“I Am Sonic The Hedgehog And Gold Rings Sustain Me”

Inside a diner near Shinjuku, the DJ played what sounded like the theme music from Sonic the Hedgehog. I forgot what I was supposed to be thinking about and instead transformed into that spunky little rodent and started sprinting with the turbo held down and running up and around ramps and loops collecting golden rings frantically in my mind. I wondered if the golden rings represented anything or if they were merely the sustenance of my very existence as they had been in the video game. I decided not to find out what happened if I got poked by a robot and my rings were to spill. I kept the turbo button of my mind firmly pressed down and refused to acknowledge the clock telling me it was past two AM and time to go home. Then the music accelerated and became funkier. As a consequence my sprinting sped up, making it harder to avoid the rabbits and squirrels trapped inside Asimo robot prisons. Moulin Rouge played on the wall. Then the music switched to something with lyrics, something like Radiohead, and I evaporated out of my hedgehog dream, never to return on that evening. It can be enjoyable when such unexpected escapes occur in the hyperactive neon coils of life in Tokyo.

“Pickles and Jazz”

This guy comes into the burger place I’m at and orders a big bowl of pickles.

They come out almost instantly. He pulls a tiny paperback book out of the pocket of his camelhair jacket, or whatever designer fur the thing is made out of. He eats pickles with his right hand and reads the small leather covered book with his left. He mechanically feeds the pickles into his mouth. He takes exactly four bites per pickle.

Bite.

Chew.

Read.

Bite.

Chew.

Read.

The pickles last for quite a while. It was a big bowl. They bring him some blackened beer and then he alternates between pickles and beer, reading the little book all the while. After the pickles are gone, the waiter brings out one of the biggest burgers I’ve seen in Tokyo. The thing is so big it forces the man to put the small book down. He applies ketchup mechanically. And then the mustard in the same fashion.

The man’s moves are a spectacle. I notice the couple next to me is watching now too. Everything about this man seems artificial and calculated, yet somehow poetic. Like performance art. It seems like an artistic routine that fits perfectly with the jazz playing on the sound system, accentuated by the rhythm of the occasional passing train. On this night, life is a poem.

Then the man starts to cut his massive burger with fork and knife. A train passes. The cymbal adds a flourish. American Graffiti is being beamed against the back wall of the joint. Silently. Beyond the knife and fork of the mechanical diner, a projection of a young Harrison Ford wise cracks from behind the wheel of a classic car. When the burger is devoured, the man moves back to the pickles. I guess there were some left.

Richard Dreyfuss looks nervous.

Then man picks up the small book.

A train unloads.

A horn blows a prolonged cool note.

My bill comes.

The man takes a bite of pickle.

Harrison Ford laughs.

“Monja”

The stuff doesn’t look good.

It looks the opposite of good. It looks like something you never want to put in your mouth. But for some reason it’s damn popular in Japan.

It’s a mixture of flour, water, green onions and assorted seafood that just never seem to mix. It’s thrown onto a hot skillet where it bubbles and percolates under the drunken eye of the table’s resident chef. 

At some point, (not sure how anyone can tell) its done. Eventually, diners around the table start ripping apart little piles of this watery, bubbling goo and shoving it into their mouths. They separate and smash little bite sized bits with tiny metal spatulas. Before long, the mess is gone and the chef brings out the next dish. Usually the closely related but visually more appealing ‘okonomiyaki.’

The monja has thankfully been devoured, but it’s never more than a sharp holler at the wait staff from coming back.

I’ll pass.

Slurp Voraciously.

It is essential that you slurp your noodles in Japan.

It’s rude if you don’t.

You have to make more noise than the salary man sitting to your left and the high school hip hop kid to your right. The chef will be watching you and he’ll be horribly offended if he can’t hear you enjoying his noodles at fighter jet level decibels. His staff will be on call to sloppily pour water in your glass and spill ice cubes and water in your lap if you dare enjoy those noodles quietly. That’s selfish here.

Eating noodles is a social auditory experience. It’s a finely tuned symphony of lips, tongues and wanton gluttony.

The louder you go, the more politely you are received. And when you come to something that’s not a noodle, like a scrap of pork or a hard boiled egg, you better smack your lips something fierce. Your every move is being carefully monitored. You are being tested. You will be judged as either ‘ignorant foreigner swine’ or ‘foreigner who is trying their damnedest to be complimentary.’ Your future dining experience at this establishment depends on this vital first impression.

