a discipline with many different schools and styles of preparation and flavor. (It’s a long story, one that you can at least start to grasp by looking at this link.)
The ramen in Furukawa comes mainly in assari-style salt or soy sauce based bowls with occassional specialities coming in with the changing of the seasons.
My usual go-to is the assari soy sauce ramen (pictured below), silky smooth but still with enough flavor to let you know that you’ve just shortened your life by half a decade. The noodles are thin and firm, actually not entire unlike the noodles in Instant Ramen… except they don’t taste like cardboard and cigarette butts. A typical bowl comes with a piece of chicken and an almost rare piece of thin chashuu, a slightly more finesse take on what is at times considered a man’s meal. (No sexism intended.) The price for a normal bowl of filling noodles and broth? 700 yen (or only 60 yen more expensive than a Big Mac set).
Shoyu Ramen. 700 yen
But since I’m a fat person, I don’t just stop there. Nope, I also have to get my daily serving of rice in a bowl, here topped with a nice portion of sliced chashuu, soy glaze, and mayonnaise.
Chashu-don. 300 yen
Were I a health conscious individual, this would probably be enough for an entire meal. But I’m not. Eating the chashu this way is a good way to sample the efforts of a ramen shop when it comes to one of the most crucial aspects of the ramen experience. And Furukawa, of course, passes with flying colors. The price of this bowl of goodness? 300 yen. In other words, an economic success.
Recently, with the advent of Autumn, Furukawa has been offering a hearty special: Butasoba. Thick noodles in a thick, fatty broth served under a heaping pile of bean sprouts, cabbage, pork and shame. The price once again? 700 yen. It’s almost like they want me to eat at their shop at every possible opportunity.
Butasoba. 700 yen. 200 arteries clogged.
The only downside of eating an infant-sized portion of this stuff? The sensation that your stomach may burst open Alien-style immediate upon devouring it in a primal frenzy.
Overall, Furukawa is one of my favorite places to eat in Mito (probably top three, if not number one). While ramen will never be a healthy food, the bowls crafted here are generally done with enough care and attention to detail that you could probably trick yourself into thinking you’re eating somewhere good for you. If you find yourself in my neck of the woods, definitely do try to sneak in for a bowl (also, call me). You won’t be disappointed. (Unless you hate good things, in which case, screw you.)
Being a Grown-Up: I guess every birthday is special…
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.
So it’s my birthday again. That happened fast. It felt like it was only yesterday that I was complaining about it being my birthday (and a particularly cruddy one at that) and waxing poetic on the utter banality of celebrating being born. But really, it turned out to be a year to the day.
I’ve always felt like the first couple of years of someone’s life shouldn’t be counted in someone’s age. I mean, the first couple of years, you can’t even take a dump on your own, let alone tie your shoes. Really, I don’t think we should count that years before someone has to start paying taxes against their age. In other words, I’m actually five years old. Someone buy me Power Rangers bedsheets.
Funny things, birthdays. For the first ten or eleven years, they’re the greatest days ever (even though, for some reason, you always wound up bringing the cupcakes and stuff to share with class to celebrate your own special day, which I’m pretty darn sure is actually some sort of Stalinist brainwashing technique meant to acclimate us to socialized medicine and gulaugs, or maybe I’m just paranoid). Then, at some unknown point in time, they suddenly turn into the worst days ever. (“Oh god. It’s my birthday. I hope no one notices. Well, I hope they don’t sing… Crap they’re singing.”) Maybe birthdays stop losing their importance when they stop becoming massive goallines where you suddenly level up and are granted the ability to drive a car or drink a beer. That isn’t to say that you can’t go for a joyride when you’re fifteen years and three-hundred-and-sixty-four days old. It just means that, for whatever arbitrary reason, you’re suddenly adult enough to do it without having the cops send you to juvie. It’s not like you’re anymore mature on your sixteenth birthday than you were the day before. It just means that some fatass bureaucrat in some cushy office somewhere looked at the calendar and decided that 16th birthdays were the perfect day to give someone the right to text behind the wheel.
You know what else I don’t understand? The Happy Birthday song. Who the hell is that for? If I wanted to hear off-key singing and proclamations of how “dear” I am to someone (A little too North Korea-ey if you ask me), I’d just listen to the latest Taylor Swift album. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the fact you guys are singing for my benefit but at the very least put in a couple of practice rounds before you’re all making me go deaf. If you really want me to have a happy birthday, you should all just shut the hell up and leave me alone with my cake. Amnamnamnamnamnam <– That’s my flat slob shoving food into his face voice, in case you found that too confusing.
