You're Invited: Dinner with Yoko, Michael and Me!

I said God Damn, I love technology. Ok, that's a lie. I don't really love all technology and I certainly don't want any of you (*ahem* Leez) to think I love technology because then you might wanna talk about it with me. I really hate talking about computers and flux capacitors and the latest cell phones that can take your basal body temperature while you talk into them. But I do love having the ability to make videos from afar and post them for you to see! I also love Skype. Now there's an invention I can support!

So, let's just say that you have really been wanting to go out for okonomiyaki with Yoko, Michael and I. Here's your chance! You can now! Just watch this video. Not only will you get to have dinner in a real live Japanese restaurant, you'll get to meet my new (read: awesome) friends!

Okonomiyaki is a popular dish made famous in Osaka, often called Japanese pizza. I happen to think it's more like an omelet meets a Korean-style scallion pancake. Egg is mixed with veggies and your choice of squid, shrimp and/or pork and sometimes a handful of skinny noodles. The finished okonomiyaki is painted with a sweet brown sauce, squirted with a zigzag of Japanese mayonnaise and sprinkled with bonito flakes. We also ordered some veg and grilled squid, sans okinomiyaki, as you will observe in the video.

Ok, dinner's ready - let's go!

Knuckle Sandwich - Hold the Bread

I've eaten duck tongues, frog legs, chicken feet, chopped livers and lacy tripe. I've nibbled on a whole guinea pig and accidentally sampled various guts and limbs, animal species unknown, in one particularly deep bowl of murky soup in Peru - which I swear were not listed on the menu. But knuckles? Knuckles I've never tried.

Correction. I had never tried. Until the other night. I might never have tried them if my lovely new friend, and coworker, Megumi hadn't translated the entire menu for me at a loud and smokey yakitori joint. Yakitori is basically chunks of meat grilled on skewers. Beer is a must, and you order skewer by skewer, nibbling on edamame or bacon wrapped asparagus while waiting for the next batch to arrive. It's like street food, without the street. The kitchen lives in the center of the small restaurant, completely surrounded by a counter where people pull up a stool and holler out their orders to the bustling cooks.

I absolutely loved this place. It was cramped, and a little grimy, with a friendly staff who was quick to slam down a fresh, cold beer after you'd drained your last. I am particularly fond of eating bit by bit, making the meal last all night if you'd like, and eating until you're just full enough.

So, back to the knuckles. They're not nearly as funky as you might suspect. If you'd please refer to the photo, they are smack dab in the middle, right there with the charred tips. I hate to say it, but they tasted like chicken! Really dry chicken and cartilage. I was not impressed. But the rest was quite tasty! From left to right we ate: octopus, chicken and scallions, knuckles and liver. I gobbled up a couple of intestines-on-a-stick, which I found to be surprisingly delicious. There was a chicken stick completely coated in salty, neon orange, fish eggs and some tender and flavorful chicken meatballs soaking up a slightly sweet sauce.

It was a blast of beast, a stark contrast to my nearly meat-free Japanese diet. All week long it's fish, noodles, vegetables, fruit, eggs, rice and tofu - but this particular Saturday night we feast on meat!

Tea and Fantasy

While walking the long way home from work, I have passed a particularly adorable little cafe on a hip little side street. I found it to be so adorable that I was compelled to take it's photo, but never had the opportunity to go inside.

But today, after a late last night involving many beers and half a pack of fags, I awoke late in the afternoon to the sound of raindrops body-slamming against the pavement. I put my ear to the window and overheard a couple obese rain drops boasting: "Seattle?!? Pfffffft. Seattle thinks it knows what rain is. We'll show Seattle rain! Come on boys, let's rally!" Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!

Seeing as I couldn't do much outside, I decided this was the perfect day to visit the adorable cafe. I pulled on my wellies, grabbed a book and ducked out into the wet dusk. But as I opened the door to Parlour Kofuku, I felt a tad nervous. I was fairly certain the shopkeeper wouldn't speak English and the handwritten menu was completely in Japanese. Actually, that's not entirely true. PK's menu adheres to the same frustrating and obnoxious format as many other menus I've seen in Japan: the words "menu" "drink" and "food" are in English, but the items following, the important part, is all in Japanese. What is the point of this? Yes! I know you serve food! Yes! I know this is a menu! It's such a tease! I'd rather the whole dang thing be unreadable to me. Sigh. Rant over.