Japan is a very nuanced and sophisticated culture that makes it hard for non-islanders to assimilate. But when it comes to noodles and ramen, the math is simple:

The more noise you make, the more beloved you will become.

Slurp voraciously.

‘Gorilla’ Curry

Yesterday I ended up having lunch in some place that I’m sure no foreigner has ever eaten in before.

It was one of those Tokyo joints that are located in the basement level of some generic looking business building. Some building that probably doesn’t even have anyone working in it. A building so generic that it must just be used to hold onto computers from the 1980s. Those ancient kind of computers that take up entire rooms and floors of buildings. The computers are probably still running numbers and doing calculations that some anonymous worker asked them to do over two decades ago. The computers still sit in this non-descript building, gathering dust and faithfully doing these fairly basic calculations that you could easily do on your iPhone today in about two minutes.

Anyway, in the basement level of this building, down a winding, dank staircase, lied a place that was basically called ‘Gorilla Curry.’

I entered the automatic opening door and waited in the line to approach the ‘curry ticket machine.’ Tokyo loves these kinds of machines. They have them for ramen, for burgers, for t-shirts, you name it. If the service exists, someone will sell it through one of these interpersonal ticket machines.

When I got to the front of the line, I ordered the big curry.

When I finally got a seat, after about six waves of overheated salarymen came and went, I presented my curry ticket and sat back and waited for the cooks to do their thing.

I understood why the place was called ‘Gorilla Curry’ as soon as I saw them hoisting a single heaping serving plate over the counter from the kitchen and into my outstretched hands. This shop specialized in serving gorilla sized portions of curry.

My meal came with what must have been three cups of white rice, absolutely smothered in a dark gravy that looked and tasted like it was pure gravy concentrate, with maybe a teaspoon of water added to technically make the gravy viscous enough to be called gravy.

On top of these volcanic display of rice and gravy was placed two breaded pork cutlets, each roughly the size of a gorilla’s hand. To one side of this display were two tiny, diced boiled eggs. To the other side was about one conservative tong’s worth of shredded cabbage. I wished the cabbage had more of a presence to offset the heaviness of the larger mass of the meal. But the cabbage was clearly a token effort. Gorillas don’t want cabbage. And apparently the salarymen regulars at this restaurant clearly weren’t interested in cabbage either. You could tell that this place was famous for heavy, hefty portions of wickedly strong curry and meat.

The size of the plate, um, tray was such that I looked around to make sure there were no hidden cameras trying to catch my reaction. But this situation was no joke. To my left and right, sweaty white shirt and loosened tie men were nosily going about devouring the same family sized tray of food. I tried to focus on my own meal, close my ears and do my best ‘silent gorilla’ impression.

A half an hour later, it was over.

My mouth was filled with the concentrated after taste of dark gravy. All I wanted was fruit and sorbet and lemonade. Anything light and sweet. Anything that could erase the obsessive flavors that had invaded my mouth.

I will not be going back to this place anytime soon, unless it is with hidden camera to prank a friend / visitor to Tokyo. I would post the picture of my tray of food with this post, but it is still too soon for me to see that gorilla feed again.

If you have a strong curiosity to experience this yourself, I can point you in the general direction of the non-descript building in whose basement you will find a curry of gorilla proportions.

Restaurant Review: Linamha

The Daikanyama district of Tokyo offers many treasures to the curious urban explorer.

Just beyond the neon glow of Shibuya, you’ll find a pocket of Tokyo that is more homegrown than raver. There is a hand crafted, artisan ethos to it’s labyrinth of alleys. You’ll find handmade clothing, hand selected audio mixes and the finest in organic dining. In a city as modern, and at times as fleeting as trend hopping Tokyo, it feels like a counter-revolution in progress to browse the offerings of Daikanyama.

One eating establishment of note is Linamha, a cozy Korean restaurant not far from the station.

With atmospheric pin lighting, unique natural wood furniture and fresh ingredients delivered the right way, Linamha feels like a perfect fusion between Korean cuisine and the back to basics spirit of Daikanyama.

At most Korean restaurants, the appetizer vegetables are already on the table, packed inconspicuously in containers next to the salt and spices. At this joint though, they decide to bring them out on a plate, giving this oft neglected part of the meal some nice fanfare. It also gives an early look at the power of their lighting system. Even a small plate of veggies looks amazing in this place.

The second phase of the meal is the ‘cook-it-yourself’ portion of the evening. They bring out delicious slabs of pork and arrange them on a dimensional skillet. A small container made out of tinfoil is placed at the top of the skillet, filled with a combo of garlic and oil. It just simmers along with the pork.

