No Tomatoes

Wow, another great restaurant so soon after Yo! Mummy. Sean’s choice, this time, and I think he was quite excited –its not often he uses the thumbs up symbol in text messages. Its usually a case of:

drink?

ok

naka 7

715

ok

And then me turning up twenty minutes early. I did this time, so detoured to pick up my suit from the dry-cleaners; a grubby sleeve this morning reveals that wasn’t such a good idea. We went from Naka to Shimokitazawa, an area I hardly and unreasonably frequent. It was great. From the taxi window we saw the small boutiques and antique shops that define this area, before being dropped in the centre of the web of small lanes. The fish place was just past a watch shop, and there I spied my next purchase: a beautiful used Panerai for a steal. Next time I win a competition its mine.

Back on the street and now into the restaurant opposite. Apparently the site the chef had before sat only 15; you could never get a table. It seemed a bit new, a bit shiny and in the case of the metal exterior, still in the box it came in. There was nothing to differentiate this from a run-of-the-mill isekaya, though sitting at the counter I was alarmed at the size of whelks and shells before us, including a colossal mussel the size of a handbag with the silhouette of a guppy. More disturbing still was the disgusting brown probe of a clam that brings to mind all that you don’t want while eating.

We started with sashimi: scallop like a pile of 10p’s the colour of warm peach, then various fish I have forgotten. Whatever, it was sensational, from the tense watery crunch of octopus like a gun shot through a pillow, to the cool resistance of the white fish with the texture of a woman trying to stand in the way of a strong man: something gentle resisting, yet ultimately yielding. A snail also joined the table: a great spiked obese coil, flecked with herbs in the hole and a buttery pool within. I hate snail. Its something that has happened slowly over time, despite one of my earliest memories of collecting olliecrickle shells from around a fire on a beach outside Cape Town aged three. I still have them, and for that blissful holiday suppose quite liked them.

I tried a piece: not too bad; Sean said it had a straight taste and he was right, though no garlic as I had hoped. And my gosh the flavour got strong, from a slight caramel flavour to a rush of metal towards the tail: each subsequent bite seemed welded with zinc, iodine and iron. Sean had to finish the rest, but by that time I was already on the phenomenal sweetcorn, pulling knobbled babies’ arms from a grassy chrysalis and eating with rope and all, dipped in salt. Here’s an irony: the strings tasted sweet and the cob ever so slightly raw and bitter, as if it had been plucked in the middle of transferring its flavour through the umbilical strands.

That was the only vegetable of the meal, and soon we were back on fish, this time trout that had been squeezed onto a stick then held over fire, white dashes of salt still flecking the skin. Now this really got Sean going, and soon me too. Melt in the mouth simply does not do justice to the texture, though perhaps more easy to visualise than gun-in-a-pillow. So light and damp, and the skin just so fresh, as though the heat had passed it and cooked only inside: it was unblemished and whimsically coated perhaps the best…oh no, I almost forgot: manta ray, deep-fried, with a squirt of lemon.

This came before the snail, and at first had no idea what it was. I heard yaki when Sean ordered so fleeting considered chicken. It could have been snail hidden in the beige jacket, in which case I did not want confirmation. I’ve rather given the game away already, but imagine not knowing, and closing your teeth and not quite meeting with anything, almost as though gelatine had seeped into the flesh. Sooo soft, almost liquid –and bloody hot. I put perhaps the best piece in my mouth first, and then put it back on the plate, gasping a new lisp. I sucked the skin from the cartilage next, then finished my third piece of the five on the plate. This was not something to share.

But then I also tried to pay for the bill as thanks for Sean helping with Orca, a little enterprise I’m involved with. He refused, paying his half and leaving me with money to clean my suit again. 

Just back from a super place I discovered on secret-japan.com. This is the site on which Fab and Gilles found their cosy, jungly and aptly gay beach last year. We’ve all been desperate to go too. While browsing for onsen I happened upon restaurants in this area, and though there are no eat-in-the-buff joints we found Yomami, or Yo! Mummy, or Yomer me, or something along those lines. Kanji makes it hard to balance the emphasis, if you ever find out what it spells in the first place.

I had done a reccie before, strolling from my neighbouring station until I found a car park, left, then somewhere under a green roof. I was hoping a bird’s eye view on Google would be enough, but I didn’t expect three restaurants in one house; I needed Mina to sort it out. But it was her mother who caught me looking at the girl in a peach dress of someone else. Idly waiting for mother and daughter, I was suitably busted while busting. I don’t think she noticed, and after Mina arrived, I did not notice any one else: she looked quite simply perfect. What a proud, if occasionally distracted, guy I am.

