Steady, Old Boy - Picture Yourself in a Nice Meadow, Far Away

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Have I Unlocked the Secret of the Universe?

Huge revelation. Stunning discovery: drench cantaloupe in fresh lemon juice and suddenly the world becomes a better place.

I try not to blog about foods I don't like probably for the same reason someone caught up in that first clutch of infatuation wouldn't badmouth his life's blood's dinky family--I'm not newly in love with food, but I share a similar level of blind loyalty. I also like to think that there's always room for a change of tastebud down the road (when I was little, I wouldn't let my tongue in two feet of ice cream that wasn't chocolate).

The same respectful treatment goes--but just not today--for the foods that I'll willingly eat but never crave and could live the rest of myself without tasting again: cashew nuts, Japanese shoh-to keh-ki (shortcake), melons, and the like. As you can see, the unifying thread here is blandness. All three could be considered "sweet," but that's as complex a write-up as they'll ever get. Much as it pains me to admit this, many Japanese sweets tend to be stuck in an unrelenting, monotonous sugar rut. Take castella, a much loved, adapted Portuguese cake--soft, moist, oh-so-fwuffy, and just brimming with the taste of sugar (do not be fooled by variations in color--there's only one flavor, sugar). And wagashi. If you ever see a prettily formed creation that looks like it's hiding a filling inside, let me destroy the mystery: it's sweet bean paste. Every time. Okay, it might on the rare occasion be a sweet potato paste, but the sweet potato will have been mysteriously divested of all its original flavor so that it will taste just like sweet bean paste. (I do like sweet bean paste, but I prefer the Chinese version, which is quite moderate with the sugar.) To be fair, wagashi's purpose is to cut the bitterness of the accompanying green tea--so it's meant to pack a sugar wallop that will freak out your pancreas.

Now on to melons and cantaloupes--the king of overpriced fruit in Japan. The preferred gift of givers striving to make a respectable gesture. Gar! Whenever we get a big, unwieldy gift of melon, I inwardly groan. I mean, melons are...big. They take numerous sittings to go through. They swallow up precious room in my dorm-room-size fridge. And there's always the possibility that someone forked over precious cash for them--though of course they could just as easily have been picked up at the supermarket for 600 yen. But I'm not enough of a melon connoisseur to tell.

So I'll eat the melons thrown my way, but there's little relish involved, even if I do somewhat appreciate the floral aroma.

But then! As the title of this post states, I unlocked what could possibly be the secret of the universe itself: lemon juice plus cantaloupe equals far better cantaloupe. That somehow comes across as a lot more anticlimatic than it really is. But, truly, it's a full transformation of a previously boring fruit. Suddenly all that aggressive sweetness of the cantaloupe is balanced, and I can taste complexity! And it tastes good.

What's next? Lemon juice on cashew nuts? Lemon juice on wagashi? Who knows! I have the entire universe stretched out before me.

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Gee Whiz

If you've commented lately, you'll notice I've upped the security around here because the spammers seemed to have found me. It was all so nice and peaceful, so I don't know what changed. My only gripe is that when I want to comment on my *own* blog, I have to do that ridiculous word verification thingy too. For goodness sake, would it be too much to ask that I be spared that? I wish I could spare you all as well, but for obvious reasons that's impossible.

Worst of all is when I read the jumble of letters incorrectly and I'm asked to try again. I feel like I'm failing a combined eye and literacy test, and it's mortifying as hell.

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Ninja Akasaka

Having out-of-town guests is a treat, especially when the guest is an old friend that you haven't seen in a decade and, sadly, probably won't see again for another. Jaime and her husband Bert recently came to visit, bearing such Canadian bounty as Map-O-Spread (creamy, spreadable maple-y goodness) and eleven pounds of Five Roses Specialty Whole Wheat Flour*--do I have good friends or what?

