No Tomatoes

McCoy’s is the real McCoy’s. Who still says that? Is anything the real McCoy’s? And other than McCoy’s what else could be a McCoy? …I see: a quick visit to Wikipedia reveals etymological roots in MacKay’s, referring to a whisky in the 19^th Century. I hadn’t meant for that to tie in so neatly with the subject of this entry, but perhaps the barman knows more than his shaker-spinning lets on. I say shaker, but our drinks were stirred: Martini for myself, Horse’s Neck for Peter in this little Dickensian burrow beneath the stomp and cajoles of revellers on the Roppongi strip. Strip, because that’s what all the bars offer. Except for this one, I hasten to add, though I would not have objected had the girl next to us done so.

One doesn’t swap glasses and taste each other’s drink in occluded whisky dens, it isn’t proper. Far better to judge by reaction: after all, anything that can’t be said with an eyebrow isn’t worth saying. Mine were raised when the flourish like incense over a child ended the swift implication of zest, and the drink was pushed by its base towards me. I think I offended him moments before as I tried to halt the input of too much Vermouth. A brief handshake, nothing more thank-you. But the care is infinite, the drink more mellow, subdued and feminine than my own barbaric slugs of alcohol. I also greatly appreciated him stirring, not shaking, as is correct with translucent mixes ‘Shake if opaque’ is my motto, though as I don’t yet have a twizzler, I also shake if clear. But that’s not a motto.

If I were still in the practise of casting a critical eye, I would have appreciated the wait, the surgeon-like process that produced our drinks, and the chilling of glasses and cuff-flicks. More importantly I would put more bearing on the drop of Hermes citrus essence added by pipette, and the racks of whiskies that surrounded us. But I’m not, and have already spent too long on this entry, and, perhaps, Wikipedia.

Noting the date on this entry, you will have immediately recognised that this is my birthday. It didn’t seem like others had: they had not brought a present dammit. Nothing makes you feel lower than repeated shelling outs followed by gormless grins as friends fail to read one’s ‘where on earth is it’ expression. It turns out there was some logic to this, albeit one I don’t agree with: as everyone in our pack has had one gift, they decided not to go around again this year; dinner and party thought to be enough. That’s a mean way to judge a celebration: I would have partied harder last year had I suspected. Nevertheless, dear Felix and Honda newbies usurped their –ahem –cautious counterparts: I got a pink tie, fuchsia belt, and depending on whether you ask me or Lyndsey, a Union Jack cravat/bandana.

This blog is meant to be about food, so I apologise if it seems a page torn from my diary at times. What I intend to be a lead up, an aperitif to the meal, often dissolves into mumble, and in this instance my latest wardrobe expansion. I really mean to focus on the day: it was superb. Before the disappointment there was some hesitation about going to Kamakura, a town on coast below Tokyo. It is, after all rainy season. I bullishly stated stop worrying –and I wish people wouldn’t. Much healthier just to go with it and roll with what comes. Preparing for the worst (rain) on a beach picnic already dilutes some of the joy of hoping for the best, which is what a birthday is all about.

Part of the plan was to see the Buddha Kamakura is famous for, or in my case be reunited: its about 25 years since I was last mistaken for him as a plump white blue-eyed baby in Bangkok. Mum tells of how she forged her way through well-wishers and worshippers all attempting to place gold on my forehead. Alas these days it is just Mina who worships me, though I note that I have yet to be given gold. Perhaps in another 25 years when I’m round enough again.

We didn’t see Buddha –instead we had awesome sandwiches in a cemetery. That sentence would deserve an exclamation mark, but in Japan one can omit such fripperies. Cool, calm, peaceful, green: graveyards here are not the raven-stalked lands that scratch your fears in Britain. Here, your mind conjures souls not bodies.

By this time we were running late for meeting the others, as I am now for work: damn, I wanted to revel once more in receiving my tie and belt, watching Peter picking at the sashimi (highly enjoyed), and the stream of beers and conversation in a restaurant Yuuki recommended and Mina booked. As everyone else is still talking about the immense tuna steaks almost a week later, I shall not comment that I found them a touch dry. The potato salad however was a perfect accompaniment, but I feel the sashimi worthy of more inches than I have allotted so far. Imagine smoke from a camp-fire in still morning air, not quite rising and at times quite motionless. Now imagine a fish. If possible overlay one upon the other, and you might see our plate of corpse curling to ceiling, stripped of flesh that instead lies piled around with micro-garnish. I recommended it with yuzu paste, which Peter likened to a gin. With that thought, I shall buy this citrus tonight for our drinks, though hoping they won’t taste like fish.

