Nakameguro lunch grind. Taken with InstaCRT for iOS.
Yesterday the Tokyo Paella boss served up that black rice paella.
The Best Paella in the World is Made in Tokyo
Last summer I had a chance to dine at the restaurant in Valencia, Spain that is famous for allegedly inventing paella hundreds of years ago. The place was packed with tourists and the collection of ceramic plates on the walls told the story of the restaurant through the years. The resulting paella that resulted from all of this hoopla was what could be described as ordinary. Let’s just say the dominant taste was salt, and more than half of the substance of the dish seemed to be permanently melded into the hundred year layer of black crust on the cast iron skillet.
Flash to a non-descript parking lot on the Meguro river in Nakameguro, Tokyo. Inside a stylish black van is where the best paella I’ve ever tasted comes from. The van is labeled ‘Tokyo Paella,’ and the chef behind the wheel is a true master. The dish is alive with the flavors of his uniquely spiced chicken and vegetables. There is salt there, but the main take away is of buttery and moist rice, of the kind you’ll want to seek out every grain with your spork. The meal comes with salad and a tapas, usually some pork concoction.
The dramatic difference between the levels in quality between the original paella and Tokyo’s outstanding version, is an example of the well documented ‘Japan Effect.’ Namely, import the world’s best, pay attention to every detail of how it’s made, and then improve that process and the overall product as a result. This happens in technology, in fashion, in the culinary arts, and this time, specifically in paella. What I had in Nakameguro is a better engineered paella. The chefs in the paella restaurant in Valencia, I’m sure feel entitled that they must deliver the world’s best paella. Surely it is the most authentic, and surely no one without Spanish blood could achieve mastery of the dish. Or simply, perhaps they don’t feel a need to impress the tourists and save the good stuff for home. Whatever the reason, the Valencian chefs were clearly phoning this one in. And for my yen, there is no better paella in the world than from the esteemed master of the details who parks his cart along the Meguro river every Wednesday lunch time.
See you in line.
When the career cycle of an American celebrity has run its course in the States, there is always hope on the other side of the Pacific that you can leverage your popularity from the 1990s and spin it into a turbo charged post-career sponsorship deal with Suntory Beverages. Bill Murray’s Lost In Translation was not far off the mark in how even the unenthusiasm of a former Western star can still sell drinks on the island of Japan.
Runners In Japan
In America, runners come in many varieties. You have the wanna-be marathoners, the thrift store clad hipsters, the ironic runners, the fun runners, the carry weights around as you go runners, the spandex crowd, the giant headphone wearers, etc. In Japan, you have only one kind of runner. The stoic runner. These fit but silent types wear the latest running fashion, all the way down to the seasonally sanctioned tights. There is no fun in their run. You can see them running with backpacks around the imperial palace, or running in well color coordinated packs around Yoyogi Park. They signal their turns and shout serious warnings when they come up behind you. I wish the types of runners in Japan were as diverse as some of the other sub-cultures. But for now, these stoic warriors rule the city, with dreams of Ekiden glory in their heads all the year round.
Quentin’s favorite joint when he comes to Tokyo.
A Funny Thing Happened When I Hit A Really Bad Golf Shot In Japan
Golf is big in Japan. Okay, that’s also a big understatement. Like most things in Japan that have been imported from elsewhere, they have done an amazing job making golf their own. The driving ranges in Japan are legendary, high-tech, multi-story studies in obsessiveness and efficiency. I’ve seen remote controlled golf bags. I’ve seen digital signage that tells you how far your ball is to the pin. I’ve seen a lot of things in Japan’s version of golf. But I still wasn’t prepared for what happened yesterday.
As I teed off on the fourth hole, I hooked it badly and my ball soared into the vast forest on my left. As I was staring in disbelief of my wretched drive, a curious thing happened: A MIDI version of the Super Mario Bros. theme song played over the loudspeakers. Specifically the part that signifies when Mario or Luigi has met his maker. My ball was dead, and this golf course had engineered a familiar theme music to play and provide some 8-bit condolences.
That was the best, worst golf shot I’ve ever experienced.
Thank you Japan.
On Remote Control Toilets
They’ve got these toilets in Japan that come with a remote control wand. The remote is mounted to the wall, but I guess if the spirit moves you you are free to detach it and roam around the stall for a bit. I guess it’s good to be able to pace around when you are faced with a tough decision like which of the twenty buttons you should press once you’ve finished your business. Should I just flush the thing? Or should I spray some water around? Start a laser light show? Play some easy listening music? I wonder if this toilet has wi-fi… I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they start marketing these things as ‘smart toilets.’
“Don’t Be Fooled By Lady Cafés.”
There are thousands of these cafes in Tokyo that only serve teeny, tiny portions of food. When you walk down the street, and see a laminated poster displaying their menu, it looks damn good. But when you go inside and order, you are presented with a side dish that sells for full meal price. It’s a lady cafe. Sometimes you can look in the window and notice the complete absence of men. But other times, there is no view inside, and you have to take a leap of faith. A typical lady cafe menu offers tasty looking dishes like chicken curry, taco rice and pork bowls. All worthy dishes, that presented in regular sized dishes with regular sized portions make amazing lunches. But, in the context of a lady cafe, you will walk away from lunch unfulfilled and wishing you had ventured a bit deeper into the alleyway.
There is still time to sign up for this samurai aerobics class.
‘The Over-Abundance of Mayonnaise in Japan.’
America is an easy target for cheap shots. Living abroad, I’ve found that before I’ve had any time to say much about myself, non-Americans I’ve introduced myself to generally waste no time before downloading me with their favorite negative American stereotypes. Then I tell them my name and say how nice it is to meet them. One stereotype I’ve heard, and take no offense to is that Americans love mayonnaise. It seems both true and unusual enough that I accept that one. It’s a different type of cultural attack than the more frequent ‘Why do Americans love war so much?’ or ‘Why does every family have a gun collection?’ I accepted the mayonnaise critique.
Until I experienced the mayonnaise levels in Japan.
It’s everywhere. In vastly spread, gloppy, dripping quantities. In America, at a backyard barbecue you’ll occasionally run across some due applying mayonnaise to his burger by the table spoon. But in Japan, the salty, white, spreadable lard is far more ubiquitous. It’s in restaurants and whole sections of the grocery store displaying all manner of variation. It’s in sushi. It’s on salad. At okonomiyaki restaurants the servers will squeeze bottles of mayonnaise until the entire surface is criss-crossed in lard.
As I said, I’m find with the mayonnaise critique against America, but in fairness maybe we can include Japan in the critique when gluttony for mayonnaise is discussed. Man, I need a sandwich.
The remains of last night’s Hanami parties.