In preparation of Jaime and Bert's arrival, I dug up information on where to take them and was rewarded with the discovery of all sorts of places that, after all these years, I've yet to visit (A parasite museum? Hello, where *have* I been?). I also learned of an old trend in Tokyo, which I had no idea was so extensive: theme restaurants. After receiving confirmation that this was just the sort of thing they wanted to experience, I found myself making an online reservation for Ninja Akasaka.

I'm going to be a party pooper here and admit that I am neither a fan of ninjas nor theme restaurants. However, caught up in my guests' enthusiasm, and reassured by all the positive reviews online, I found myself not dreading the upcoming meal. Really, you just have to be in the right state of mind. Which is probably why we were all thoroughly disappointed by Ninja Akasaka. We came with full expectations of overblown cheese; instead--except for the baffling lava-tube-like interior and neon-lit pools of water--what we got was an overpriced restaurant, battling against self-inflicted odds to be classy while rushing diners through their two-hour time slot.

Our walk to the table was probably the high point of the evening. We were waiting at the entrance when a "ninja" burst through a sliding door in front of us with a hearty shout. I think we were meant to be surprised and impressed by his swiftness with sliding doors. We were then led through the sliding door and into the lava tube--I mean, ninja's lair. The lava lair was narrow, windy, nearly pitch-black, and low enough that the threat of a concussion was quite real. In fact, right after I bumped my head, our ninja courteously warned me to watch that I didn't bump my head. At one point, we came to a large piece of plexiglass and our ninja demonstrated his masterful ability with a remote control, causing a drawbridge to lower and allowing us to traverse the otherwise perilous plexiglass.

Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a cavern and we reached our black little cubbyhole, where a petite, chirpy young lady promptly greeted us. I guess I was expecting a menacing waiter in dark costume, looking more likely to bring us a quick death than a cocktail, perhaps taking our order while hanging upside down, and at least slicing up our veggies with a deadly spray of shuriken. Maybe we expected too much, but because our waitress was dressed the part, we kept waiting for her to... do something. Well, she did this one trick where she disappeared into the cavernous darkness for about 15 minutes after handing over the drink menu, but then she came back. She then whipped open a black scroll--our menu--with a little chirrup and promptly disappeared again.

Okay, I'm totally getting long-winded, so let's pick up the pace. The menu (available in Japanese and questionable English): there were about eight set menus, ranging from 70,000 to 150,000 and also a la carte items. I want to say the food is fusion, but really it seems like the menu planner just went plain mad: foie gras, Cesar salad, sushi, foie gras, sweet and sour pork, Vietnamese pho, foie gras, steak, and also some foie gras. I'm sure we would have enjoyed ourselves a bit more, had we ordered the set course, but it was more than we were willing to spend at a theme restaurant, where we had come for the entertainment, not the food. Perhaps we were paying for the overall "experience," but at a restaurant that seems targeted at children and tourists, the menu was a little overzealous about things like foie gras and wine going for as much as 100,000 yen.

The food came and went. Everyone admitted it was good, but the portions were inadequate, to say the least. For 2,800 yen, I received a little eggplant and five paper-thin coins of duck breast. Words like "Saw a McDonald's near the station" were bandied about. Still, nothing ninja-ish had happened, and we were starting to wonder if we were being punished for not ordering enough. Then, finally, a man appeared at our table. We all sat up, riveted, faces expectant. He did some magic tricks with coins, cards, and rubber bands, we clapped a little too enthusiastically, and then he left. Our chirpy waitress reminded us our two hours were almost up. I asked for tea to stall for time. We heard delighted gasps from other tables in dark, far off corners. I thought I saw a small burst of flame. The tea arrived. We sipped slowly, willing another ninja to come to our table. Ms. Chirpy begged us to pay the bill. We did. We were gently ninja-d out of our booth and toward a side door, which brought us back to the entrance of the restaurant. We emerged onto the street to see another party drunkenly posing for pictures, obviously having just had the time of their lives. Our waitress, who had followed us out, happily yanked open a "Please come again" scroll, which was kind of cute.

