Red & Marbled

Mmm... nice.

Very, very nice.

Jolted

Seriously. What the fuck have I been thinking?

No wonder I am called the stupid one.

The One With Gorgeous

Seriously. I have to stop torturing myself like this. On a Monday, too.



Now I can't wait for August. (Then September... then...)

Inertia Explained

I've seen dudes succeed through drug, alcohol, sex and gambling rehab programs, but golfers can't stop golfing.

Exactly, Scoop. My sentiments.

77 Days

Sure I miss being there and hate being back here, but I'd be lying if I said there is no more joy in food. Especially if it comes red and very marbled.




Still, I'm officially in devastation.

Being taken away from fantasy is one thing; being thrown back to reality is another.

I wonder if running away will be my destiny.


I'm gonna hibernate my credit card for the next two months. I've got more than enough stuff now, I shouldn't be needing anything else. Anyways, I should throw myself into some hard work too.

And then... and then... when my birthday comes, I will do it all over again. : )

The Kidney Theory

Now I know why I would instinctively buy two of everything: two bowls, two plates, two glasses, two cups.

Because I am the clumsy girl.

And There Was Fish

I suppose it would be true to say that, any trip to Japan is time and money wasted if you have not eaten any fish nor seafood in the land of sushi. Who the hell would believe I had gone to Japan for four days, if I don't have any sushi picture story to tell?

So what I failed to accomplish the day before, I had to do it on the last day. By hook or by crook.

Even if it meant sacrificing sleep. Well, I did lie in bed for forty-five minutes, but got zero snooze before the alarm rang at half-past-four in the morning.

My last day would eventually turned out the longest one, and probably one of the most memorable ones.




The sky in summery Tokyo was almost bright at five. The sun was not up yet, thankfully, and the cool breeze (which actually made me shiver) made it such a beautiful morning I forgot I was supposed to be dead tired.

The beautiful moment turned out to be brief, unfortunately. I'd hoped the streets would be quiet, the short stroll to the subway would be energizing. I'd thought, at five in the morning, I would be riding the subway with the early working birds.

But have I mentioned anything about the seedy area where I stayed? It is very seedy.

Brown-skinned chicks with golden hair and lashes thicker than their thighs, in short-short shorts and high-high heels, laughing and stumbling with their ah-beng companions (got, Japan got ah bengs one) toward the same subway. Gangs of dudes with golden spiky hair, and their black suits and black sedans parked along the street.

They all scared the hell outta me.

I'd never expected I would be riding the early train with the early drunk birds instead. Not one, not two, but a flock.

So the Tokyo subway does not just reek of that stale alcoholic breath at 10 in the pm.


I must've been really tired. I went all of thirty minutes up the wrong track.

In the right direction, but just the wrong track. Nothing a short cab ride couldn't fix.

The minute I got off the cab, I got lost, simply just staring at the world's largest fish market in front of me. I am totally zonked and absolutely famished. I don't know where to start, and I don't know when I'll actually get to taste the fish.


When in doubt, always follow the crowd in Japan.

So far, so good. Seems like I'm on the right track. I'm beginning to see the shops outside the market, selling everything from knives to tee shirts. The fish must be somewhere nearby. I don't know how I derive that, but that must be it.




Tsukiji's full of buzz. It is not at all one of those tiny, smelly wet markets where fishmongers shout/chat/flirt with your mom or mine. In fact, not only is it not tiny, it is surprisingly not smelly. Well, at least to me, because I have smelt the worst. Trust me.

Tsukiji's full of important people who go about their work with utmost seriousness. After all, they must be very important people, if they run the most important wholesale fish business in the world. I actually feel odd, like a fish out of waters (no pun intended). I don't know where to take my next step. I don't want to get in the way of the important people striding around from stall to stall. More importantly, I don't want to get knocked down by the various vehicles zipping around and inside the market.

Seriously, if I was one of them important fishmongers in Tsukiji, I would get very irritated by all these stupid tourists with their cameras, crowding around my tiny stall, getting in my way, making all kinds of nonsensical squeals in excitement. What am I? A fish in an aquarium?