So I walked into the empty cafe and felt immediately at home. As it often does, my mind flashed into fantasy mode. I imagined myself as a beloved regular customer, one who sometimes stays after closing to gossip with the pretty young owner at the communal Scandinavian wood table, sipping tea from handmade ceramic cups. Local artists living in the neighborhood would knock on the heavy wooden door, hands flecked with paint, and pop in to invite us up to their lofts for shabu shabu. We'd sit around the steaming communal pot, barefoot on the tatami floor, laughing and listening to French lounge pop. In the time it took to walk the four steps from door to table, I had created myself a perfect little Japanese life.

I shook myself out of the fantasy just in time for the proprietress to come over and hand me a menu. I pretended to read the foreign characters for a few seconds, and then sheepishly admitted I couldn't speak Japanese. She replied in Japanese. I said "Tea?" She gestured for me to follow her to the counter where she opened a tin of loose leaf English Breakfast laced with bits of orange peel. She held it under my nose and I performed an obligatory sniff. She looked expectant and hopeful but, frankly, I didn't move to Asia so I could have a cuppa. If I want something British I will karaoke to the Spice Girls.

"Do you have anything else?" I asked, hoping she might understand. She did.
"Japanese tea?"
"Yes! Yes! Japanese tea! Arigato gozaimasu!"

I sat back down in my vintage chair, surveyed the dainty pots of succulents and leafy plants lining the window sills, and decided this was exactly how I'd like my imaginary cafe to look. The old pink and gray tiled floor, the white Spanish-style plaster walls, the simple bouquet of tiny pink and white flowers on the table. It was Japan meets Europe. Simple, clean and warm.

Moments later my tea arrived in a small ceramic pot, atop a wooden platform. Beside it was my cup and a tiny plate stacked with four crouton-looking squares. Slightly sweet, from what tasted like a sting of molasses, they went nicely with my earthy, toasted rice tea. This happens to be my favorite kind of Japanese tea. Yay!

I sipped slowly, knowing I couldn't easily ask for more water if I wanted it, and wished I'd dragged my lazy touchus out of the apartment sooner. The cafe would close in one hour and so far not a single artist had popped in with a dinner invitation or even a freshly baked matcha pound cake to share. I flipped my trusty phrase book to "C," got the owner's attention, used my arms to gesture around the cafe, and said "Kawaii!" Japanese for "cute." She grinned and replied in Japanese. Now I may not speak Japanese but I'm pretty sure she was inviting me to stay after for a chat. I could almost smell the shabu shabu.

A River Runs Through It

Through Kanazawa, that is.

Aesthetics are very important to me. I don't wanna live in no broke down, ugly ass, Joan Rivers without her makeup on, city. No, sir. Which is why I was so relieved to discover that Kanazawa is quite a pretty place, especially during the perfectly warm days of mid Autumn.

About two blocks behind my apartment is the Saigawa River, flanked by long stretches of grass and paved walking paths. So excited! Last week I finally got to tie on my running shoes and take some long walks. (Are they still considered running shoes if you only walk in them? I am such a deep philosopher.) On today's two hour powerwalk, I saw dozens of ducks, a couple of hawks, the biggest toad I have ever seen, a freakishly massive coy, and a tall, long legged, knobby kneed bird with beautiful white wings fishing for snacks with his long, slim beak.

I walked so far, in fact, I hit civilization again. I happened upon Japan's version of Barnes and Noble - the first bookstore I've found with a sizable English-language selection!

Kanazawa is a touristy city, but most of the tourists are Japanese who flock from all edges of the island to stroll through Kenroku-en Garden - considered one of the three most beautiful gardens in Japan.














Even I felt zen after walking around the massive garden for several hours. That is, until a drunk middle aged man wearing the ever popular Swine Flu face mask stumbled up to me shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello!" He stunk like a frat house, and swung his arm around my shoulder and squeezed tight while his cronies whipped out cameras and took photos of the freaky American girl with the wan smile.

Unpleasant as he was, he did remind me that I should have some photos with me in them. I have really been enjoying doing things on my own. I actually sort of crave my solo sightseeing time, but realized that it's quite hard to get a photo of myself, therefore proving I have been to the beautiful place. I stopped asking strangers to take my photo because 95 percent of them can't get the job done without cutting off half my face or committing some other Photography 101 crime. So here's what you get! Of me, by me.

Three weeks down, 49 to go!