So there you have it. I have read outright rave reviews of Ninja Akasaka, so I suppose we were merely unlucky that we were ignored by the roaming ninjas and their tricks. I also think certain dishes come with a bit of song and dance, so if you do go, I'd ask your waiter to recommend things. But for me, Ninja Akasaka is too much of a pricey gamble, when you're expected to go there and simply hope something fun will happen. After all, who enters a theme restaurant praying for subtlety? I want the gimmicks and tackiness to club me over the head, preferably with a staff like Master Splinter's**.

Ninja Akasaka
Hours: Monday to Saturday, 17:00-26:00; Sunday, 17:00-23:00
Address: Akasaka Tokyu Plaza, 1F
Tel： 03-5157-3936
Nearest station: Akasaka Mitsuke (via Marunouchi or Ginza train line)
Directions: Take the Sotobori Exit and go up the escalator. Turn left, cross the street toward Tokyu Plaza, turn left, walk until you're almost at the end of the plaza, and you'll see the restaurant logo and a doorway.

*My friends aren't lunatics. It's truly quite hard to find whole wheat flour in Japan. What they have in the stores are these dinky five-gram bags of flour for 500 yen, of which I'd have to buy about 30 in order to make a little loaf of bread.

**Who's Master Splinter? Sage old rat? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? If you still don't know what I'm talking about, never mind, it's not worth Googling, I assure you.

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Goodnight, Sour Prince

I killed my sourdough starter. There, got that out of the way. It wasn't murder, really, so much as starter slaughter--would that be the correct legal term? Most of you might even know that this happened quite a while back. But I shamelessly kept that little starter thumbnail up there in my sidebar, all proud and loving. But it was wrong. Wrong! So I took it down (though you can still find the About the Starter post under "projects" in the table of contents).

I didn't mean to do it. I thought he was doing okay in the fridge. Then one day I took him out for a feeding... and kind of recoiled back at the sight of a little starter tentacle snaking upward toward the lid--except that it had turned all green and moldy. And kind of frozen.

That's the whole story.

I made another starter easily enough. But I've been having trouble with it--it's weak, unreliable, and too sour. I've actually been considering buying a well-established starter and seeing how it compares. I haven't given up on sourdough altogether! I miss the taste and textures already, because I've lately fallen back on yeast breads. Sad, huh?

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Much Ado About Fleas

So I came home to a flea-ridden dog, courtesy of my mother-in-law's cat Neru. You might be reading a little huffiness in my tone and your reading would be accurate. I allow that I have no right to said huffiness. My in-laws probably saved me about 100,000 yen in doggy hotel expenses by warmly welcoming Edward into their home while I was away, and they always take good care of him. But for the good love of god: (a) why can't they treat their cat (according to them, he's had fleas forever and there's just no point)?; (b) aren't they concerned that after all these years, surely their house must by now be the very Golden Kingdom of the Flea Universe itself?; and (c) couldn't they have warned us about the fleas before Edward came home...and wiggled happily against the curtains, carpets, and the side of our bed. Argh.

Of course it wasn't long after I set down my bags that I noticed Edward frantically gnawing at his tail, and with a sinking feeling did a quick fur check. This was Edward's first flea encounter, but unfortunately I can't say the same for myself. I don't think I've ever mentioned the summer I spent in San Diego with a crazy (and I don't use this epithet in a fond way) old artist, an angry guitarist, and two dogs who were engaged to be married.