Anyway, so far, so good. Until I decided to follow the wrong crowd: the other silly tourists.

So I found myself in middle of it all. The auction was over by the time I got to the main selling square. All I saw were some leftovers getting hauled to their final destinations.

I am ignorant; I have never seen fish this huge, other than the ones on the pages of National Geographic.




The market is huge. I still had no idea where the sushi shops were, and they didn't seem anywhere in sight. So I literally walked through almost all the fish (and oysters and mussels and prawns and octopus and squid and...) in that entire market, in search of the ones that were ready for my stomach.

I wanted to stop and take a picture of a man cutting up a huge fish, but I decided against it. I didn't want to be that silly tourist.

I was getting really upset. So upset, I started to wonder if I'd been cheated. Maybe there are no sushi shops here! Bloody hell.

Then, somehow - I can't remember how - I found them. The tiny row of sushi shops all tucked away at one end of the entire marketplace.

No, wait, let me rephrase. I finally found those few sushi shops hidden amongst others selling toast (yes, toast?!) and noodles and more knives and more tee shirts, all tucked away at one end of the entire marketplace.




Just as it had been with all other adventures, getting started was the tricky bit. Which shop should I try first?

And especially on days when you don't feel like you have a big stomach, the first one becomes crucial. As well as my philosophy too.

When in doubt, always follow the queues (which really are organized non-moving crowds) in Japan. Especially when it obviously is the only queue around.




I queued for about ten minutes, before I got to the front of the line (incidentally, there was no line that formed after me... ) and found out what I'd been queueing for.

Ah so, this place is famous for its maguro, and its maguro. It even specifically states that it does not serve sake (the fish, not the drink, and it should be read: if you're a silly sake-eater, please go somewhere else).

It was one of those moments where, for whatever little Japanese I can read, I was grateful for being able to figure out the most important ones: まぐろ and とろ. Tuna and its fat belly.

It didn't really turn out to be a sushi meal, not the kind of sushi I expected anyway. The sushi came in a huge bowl - the toro, all six fat slices of it, topping a huge serving of rice. A big breakfast meal complete with a bowl of miso soup.

Damn. How am I ever going to do my restaurant-hopping now? I have massive plans for the rest of the morning before I have to hop on the express to the airport at 2.

I walked out of the shop, completely satisfied, almost bloated. Becoming really sleepy too. The breakfast took a while, the bowl was simply too huge. It was strange as well, that the shop full of breakfast patrons was absolutely silent as everyone else went about their meals.

I can only think that everyone else was probably experiencing multiple orgasms like I was.


I refused to leave the market. I couldn't have sacrificed my sleep, ridden on a train full of drunk zombies, gotten my legs all splattered with dirty spots, endured an excruciating hunger for almost an hour - for just six pieces of fish.

It didn't take me many more steps before I stopped in my tracks again.

Unagi shop!

The shop was totally empty. The boss was sitting at the counter by himself, reading his papers. Hmm, not a promising sign. Should I should I should I?

Then I noticed the magazine and newspaper cuttings plastered outside the shop. I walked in.

The boss, a happy dude by the name of JJ (yes, as in roman letters 'J' and 'J'), stood up immediately, put aside his papers and greeted me with the loudest squeal that I couldn't understand.

The next was a question: "Chinese? China?" "No, Sin-ga-po-ru!"

For the rest of the morning, he squealed to me only in English that I had to strain my ears very hard to comprehend.

JJ is a happy little dude who didn't look like he came from Japan. He spoke English, Mandarin, amongst other languages, all of which sounded incomprehensible at first. Immediately after sending my grilled unagi order to his kitchen, he set about a series of tasks, all of which seemed to be SOP to me.

First, he handed me this photocopied A3-sized piece of paper. On it, I realized were some handwritten "common Japanese phrases" a tourist could usually do with - complete with the relevant English translation. Most of them were related to food ordering. He taught me how to order a set of anything, from tempura to tonkatsu to unagi, of course.

He got impressed when I said, "Itadakimasu!" He said I was very polite, said I knew my manners. Then he taught me what to say at the end of a meal.