Ping pong bar is the name of a bar where ping pong is played. Sean mentioned it when I first met him, a naïve Westerner unable to decode the knots of Tokyo. He had a few years head-start, and was brought here by some friends. It seems extraordinary now, that I did not once know Ping Pong’s. All I had was the vivid description of a secret bar down a backstreet on the first floor in someone’s flat. You had to ring a bell to enter, and once within one encircled two central tables: one with bats, the other a bar. I was enthralled. This was a time when I still could not distinguish different Asian faces, when I thought everyone stylish and mistook manners for friendliness. It was also the time of serial dating, with business cards flung to helpless strangers, not always with success, I hesitate to add, and for those times when a girl said yes, so Sean’s ream of recommendations proved quite handy. Alas my first time there was with him.

From Nakameguro station we crossed the main road and walked up the street with the rail to your left. Over the bridge, take the second street on your right and walk for 100 yards. At this point there is a car-park with some bins just yonder. With these bins to your immediate left and a residence just above you, take the path between block and lot perpendicular to the street. At the end of this path enter a foyer and climb the dog-legged stairs. Ring the buzzer in front. The door will open a crack, and more often than not you will be told it’s full. For somewhere so out-of-the-way, Ping Pong’s is exceedingly popular.

With Oriol visiting it was my turn to pass down the knowledge. That bin bit always gets people wondering, their reaction always amusing me. I don’t come here nearly so often, and probably won’t again since table charge is now by the hour. For five people, two of whom left early, we paid Y15,000 for approx ten beers. Outrageous –especially split between three, one of whom refused to pay more that his own meagre share (not me for once). Tokyo lacks its mystery now, and places that I don’t know I seldom visit. I like having a nest and having a range that I know intimately, but I wonder if I will ever find something like the legend of Ping Pong’s. Best ask Sean.

A dull green top undermines Mina as we spool from Yutenji to Gakugei-daigaku, the stations that frame me in Tokyo. The latter is a curious spot: it is where we have been recently enjoying our whales with imported Yoshikai’s, and also an unexpected Canadian momento store, replete with fossils from Calgery, bears in red coats and waffles and stone rings. Such things are nations made of: it was great to see Mina in her territory at last –and the vivid turquoise top she had just bought. Suddenly her skin and colour and face is alive, the green thing safely shunted in her bag. She looks terrific.

We were in search of the English store Mina’s mother had mentioned that lurks one station farther. We should have just stopped in Canada and made do with Celine Dion records. I should know by now the feeble compass instilled in Japanese, and, after Yakitori Alley, Canadians too. A long, delightful walk took us past nimble streets and a regal lake, cars being washed, and most fortuitously, Ferraris being serviced. Some compensation then for there not being the slightest sausage-tinged whiff of an English store, no black troll of Bovril nor crackle of Walker’s and the only Union Jack belonged to an English language school. Mina, enterprisingly, enquired within. They had never heard of it, though I was pleasantly surprised to see Weekender lying on the table. I did not have time to reach the food section within, though Sean, unprompted, said the new restaurant reviewer is awful. Matches their conduct then: I did not even know I had been replaced.

Mina refused the gesture of McDonald’s, and we instead wandered until we saw frivolous Seventies furniture crowding stiff timber walls like children sitting cross-legged around a teacher. We therefore approached, and finding we were ten minutes away from the dinner menu being served settled inside. Many places like this exist, serving pasta, beer, and bought-in cake. I used to think it special, but the quality is often weak and sauces miss urgency. Not here: my sausage and gorgonzola cream sauce was really good, and I liked my sausages being torn and warted bangers rather than cleanly sliced franks, while the gorgonzola too was a welcome return to the palate. It was eyes wandering while waiting though that unveiled the biggest surprise: behind the counter sat shrouded detergent and fruity brews bought-in from Britain.

www.takiey.com

It isn’t quite Yuki’s birthday –that’s next week –but we were celebrating anyway. That required a table big enough for ten and cheap food, so presumably entering ‘big cheap’ into Google, Satomi eventually found [], perhaps listed just after McDonald’s. Aptly, it is cited right next to the Arches near Bunkamura, Shibuya. Vividly, we were given red peppers absolutely swarming a few kernels of pork like scarlet ants on a sugar lump. At first I thought it was okay, but moments later I was gasping only to find no water on the table. Everything else stumbled clumsily onto the table from the adjacent kitchen in a drunken parade of mediocrity. The prawns tasted like wet dust and the beef more jerky than tenderloin –a lesson in greed and using search engines to find restaurants. The Chinese sake, however, was refreshing, like a plummy sherry poured over bark to lend sullen woodiness. More importantly Yuki was absolutely thrilled with her headphones, and it was good turn-out for her party, but perhaps its time someone relieved Gootomi of duty.