It all began my first year in Des Moines. Summer vacation was fast approaching, everyone was leaving, and the threat of macroeconomics and calculus (two dreaded but required courses) was hanging right over my head. I'll be honest and admit that thoughts of the abandoned college campus and an entire summer of just me, the corn fields, and lonely trips to Super Walmart filled me with dread. So I panicked and, without thinking it through, found myself enrolled in summer school in San Diego. My faulty logic went something like, I want to do something independent and I want to be near the ocean (which I kinda like more than corn fields), but I don't have much money, and I can't go too far, so I'll go to San Diego. I booked myself a cheap air ticket, reserved a room at a motel with a freakishly low weekly rate, and off I went. Aside from knowing nothing about San Diego, the utter badness of my plan was compounded by the decision to find a place to rent after I got there. Meanwhile, I had my nice little motel, which naturally turned out to be an adventure in itself: an hour-and-a-half-long bus ride to college, ankle-deep furry orange carpeting, a perpetual wet-dog smell, windows without locks (there was a metal bar instead to keep the glass from sliding), and a bulletproof cage for a front desk, within which there only sometimes sat a human being. The day after I arrived, I also came down with the flu. I had a week to find myself a room for the summer.

I realize I'm spending an awful lot of time building up the background of this story, but I wanted you to understand why I made the stupendously stupid decision that I did. After a punishing week of combing newspaper ads and hunting down all sorts of dingy, inappropriate, and overpriced places while half delirious with a fever, I found an ad for a short-term rental that was in walking distance of the college. I called to inquire, was directed to a cute little one-story house, and was met at the door by what looked like a plump Zsa Zsa Gabor on a hippy streak, complete with platinum hair and big, twinkling eyes. Everyone, meet the crazy old artist Isabelle, who was renting out two rooms in her home. Unfortunately, my normally sharp people instincts were blurred by a combination of desperation, dizzying relief at the convenience and affordability of the place, and a weakened immune system. Also, Valerie really played up the breathy, girlish voice and innocent old grandma in a muumuu routine on our first meeting. Because my sinuses were totally clogged up, I also missed the smell of cigarettes. I'm not a fan of that smell. Turns out, Valerie was a chain smoker, but kindly managed to control the impulse during our first meeting.

So before the week was out, I gratefully moved in, and was perfunctorily introduced to the other housemate, a seemingly quiet 37-year-old guy with long, dark hair and every inch of wall space in his room covered with really large posters of naked women (Valerie let me take a peek one afternoon while he was out of the house). Everyone, meet the angry rock band guitarist Brad, who would come home drunk all the time and bellow furious obscenities at Isabelle (to be fair to Brad, Isabelle often made me feel furious and insane as well; she had a special way about her). Thankfully, Brad pretty much ignored me, although he could be fairly charming when he wasn't drunk and raging.

While we're at it, let's bring out the rest of the family: two little Shih-Tzus whose names I can't remember but were inspired by a pair of ill-fated lovers in a Welsh legend, I think. Let's call them Bitsy and Bob, the unwitting cause of my primary hell that summer. Soon after I arrived, Isabelle shared with me her plans for Bitsy and Bob's wedding, complete with tux, white gown, organ music, and a ceremony. Extreme, I suppose, but not crazy. I only really started thinking she was crazy when she brought home some guy she'd met in a bar and told me he was "a gift" for me. Gee, thanks. But no, really. I'm afraid I may have been a bit rude, the gift took offense, and left. Isabelle was miffed, but thank god I didn't get any more presents after that. I think she decided to keep them for herself, which was okay by me.

What drove me nuts though was Isabelle's refusal to treat Bitsy and Bob's flea problem, claiming the medicines were toxic. One day, while poor Bitsy was scratching like the Furies, I examined her and instantly found what looked like fast-moving black rivulets running all over her body. They were actually long lines of fleas. There were so many of them.

Eventually, I would wait until Isabelle went out, and then promptly attack the poor dogs with flea spray and comb, chasing them around the house, and even (gently) throwing Bitsy in the pond a couple of times. I'm afraid I didn't know much about fleas back then and thought that that would be enough. What I didn't realize was that every day thousands of eggs were falling off the dogs and hatching all over the carpet. It was a hopeless battle.