After carefully attending the meat, it is ready for assembly. An attendant comes out from the kitchen and tells you the proper way to build your next bite. You start with a large leaf of fresh lettuce, and then stack a mint like leaf on top of it. Then you apply various sauces. One is miso based, and the other is some curious Korean combination of sweet and not too spicy. Then you apply the freshly cooked pork and decorate it with a single sliver of cooked garlic. Then you deftly fold it all together into a tight wrapping and promptly enjoy. This process is repeated five or six times.

Then comes what marketers like to refer to as ‘The Difference Maker.’

In layman’s terms, it is a seafood pancake. But to most ears and Western oriented taste palettes I’m sure Difference Maker sounds a bit more appetizing.

Anyway, the thing comes out, fully sizzling on it’s plate, baked to perfection, with a thin layer of delicious crust enfolding the bulk of the pancake. Inside are a medley of seafoods like calamari and the ubiquitous ‘white fish.’ The whole concoction is held together by a thin layer of flour and water, giving a truly pancake like texture. It greatly resembles the Japanese dish of okonamiyaki, only slightly more refined.

This is the kind of dish that makes you remember a place. It’s the kind of taste that gets etched into your tastebuds and won’t let go.

Finally comes dessert.

Or at least what you call dessert when you are too full to last another round into the meal.

Fried rice, served sizzling in a stone bowl. One last reminder of the natural ethos of the joint and district. Once the sizzling settles down, you are free to enjoy the Korean style rice, with again, signature sweet + spicy flavor. You eat it with a small spoon that more resembles a snow shovel than something you would scoop Rice Krispies with.

When it’s all said an done, Linamha lets you feel like you had a unique new Tokyo experience. It lets you out into the Daikanyama air looking to find a small bite of gelato or a mysterious back street art gallery.

The options are endless, for those willing to not know exactly where they’re going.

It gets five stars and serves as a badge for a very interesting district.

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The Ramen Stall

It’s like solitary confinement for the ramen aficionado.

You walk into this ‘speed ramen’ joint and there is absolutely no human contact, at any part of the process.

It’s efficient. It’s logical. It’s Tokyo taking care of business.

First is is the pre-ramen worship.

You put your money into a machine, press your choice and take a damn ticket just like everyone else behind you is lining up to do.

Once you have the ticket, you are filtered into the main cell blocks. Each ramen booth is set-up like a Western polling place. Partitions and curtains between eaters so that you never understand who is to your left and right. It must be a lunch haven for the Tokyo organized crime set.

Straight ahead of you, behind another curtain is where you will be presented with your selection. The curtains part and give you a tiny glimpse into the kitchen, as a pair of mime hands emerge to present you with your ramen offering.

The stall is self-contained.

There is a spigot to your left to refill your water.

Containers of garlic and soy sauce are to your right, to customize the flavor. DIrectly behind you is a tissue box mounted to the wall. A nice branding tactic that proudly boasts ‘this stuff is gonna be hot, buckle up.’

The rows of stalls completely discourage human contact.

The only communication is the symphony of voracious ramen slurpers, letting out occasional satisfied sighs.

The music is a looping early 1980’s Nintendo midi track, that encourages you to eat as fast as you can, so you don’t have to hear the wretched booping and beeping track a second time. The track speeds up as you’re eating, creating this weird, interactive ramen experience that feels like you are beating a level as you vacuum down the Japanese adopted Chinese originated staple food of Tokyo.

Welcome to the Ramen Stall.

Good luck on level 6.

Park Hyatt Breakfast

The light coming in through the gargantuan triangular windows of the 39th floor lobby gives the whole place a science fiction, city in the clouds type of vibe. Everything perfectly lit in the pure white of brunch time daylight.

Robotically moving men and women dressed in black encircle you as they remove your jackets and scarves and point you in the direction of your table. It’s the kind of setting that makes it hard to breath normally for fear of upsetting the crispy white linens or leaving a trail of breathy fog against the mirrored surface of the tableware.

‘It’s only breakfast’ you tell yourself.

The men and women clad in black continue to rotate around you.

One for your order, one with juice, one with water, one just to smile, one to beam at you awkwardly.

A baby in the distance begins to bang a fork against a bread plate. The jarring rhythm disrupts the perfect rotations of the attendees in black.

They break stride and flinch and try to logically find the most polite moment to put an end to the ambience defiant infant.

The grandmother does nothing but smile. The father looks stern but does nothing. The mother, at the opposite end looks carefree and oblivious to the ruckus. This is her morning off after all. She requested to eat her brunch here and was assured by grandmom that she would be relieved of all motherly duties and be allowed to eat in peace.