My Bento Box

Do you like movies? I thought you might! That's why I created this video tour of my apartment, otherwise known as The Bento Box. Now you can pretend like you came over for a beer and a chat. Please drink a beer and talk to the screen while you watch it. It will be more realistic for you.

I must mention: This apartment needs a serious reality show makeover. It is about as boring-looking as an American toilet. I am a chronic over-decorator, and the blank walls and hideous duvet cover (provided by my employer) are killing me. Please mail curtains and a giant, vintage, thrift store painting - pronto! Oh, and now please watch the movie:

Heaven is Only Ten Floors Up

I have quickly discovered my favorite place in Japan. A place so magical, so exciting, so exotic - I am put in a right tizzy every time I visit. The department store. Yes, the department store. The tenth floor to be exact. But let's start at the beginning: Floor One.

When you walk into an American department store, you are confronted with a maze of glass cases filled with makeup and perfume, manned by a sweet smelling army of rosy cheeked ladies.

Walk into a Japanese department store and the same glass cases are filled with the most delicate, fancy-looking, absolutely artful sweets and savories. There are rice crackers with perfectly edible, tiny Autumn leaves pressed into their centers. There are chewy, pastel colored sweets filled with chestnut puree. There are hundreds of hand crafted delicacies, and I cannot even begin to detect what most of them contain. They are all certainly works of art, floating on colorful tissue and carefully packed in pretty gift boxes. The best part? There are samples! I stroll slowly through the aisles, toothpick in hand, brow furrowed, unable to ask the sales clerks about what I have just tasted.

When I get bored of this, I take the escalator to the tenth floor (or the basement, depending on the store) for the real culinary thrill.

I leave the prim and proper, orderly and dainty, first floor behind and step off the escalator into the loud, chaotic mishmash of what we in The States might call a food court. Luckily, there is not a Hot Dog On A Stick in sight.

As I walk through the aisles of unidentifiable foods, stall keepers holler staccato sales chants at potential customers, and thrust toothpicks and tiny spoons under my nose, urging me to try a bit of this and a bit of that. It is all delicious, these mystery snacks. Most of it is fish: chopped up, sauced, spiced and mixed with other tasty things.

I buy a scoop of cucumber kimchee, fiery red and laced with sesame seeds. I taste spoonful after spoonful of various fish eggs, popping the tiny orbs between my teeth as I marvel in my good fortune. I crunch ribbons of dried kelp and
am surprised by the crisp snap of cold, marinated sea snails.

Then there are the raw meat and fish counters, a selection of seasonal produce, the prepared foods section boasting freshly fried tempura by-the-piece and glimmering sashimi. People line up for made-to-order okonomiyaki, a savory pancake of sorts nicknamed "Japanese Pizza." Old ladies crimp the edges of tiny, pork filled dumplings while college students ladle crepe batter onto hot, black grills and wrap the elastic pancakes around whipped cream, chocolate sauce and bananas. There is an amazing bakery with golden baguettes, crusty rolls and pastries. I even spy a Japanese bagel dog!

All. On. The. Tenth. Floor.

Us Jewish folk don't believe in heaven or hell. In college, I asked my mom where we go after we die. Unable to answer the question, she promptly mailed me a copy of Where I Go After I Die: The Jewish Guide to the Afterlife. It basically likens the afterlife to a Choose Your Own Adventure. Awesome. I'll choose Floor Ten, please.

Japan's Entire Hair Spray Supply Drained by Hair Happy Couple

Seeing as they worked sooo hard to turn their boring old normal hair into giant, ferocious wild animal manes, I thought it was only fair to stop this couple for a photo. If anyone deserves paparazzi, it's them.

I'm fairly certain they are the real-life Japanese Ken and Barbie. On the right we have Tanning Salon Ken, and on his arm, as always, is Beauty Parlor Barbie-san.

I kind of love them.

Flushed

I just have to preface this post by saying I swear I'm not this obsessed with toilets at home! But the toilets in The States are just so hum drum. I'm talking seriously boring toilets. They don't possess any of the glitz and glamor the Japanese loos do. Oh, and when I say glitz and glamor I mean a multitude of buttons that do a multitude of amazing things. I do not mean the toilets are bedazzled. Oooooh. Bedazzled toilets...

As many of you know, Japanese toilets and I got off on the wrong foot (*please go to the bottom of this post to be filled in, if necessary). But we have since resolved our differences, and I am able to write about their finer points without a hint of a grudge.