It wasn't long before the fleas found a nice new source of food however: me. They'd moved from the dogs to the carpets to my bed, and there was no escaping them each night. Isabelle refused to do anything--it was easy for her to ignore the problem as, she admitted with a throaty laugh, the fleas probably avoided her because she was constantly smoking, haha. There were only a few weeks left before summer school ended. So I decided to endure. But by the time I left, my back looked like the American flag, full of red stars and scratched-on stripes. Not a pretty sight.

So. You can imagine I might have freaked out just a tad at the discovery of little black dots spunkily racing through Edward's fur. We hustled over to the vet, who confirmed the problem and pulled out a colorful poster, illustrating the four stages of a flea's life. There was also a nice photograph of a grapefuit-sized swollen lymph node in someone's armpit--the plague, you know. It actually can be transferred through fleas. Isn't that interesting? And here you thought that the plague had died out in the Middle Ages. Nope.

The vet promptly laughed when I asked him if I should wash all the rugs. If this had been a movie, I could imagine him abruptly stopping in mid-chuckle and telling me with burning lunatic eyes, "Burn them. Burn them all!" Instead, he ordered me to throw away whatever I could and to vacuum daily. That's it? And the rest? The sofa? The curtains? I got another chuckle and a doubtful, "Good luck."

Well, luckily, I think we caught the problem in time. I vigorously threw myself into the task of extermination, tossing out what I could, fumigating every inch of the apartment with flea-killing sprays. And the vacuuming. Never again in history will I be seen so frequently with vacuum in hand. Unless the fleas come back.

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Everyone Wins

Ding, ding, ding! The winner is Rae, for correctly guessing the Big Island of Hawaii, with Jaime coming in a close second. See? Did I promise instant gratification or what? So much better than two first-class tickets to the destination of your choice. Ruth, I hope you're happy.

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Where Did I Go?

It's quite possible I previously wrote something like, "Blah blah blah, gone for two weeks, blah." I can't quite remember. It was so long ago. Regardless, this is a good time to drive home the lesson that you should question everything I say and never believe I mean any of it. That's me in a nutshell: lots of promises and good intentions but zero follow-through. And I really did mean to blog all about my trip right after I got back. But then all sorts of other things began demanding my attention--like the fleas running wild and free through Edward's fur and dropping thousands of eggs all over my home. Yeah, that was a nice experience to come home to.

I am sorry I didn't give any much warning about the going-away part. It kind of crept up on me too. And suddenly it was the day of our flight, and I was like, “Oh dear, I haven't started packing,” and then, “Oh crap! I haven't finished compiling my hand-written notes on all the places where I want to eat!" (We don't have a printer.)

Anyhow, let's take advantage of my rude and sudden departure—ahem—two weeks ago and play a quick game. Do you know the Where Are You? contest held by Condé Nast Traveler? I thought we could have our own thrilling contest. However, instead of luxurious prizes, you'll have to settle for the near-instant gratification of finding out the answer as soon as someone guesses it or I grow tired of waiting for someone to come visit my seemingly dead blog and just give the answer away. Yay, right? Also, I'll give you more than one picture clue and I'll skip the smug little descriptive passage that is supposed to steer you in the right direction.

Okay, let's get started with photographic Clue Number One:


Hoho, this is so much fun, n'est pas?

Dare I admit I'm subjecting you to this game because although I had a nice time, I really don't feel like writing about it, travel writing holding very little appeal for me?

And still I forge onward with Clue Number Two:


I know, even I can't tell much from this picture. But the colors are so soft and pretty. Ahhh.

Clue Number Three is humongo. I mean, if you can't guess after seeing this one... well, I'll just have to keep going until you scream and beg me to stop.


(Note: I do not know who those two little people are.)

You know, don't you. Really, I need for you to know, because if I keep going with all these high-resolution images, there are people for whom this page will never load. Ever.

Okay, Clue Number Four, and this one will surely give it all away.


(Yet another note: No, Edward did not go on holiday with us. But he quite obviously recreates the setting of where we were.)

So. In shameless imitation of the Condé Nast contest... Where was I?

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