The clanging continues.

The attendants stop by one after the other, requesting peace, and being met with non-committal compliance.

The buffet has a spread of Italian cheeses and meats, a selection of fruits and delicious pastries for refined palettes. No maple bars or Krispy Kremes to be found. It’s all coffee cakes and pretentious scones. There is yogurt and some kind of gourmet oatmeal and seventeen kinds of milk in silver pitchers. The high life.

A scan of the room finds an international mix. Foreigners who no doubt envision themselves recreating the footsteps of Bill Murray’s joyless Lost in Translation character. Some music or creative types in ripped jeans and suit jackets, wearing identical thick framed glasses. Most likely not prescription.

The center table features some kind of photographer, name dropping and caught up in the elaborate tangles of his own industry speak. He is a primary player in his own game. Important enough to carry his camera and full bag of lenses to his breakfast, in case his cup of coffee suddenly fancies a portrait.

The attitudes match the table settings which match the emotionless encircling attendants. The freshness of the fruit and the tastiness of the other offerings solicits a worthy apology for the stilted heir of pretension.

And lastly there is the view, of the entire expanse of the world, just inches from that spot where your coffeecake with raspberry drizzle now resides.

In the foreground are the other titans of Shinjuku’s skyscraping district. Beyond that lies the emerald expanse of Yoyogi Park, lined in railways, dotted in apartments, freckled with local shops. And so the continuum of big buildings and bigger buildings continue until the horizon line vanishes and the other edge of Tokyo is tucked beyond the curve of the world.

It is in this view, that the complications of an over important clientele and a nearly unbreathable atmosphere dissolve. You sit there and observe the world. At least a portion responsible for housing 32 million of it’s inhabitants. You wonder what it’s all about between bites of proscuitto. How did it get here? How did you get here?

Another orange juice my fine sir.

Arigato.

Best Burger in Tokyo

That’s right, I come to this web portal today to talk to you about a burger.

The best burger in Tokyo can be had at a place called Arm’s, just outside Yoyogi Park.

Now which burger should you order to realize this lofty title? The classic cheeseburger? The ‘Popeye’ with spinach and bacon? The avocado cheese maybe? All worthy choices, and all put the exact same well-pleased smile on my face.

But today we’ll go over the qualifications of their bacon cheeseburger.

What is the general secret to their success?

One word:

Craftsmanship.

I’m telling you, the chefs at Arm’s must have logged countless hours on the classic arcade game Burger Builder, because each burger of their massive size is a peerless work of culinary architecture.

Usually, when a burger comes packed with the works, half of it ends up on your plate. If the taste is right, you’re willing to overlook the mess. But at Arm’s, they fit tomatoes, lettuce, onions, peppers, cheese, secret sauce, ketchup, mustard, relish, four healthy slices of breakfast bacon (not the ‘made for sandwiches and burgers’ lite variety) and the patty, all under the gargantuan roof of a great big domed sesame seed bun. Last time I had this, the only out of bun casualty was a lone tomato cube.

Which brings me to their craftsmanship.

You don’t get a clunky fat slice of tomato competing for real estate with a clunky fat slice of onion. They are all cubed and diced, and then intermixed in juicy level beneath the patty, intermixed with relish and secret sauce that allows you to enjoy all components of the burger with EVERY BITE. Gone are the days of unevenly working your way across a burger, nipping at patty, only to be left with an entire lettuce wedge. The craftsmanship lets you get the holistic taste of the bacon cheese burger in every bite.

The bacon even seems to be uniformly rounded on the edges, and cleverly congealed to the cheese atop the patty, to minimize slippage. (They must have thought I was bizarre scrutinizing every bite the way I did. But then again I was sitting next to a guy with two cameras around his neck, snapping off pictures of salt and pepper shakers. A place like this seems to breed the ‘otakus’)

Did I mention the size? For any Portland readers out there, we’re talking damn near the size of the infamous Staniches ‘special.’ This thing is a full meal deal. And it comes with just the right amount of fries to wash it down.

I also recommend going with their signature cookies n’ creme shake to wash it down. They even pulled out just the white centers of the Oreos to embed at the bottom of the shake, making for a nice surprise at the end of all the slurping. It’s little details like this that keep me coming back and keep me talking about Arm’s to no end.

I’ve been to a few noteworthy burger joints in Tokyo, but this one stands at the top of the hill. It would be a noteworthy burger in any town.

I wonder if they’re open for breakfast…