This afternoon I was browsing at Matsuzakaya, an upscale, ten floor, department store when nature called. I walked into the gal's room, and was shocked to see the toilet pictured above. I have used such a toilet in Turkey, but did not expect to have to build up my thigh muscles in a store that sells $900 Coach purses. Also, it was the first toilet I'd seen without a heated seat and multifunction bidet system. But, since this is Japan, it wasn't your average squatter: Once you're nice and hovered, the toilet senses your presence and automatically triggers a fake flushing sound. You know, so no one hears anything. I don't like this! It makes me feel like I'm trying to cover something up that's not even happening. I had the strong urge to scream "I'm only peeing! I'm only peeing!" But no one would have heard me anyway. That fake flush sound is pretty loud.

*My Toilet and my Eye: My hotel toilet has a bidet and I decided to give it a try this morning. Wouldn't you?? So I'm sitting there and I push the "spray" button - but then I thought maybe I did something wrong, so I started to get up. Just then the bidet sprays ... RIGHT INTO MY EYE! Straight fucking shot!! Toilet eye! Toilet eye! Ew! Let this be a public service announcement regarding the dangers of bidets. Hey friends, DON'T let this happen to you.

Week One: Nagoya!

One year in Japan. That's 365 days. By my mathematical estimations *pushing imaginary glasses up the bridge of my nose and fiddling with golden abacus* that's about 1,095 meals. 1,095 meals in Japan! That's a lotta ramen slurping, my friends.

This blog is intended to be a well-rounded, multifaceted, look at my year living, and teaching English, in Japan. But being a girl who starts to ponder "What's for lunch?" while still buttering her breakfast toast, it is likely to be fairly food focused. But don't worry, I will be sure to include photos of the much-rumored, used-panties, vending machines as soon as I track one down.

Let's get started, shall we?

It appears the Japanese like everything to be adorable. They give birth to fantastically adorable, chubby cheeked, babies, there seems to be no such thing as too much Hello Kitty and they see no harm in creating cute-as-can-be sweet treats. I squealed with delight upon seeing these cream puff fishies, complete with strawberry tongues. Who knew fish had tongues?


Holy shit! Is that a Japanese taco truck?! Well, sorta. It's more like a crab sushi truck, which is just as awesome. I spotted this sushi-mobile today, right after nibbling a street snack of takoyaki, fried octopus balls, while on my way to a lunch of tonkatsu. Could I really eat three lunches in a row? Probably. Did I need to? Sigh. Probably not. I actually thought I might drop a few pounds in Japan. Pffffft.

I probably should have spent the months leading up to my move learning Japanese. Instead I spent a lot of time mentally preparing myself for a year without cheese. Turns out, not only does Japan have cheese, they have cheese I have never seen before! See those packages? Those are filled with individually wrapped nuggets of white cheese. They are wrapped exactly like a peppermint candy, with a little cellophane twist on each end.

Juice boxes full of juice? Dumb. Juice boxes full of mystery booze? Yay! They taste like shit, but
only cost a dollar and you can drink them while walking down the street.


The Nagoya Train Station is not just a place to catch a lightening quick Shinkansen. It's a multi level shopping extravaganza packed with approximately 9 bazillion restaurants, shops and a giant white lady in a ruffly tutu.

It's also frequented by little old Japanese men who like to prance up to you chanting: "America?! Austrarria?! Engrind?!"

This particular prancer was quite chatty, and it was excruciatingly hard to walk away. Japanese people love to give gifts, and he gave me a photograph he took of the city, and made sure to write his phone number on the back. Smooth. As you can see in this photo, we are already dating.

It seems Nagoya is not actually a city, but rather a massive fashion runway filled with strutting women in thigh high boots and Louis Vuitton purses and men in dapper suits with intricately coiffed hairdos that must have taken hours to tease, feather, curl and spray into place.

It's head to toe high fashion, or at the very least intricate and bizarre, and I have yet to see a woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I am told shopping is an actual hobby in Japan, and most women come equipped with a glut of shopping bags dangling off each arm.

Apparently it is a big compliment to ask a fashionable gal for her photograph, so I eagerly approached these pink-happy teenagers this afternoon, waving my camera and making idiotic gestures meant to imply "Hey you! With the giant pink bow on your head! Girl, I wanna take yo pitcha!" They gestured back. There was much giggling and mouth covering involved. I took that to mean: "Ok, white lady. You can take my picture."

Seven days down, 358 to go.