There are times when I actually forget that I'm living in another country. My workplace is sandwiched between two bustling Starbucks and situated across the street from a 24 hour McDonald's currently advertising four special "Big American Burgers."
But a few months ago, my BFIJ and I were making our way to a conveyor belt sushi restaurant when I heard an extremely loud, obnoxious, sing songy man's voice that seemed to be coming out of the sky. "Is it God?" I asked Yoko. "No," she assured me, "Better. It's the sweet potato man."
Sure enough, a little truck was inching it's way down the road, blaring a looped message in Japanese. Even bundled up in my gloves, scarf, coat and hat it was brain-freeze-cold outside and the idea of holding a red hot sweet potato in my hands sounded very appealing. "We gotta get one!" I called to Yoko and ran into the street to flag down the truck.
I'm not sure how prosperous this old fashioned venture is, but I love the idea of a vendor selling a single delicious product. The old man hopped out of his truck, selected a rock roasted potato from his stash and plunked it into a paper bag. That's it. No butter, no salt, certainly no blasphemous mini marshmallows. But I'll be damned if these completely naked Japanese tubers aren't the creamiest, most flavorful, absolutely luscious potatoes I've ever tasted. Recently, I bought another, for less than half the price of the truck tater, at my local grocery and it was even better. Unable to control my sweet potato lust, I hightailed it to the register, and spent my walk home dreamily munching on my purple skinned breakfast.
Here's a video of our sweet potato truck encounter, featuring Yoko translating the truck's message:
- ▼ 2010 (32)