Next, he brought out this huge book. A guestbook! Complete with greetings and photographs of patrons - mostly silly tourists like me. He handed me a pen, and I knew what I had to do.

He then pointed to the wall next to him. A wall I'd already noticed the moment I walked into the stall. A wall full of pictures. Of silly tourists like me of course. And then, he said...

"Oh, you know Jay Chou? He came here twice. See his picture there?"

My heart stopped.

My pulse raced. Is it the summer heat that's making me sweat?

I stood up, walked to the wall, stared right at the corner where he was pointing toward. It was Jay, alright. But a cut-out picture from a magazine.

...

The next move was predictable: he whipped out his digital camera. Snap! I would soon be part of the wall. Nice.

Okay, I don't think there's nothing more he could possibly do. I can enjoy my unagi in peace now. But he kept himself busy still. He pulled out a piece of writing paper and set it upon the counter. Then he took out a brush and some ink - wait a minute, a brush?

He started mumbling about something, as he started to draw. I had no idea what he was up to, so I went back to my unagi. When he was finally done, he beamed as he held up his work in front of me.

It was a calligraphed name. He had made a self-painted advertisement for his unagi. He wrote his address at the bottom of the drawing, so I would either remember where to find him or tell the whole world about his unagi.

How smart is that?

And the unagi? It was so fat, so soft, so tender, it literally melted in my mouth. Another new standard set.






Ok. I'm done for the day. Plans might be a little screwed now, I cannot imagine stuffing any more food inside me. I am really in need of some snooze, but I have to pack and get out of the hotel by 10.

Now I have four hours to do nothing. I cannot eat, I shouldn't shop, so I think I will hang out in Shibuya, find a cafe and crash in there.

But another name had to be dropped on me again.

"Okay you should try UORIKI in Shibuya."

Now, when it is a "you-should" kind of advice, and the name is spelt in BLOCK LETTERS, there is no way I can just let it go.

But if it's really something that good, it must also be something very hard to find.

And am I really hungry?


I am a sucker. I couldn't resist the mystery and the temptation - the calling of another adventure.

This would be my final meal and I would stuff it down my throat no matter how or what.

With only one English address I managed to google on my berry, I sought the help at the city police kiosk like a real damsel-in-distress. I looked very insistent and they looked very puzzled why I would want to go through all these trouble just to find a fish shop.

Looking for something in Tokyo is a very stressful thing to do. The address you have in your hands will probably not help you much.

But I actually did it.




Again, I ordered the first thing on the menu I could read: miso saba. The shop is tiny, the menu hangs on the wall at the front, I don't want to hold up the others trying to figure out the rest of the menu.

It was nothing I'd thought about this entire trip, but miso saba doesn't sound bad at all, though while waiting for my food at the counter and sneaking peeks at the other patrons around me, I realized shio saba was what I'd really wanted.

I forgot I wasn't supposed to be hungry. There was nothing that needed to be stuffed.

The miso was a good idea after all, I finished the entire huge bowl of rice. I've always liked my saba grilled, but this one was awesome. The oily taste of saba was more subdued but well complemented with the miso. Best of all, it was huge and meaty.

And I think I helped myself to five servings of the pickles.

I think I am really, really done for the day.

I really wish I don't have to go, but at least now I think I can leave in peace.

*****

There was no way I was going to end my wonderful eating trip by ruining it with lousy airplane food.

I skipped dinner on the way back, and had two Asahis instead.

And I fell deeply asleep for the next two hours before I awoke to realities again.

Straight, Wide & A Pair of Dungarees

Did I say I crashed big time the first night after my big udon adventure?

Well, I did. And so plans for Day Three were kinda mucked up as a result.

I can’t even remember slapping the alarms shut at four in the morning, but I must have. Because I had the sweetest sleep (in a bed that was really okay if I wanted to be nice), totally undisturbed, all the way till almost lunchtime. And even then, I didn’t really want to wake.

I was that tired.

But I didn’t come all the way to Japan to sleep. Which brings me back to the point again why, seriously, I had decided to run away to Japan out of the blue.

The shoes are a lie. The eating is not. It’s just one half of the Plan.


Basically, the Plan is simple.