And most of the time, “Make a wish!” comes off sounding more like a threat than a good-natured whatzit. “Make a wish!” you all say as cheap-ass wax candles melt all over a previously perfectly fine cake. Make a wish or what? Are you going to just let the candles burn down to stubs, coating the entire top of the cake with melted wax in some S&M perverts wildest fantasy unless I make a stupid wish? Are you going to think any less of me if I don’t make a wish but pretend I did? What if I wished for something stupid? I mean, solving world hunger is great and all but what kind of eleven year old would wish for something like that? Find me a kid who says that’s what his wish was and I’ll find you a pair of parents that should probably have their kids taken away from them. Being a kid means being a selfish asswad and promptly not getting whatever stupid piece of crap it was that you wished for. I think we should just ban those sorts of wishes. That way starving Ethiopian children don’t get their hopes up that little Johnny’s wish for world hunger to stop is going to magically make it so Africa isn’t a stinking hellhole anymore.
You’re five years old, kid. What the hell are you wishing for a cure for AIDS for? Two-faced lying bastard.
You know what birthdays are to me? An excuse to be a fat bastard. Let me preface this by saying that I have generally stopped drinking for my New Year’s Resolution, which means that I merely a fat bastard and not a fat drunk one, which would just be excessive.
Since I have to work Saturdays (Thanks, Obama!), most of my pigging out had to take place on Friday. And, since I am a loser who doesn’t like to socialize, most of my pigging out took place alone in dark, secluded spaces with me crying to myself and shaking uncontrollably like one of those “Vietnam vets” you see at Pier 39 who you’re pretty sure are half-tempted to buttrape you the second you turn the other way. Okay, that may have been a bit of a fabrication at the end there but I digress. I did eat alone though and with my earphones in because I live to eat in an isolated realm of flavor because I’m one of those douchey foodsnobs who thinks they’re better than everyone else.
Because I was coming off of a six day work week and because I am a night owl to the Nth degree (thank you American sports), my orgy of gluttony got off to a late start, with me leaving my apartment bright and early at 3 PM, after which I proceeded to Mito Station (pretty much the one happening spot in my entire city) and its Ramen Road, one of my main haunts mainly due to the fact that it is home to pretty much my favorite bite of food on the planet at this current moment: A bowl of tsukemen from Tsukemen TETSU, a branch of the mighty Tsukemen Tetsu based in Tokyo, one of the apparent originators of tsukemen (in which the noodles are served separately to be dipped into the ultra-flavorful condensed pork/fish broth). Served with thick cut char-shu, bamboo, and the stunning ball of flavor and cholesterol that is an ajitama (seasoned soft-boiled egg), were it not for the fact that I would be dead after a week, I would eat here for every meal of every day if I could.
You know you want it.
After that, I promptly got on a train and rode because what the hell else was I supposed to do with myself at 4 PM on a Friday? After a good thirty minute ride on a train populated almost exclusively by noisy high school kids and old dudes who are probably rapists, I wound up in the town of Hitachi, Ibaraki Prefecture’s northern hub and, who would’ve guessed this, the home of the large Hitachi Corporation. Sure I got there late but the sun was still up and a nice breeze was rolling in off the water (might be important to note that Hitachi is only 100 or so kilometers from Fukushima) and so I walked around and generally just looked like someone casing the city for a crime spree. But hey, at least I took this picture.
Precariously positioned houses by the same Pacific Ocean responsible for 3/11.
I didn’t eat in Hitachi because I was too scared to go into a store (and every single place seemed to be closed down). And so it was back onto the train, this time packed to the gills with sweaty salarymen, weird people, and old dudes that were already blacked out drunk at six in the evening, getting their nasty unbrushed teeth breath all up in my grill all the way back to Mito. Uncomfortable doesn’t even begin to describe it.
I got back to Mito and ate a bunch more crap that ranged between good and okay (but really everything pales when compared to the tsukemen object of my desires) but this post is getting really wordy and my writing muscles are getting tired and I’m rapidly approaching a brain strain and I may have had a bit too much birthday whiskey. Needless to say, I lack any self-control and pretty much have to gorge myself at any given opportunity. So really, who’s a year old now? I still eat everything in sight like Baby Pacman.
This restaurant was literally abandoned. I might have actually been served by ghosts.
No birthday is complete without something that will take ten years off your life.
Stephen Tetsu 