Just spend lots of my hard-earned money in my favorite foreign land. And in that foreign land that I speak of, there are easily two ways of doing that: eating and shopping.

See, it really is a no-brainer. My favorite foreign land makes me happy. Eating makes me very happy. Shopping makes me happy. Spending my hard-earned money on things that make me happy makes me happy.

Therefore, being able to spend money in my favorite foreign land by eating and shopping should make me a very, very, very happy woman.


Because I failed to wake at four, and as a result, failed in my original mission, I figured I should just dedicate Day Three to the other half of the Plan. Anyway, I'd get to eat (hopefully something wonderful like yakiniku mmmmmm...) when I meet the folks from the office in the evening.

Lunch was nothing grand at all, just to keep the stomach quiet. I ended up in an unofficial slurping competition with the demure-looking, hanky-clutching housewife sitting next to me in a soba shop, but the guy sitting on my other side beat us both hands down. We were all done in seven minutes or so. A no-nonsense affair, lunchtime is in Japan.


The first stop was a no-brainer. Daikanyama it had to be. Harajuku can come later.

Problem is, I've never figured how I always managed to get there - by foot. I can never remember how to get there from scratch. The last time I did it, I walked in rounds, turned corner after corner, for a couple of hours, before I finally stumbled upon that old familiar cafe.

Then I found out, I was dumb as dumb can be.

"Just go to Daikanyama station."

Huh??

And then I found out, it is not my fault if the Daikanyama station is not printed on any of the subway maps I have. I actually scrutinized my maps for days before the trip.

The entire subway map is complicated enough, I agree. But what does it matter to just add one more tiny dot and print one more name onto it? Isn't Daikanyama famous enough to justify that dot?

I am not the dumb one.

So I checked with the hotel staff, who looked at me like I was stupid, but ended up the dumbfounded one when she couldn't find it on the map that she had.

I eventually found 代官山 on the fare chart at the station, figured that must be it (I know 山 = yama, and '代官' sounds like 'daikan', so I am NOT dumb), followed the crowd blindly to the transfer subway line and up the train that was waiting.

Train's moving. I see 代官山 on the next dot! Good!

But the train didn't stop at 代官山. It zipped past 代官山 to the next station.

Muckin' express train.

Well, at least I didn't take two hours to get there this time.




Harajuku came later indeed. That was the only other place I managed for the day.

And I don't wish to remind myself of the self-inflicted damage, so all I can say is:
(a) my hat collection is growing but thankfully not the shoe count (not much anyway),
(b) good tee shirts should never be passed off,
(c) rubbish should seriously be passed off even if they are cheap and too pretty,
(d) I discovered and invested heavily in Japanese denim,
(e) my niece is the luckiest little kiddo in the Lee family right now.

Oh, and:
(f) shio takoyaki can be nicer than the one with the usual okonomiyaki sauce,
(g) beer quenches your thirst in the midst of summertime shopping better than plain ol' water.




My yakiniku dream didn't come true. Neither did the unagi.

They didn't care, but honestly I didn't either. I am easily seduced in Japan.

Even if they made me eat right next door to the office. =/




I didn't even care if it was yakitori again. Because it was the first time I had it grilled with only salt. And now I am in love with yakitori grilled with nothing but salt.

But I do care about that chicken.

That chicken that made the stock for the NABE(!) broth. That chicken that you fish out from the broth and dip into the tare sauce mixed with some broth, before putting it into your mouth.

I don't know if it's the chicken or it's really the tare-broth mixed sauce. I cheated - I didn't dip. I let the chicken swim around the sauce, and soak in all the dark sauce.

And only then, I put it in my mouth, and started behaving the idiot at the dinner table again.

I hope that isn't rude behavior in Japanese culture.

ごちそうさまでした!

うどん

Seriously? My real reason for coming to Japan in a flurry?

One word.




And it’s not just any udon.

Very much inspired, since two months ago, by the movie Udon (what else?), I decided a trip is not a trip unless I do something crazy. And so I did.

I booked a flight to a very local city named Takamatsu, in the Kagawa prefecture. Where the most famous Sanuki udon is born, and still breeding very flourishly.

The movie Udon says, you have not tasted udon until you’ve tried Sanuki udon. And me being me, I chose to believe.

Of course, when I decided on the side trip and when I made the phone booking for the flight, I hadn’t really thought about the real problem. I never considered if I could even accomplish my mission in a Japanese town that probably speaks 0.005% English. Until…

”If you ever get lost, it’d probably take two years before the embassy finds you…”

Which doesn’t really sound like a bad idea. Really.

So it’s kinda disappointing now that you’re getting to read this.


It turned out as well a trip of other ‘firsts’.

For one, it was the first time I took the monorail with many other locals to the domestic Haneda airport, who all looked like they had just as important missions to accomplish for the day as I did. It was also the first time I took an ANA flight.

One thing for sure: I have never felt this excited boarding a plane since... well, that’s for me to know.




Takamatsu reminds me of Phuket.

Well, at least for the brief moment I got off the plane and took my first step out of the airport.

Blue skies, happy sun, nothing but the sea in front of you. And the limousine bus waiting to bring you to town. It was the perfect summer holiday, it seemed.

I had absolutely no idea about Takamatsu when I landed. Only some Japanese brochures that told me about mountains and gardens and seas, but nothing about udon. And the fact that I wanted no mountain nor garden nor sea, but only udon.





Kagawa is the smallest prefecture in Japan, and it is said that on this island, there are about 800 Sanuki udon shops, the bulk of which are found in its largest city, Takamatsu.

Not a surprising fact, if you see a standalone udon shop every other minute during the bus ride to town.





I wasted no time the minute I got off the bus at the last stop – the main Takamatsu train station. I had only about six hours left before I had to head back toward the airport.

So I started walking.

Clueless, directionless, helpless. Still, I walked. I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, but I knew the good ones must be hiding somewhere. And they had to be the cheap ones.

And that was where I made my first stop. That would be breakfast part ‘A’.




To the uninitiated (or should I rightfully say, to the ignorant?), udon seems just like one of those simplest fare in the world that goes as an accompaniment to other meatier stuff and only serves to fulfill the “carbohydrate” portion of your meal. But as I learned from the movie, udon is anything but simple. And true to its essence, the movie tells you about the pride of udon masters (mostly grumpy obasans and ojisans) and their works; it tells me at least, that the only way to appreciate udon is to taste it unadulterated.

And “kake” is the word. (I think.)

Oh, and may I add, you probably can’t get udon this cheap in Tokyo. Good udon. All of 150 yen.


Okay, I must confess. 150 yen buys you a ‘sho’ portion. Which means ‘small’. Which in turn means it only tickles my stomach. Which really means I could very well have parts B, C, D, E for breakfast, or whatever.

Summer’s terrible in Japan. And it was probably a bad idea to have kake udon in summertime.

It took me about 45 minutes to find the first shop, and I was done in ten. My perspiration had not even evaporated by the time I slurped the last bit of the soup and stepped out on my way for number two.

Oh oh oh. I have to add this now. Nothing feels greater than the fact that in Japan, you can SLURP like your mom’s not around.

Anyway, walking around aimlessly looking for udon shops in summertime is no joke. It is a feat only for the hungry (me) and the desperate (me again) and the mad (me me ME!).

I walked around in loops and turns, completely ignoring the map (what map?), got distracted a bit by some shopping (yes, there are things to buy in Takamatsu), and my stomach was finally getting really grumpy.

I couldn’t find any more of those quiet little udon shops. Strange as it may sound, but where I was roaming around, it is probably much livelier at night, full of izakayas and other bars.

By day? It is quiet to the point of being almost ghostly. Well, Takamatsu is almost ghostly by itself, anyway.




I was getting really so irritated, I decided to hop into some shop that looked like part of a chain.

Bad idea, perhaps. But my philosophy? In Japan, no food is bad food. Not even chain-store food. Just like my Yoshinoya.

Second round was zaru udon. Probably the wiser choice for summertime.

And when you eat it cold, you get to taste the real Sanuki udon – firm yet chewy, like it bounces back against your teeth with every single bite. It might not be flavorful, yet every mouthful of it only makes you yearn for the next. ‘Sho’ is really a bad idea, but I am on a mission.

Still, I suppose ‘zaru’ is best left for the soba. Udon should go with its shoyu broth.




I hit the street again immediately after round two.

I walked for two reasons: one, of course, is to look for the next udon. Two? I had to freakin’ walk off all the udon just so I could have more.

This time, I was more surprised at what I stumbled upon. My favorite Paul! And another one. So many Pauls!




Honestly? The stomach was still not quite happy after round two.

The search had to speed up.

And then, I saw it. A very homely-looking shop that had some smoke coming out from the window that doubled up as a walk-by storefront.

It would have been awesome if I’d stumbled upon some really homemade, traditional udon. But it wasn’t. Takoyaki it was instead.

No, no takoyaki. This is a udon mission. But it looks so cute. It smells good too.

Okay, just TRY SOME. Don’t fill your stomach with it. Just TRY. SOME.

There wasn’t any technogically advanced system working in the shop. Just a granny. And she’s probably a granny who drives a Nissan March cuter than my car. I had to wait a long while for my eight tako balls, and I wished she sold some biru in the meantime.

TRYing was only the devil’s advocate. Those takoyaki are probably the best ones I have ever tasted. Chewy chewy chewy chewy, with giant bits of tako. No mayonaise like the Japanese, just the sauce, thank you very much.

I gobbled up all eight balls in a flash.





By now, it was already two in the p.m.. I had only about two hours to go, before I had to seriously figure my way back to the main station.

The takoyaki made my stomach rather happy. But I wasn’t. I had only two bowls of udon, far off from my target.

Two more hours, two more bowls. That will be it, that’s the plan.

I found the next bowl in an ugly shop. I can’t describe it, I don’t know how to. But it’s just ugly. Looking like an old school tuckshop, the shop had a stern-looking woman serving the udon, it played cheesy Japanese music that sounded like it came from the ‘80s, the walls were beige and completely bare, and the ugliness stood out more because it was way past lunchtime and I was the only patron. It was just ugly.

The kake udon was probably its only saving grace. And that’s all that really matters, no?




Quarter to three.

I had ventured too far out, or so I thought. The heat wasn’t the only thing that was making me sweat now.

The final plan? Start making my way back to the station and keep my eyes open for any interesting udon shop along the way.

I think I did the second part pretty well, but not the first. Because an hour later, I found myself back at the takoyaki shop! I had been following not the road signs, but anything that might look like an udon shop, and ended up walking in one big circle.

It was almost four, and I was really fucked.

No more mood for udon.


I haven’t mentioned the finer details, but I was getting really tired. My back was really breaking, my knees were really burning, I was getting really burnt from the sun.

By now, I really didn’t feel like walking one more step. I just wanted to sleep.

If I still want any more adventure in my life, I’d better start getting serious about my strength and endurance training.

The one thing I’m still proud of, though, is my navigation skills. Very important for adventures like this.

In no time, I was back on track toward the station. I just had to keep my eyes focused.

Last round: right outside the station itself. And it turned out my favorite of all. Maybe because I could finally sit. Or maybe, it’s just that freakin’ egg.









I zonked out completely on the 45-minute bus ride to the airport. COMPLETELY. I hadn’t felt this tired in a long while.

It sounded only appropriate if I followed by saying I zonked out all the way on the plane and on the train ride back to the hotel, and I crashed into bed till the next day.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I looked for headphones in Akihabara, got hungry (YES, after four bowls of udon and eight tako balls, hunger struck) and thirsty, settled for yakitori and biru in a cheerful crowded standing (fuck) bar, got my nose pinched umpteen times by some weirdo who proclaimed his love for me, before I finally crashed in bed.

And I crashed big time.




I love my udon.

I love my adventures.

Sapporo’s next.

*****

I can’t believe I have so much to say about udon today, when I usually have only two lines about my life otherwise.

It’s now three in the morning, I have only less than two hours before I troop out again for my final mission.

I really, really, really don’t wanna go home.

*****

Seriously seriously seriously?

My real reason for getting away from the Honks?

Just so I can wear illegal shoes everyday.