Green shoes, white pants, green belt, black top, Hermes pendant I gave for Christmas last year: none of it compared to her slightly orange glow from the Philippines and thick confident hair. Before I turn this into a eulogy or shampoo ad, let’s walk to the restaurant. I gestured to open the padlocked door for Mrs Yoshikai; it slid silently to one side. The chivalry of technology these days. The website had mentioned whale cubes dipped in yolk dipped in breadcrumbs dipped in hot oil, but I was still wondering where they got their square minkes from. It was superb, and came after a host of other dishes so forgive me for jumping the line. It arrived with a tangy, fruity, curry paste that probably had some miso too, given the dark, slightly seeded texture it hard. After one dip I used salt instead. Much better, for this grubby palatte at least.

Stepping back, there was spring veg tempura, mini fish on a nettle leaf that I thought tasted of fudge –Mina and Mum didn’t –and that’s all I can remember right now. I am still thinking of Mina. 

The last lunch, the first day, and each nibble inbetween, El Nido Corner painted azure memories in the balm of wooden window frames. No panes, of course –those were put to one side next to a child’s pink tricycle. Rather than the shimmer of glassy shadows to cool us from the sun, so we clambered for the slim dark stretch thrown by the single pillar.

Hard stone floors, hard square tables and upright chairs, yet this was the cosiest place in town. We changed situ once to a shack on the shore one eve, and for blissful moments enjoyed sand knitting toes, staring out to sea, wondering if her flow could ever reach our feet. The rain did instead, and we were forced to retreat, sure that their shrimp would compensate, but when reheated mayo surfaced so El Nido Corner became our regular.

Hotpants. Indeed hot top, for that too clung tightly to our waitress’ impressive curves. We both wondered how she could stay cool wearing clothes clamped upon skin; it was a pleasure to see her try. Returning to the Philippines also meant the prospect of calamansi entering my palatte –a cute little citrus fruit that snuggled into each meal and drink when I came here through the Nineties. That was when Dad was working in Banaue, so El Nido, at the top of Palawan, was second stop after a three-day reunion there.

But I should be writing more about the corner. Albino German recommended this place to us after we had already eaten here, obviously similarly surprised at the difference between it and all the driftwood serving shifty food on the beach. El Nido Corner just about misses the beach, where the sand becomes used for occasional motorbikes leading to the cemetery, and indeed our little house. It also sports the only waterbreak, which is just high enough to remove sand from view when sitting with a beer. Fortunately there were towering islands to compensate, and the on-going endeavors of three seamen fixing their bow after the recent monsoon.

And now to choose a meal. At the time, I am quite sure I had wonderful snippets of disgruntled metaphors to serve you, but now they rather slip from mind, and the only charm I can recall is the dried fish Mina had for breakfast that smelt like wet dog. But that was at the Art Café, not the Corner. Hardly worth mentioning, and indeed I did not at the time –I have already been told off before for ghoulish discussion during mealtime.

Crab, shrimp, lang lang, tiger prawns, red snapper. We ate well, and with each dish came mango and a custard yellow banana the size of a cold willy. It was so refreshing and felt so indulgent to have these fruits after each meal, cleaning the mouth and adding final zest to dregs of beer. In truth I would have been happy with tigers each night; they were simply phenomal –and huge. My eyes bulged when Tight-Top showed them to me before cooking, Mina preferring to be surprised later. Silence. We just gorged: half were grilled plain, the others in butter and garlic and black pepper, leaving a pale residue on each that became the hallmark of flavour. Earnest, insistent sniping at the shell, and soon –very soon –they were gone, with nothing but a cubic hedgehog of mango to compensate.

It’s hard not to be impressed by this restaurant, not least because it was Mina’s choice. With her parents in tow we bestowed upon this little Japanese place not far from where I lost my keys, so if you find them let me know. My mind is a bit hazy, given the long day it has been under our new manager, but images flit before me –as do the Yoshikais, so let me return to our conversation. A photo of me from their past visit is reeled from a handbag; suddenly I feel rather proud to have the girl I have my arm around. Not too shabby. Tonight she is wearing the Hermes pendant I bought her: the bright turquoise bone looks superb on her black top, and I cannot help noticing the drab blonde behind her in a T-shirt.

Last time it was a pink shirt, now my pink trousers are out: spring is in the air and occasionally my step. This was one of those occasions. I really like meeting Mina’s parents; conversation can sometimes sag under jetlag, but with conversation revolving around which car to buy, I, at least, am able to keep awake. I therefore try to capture the flavour of the aspic intro while I still can. Accordingly it ought to be my most vivid description, but that belonged to the wasabi leaf and sea-urchin side side-dish. The aspic was almost sweet, almost honey, though I cannot tell you from which flower. Try lavender, perhaps. Within were what seemed to be breadcrumbs, and I have yet to have the opportunity to clarify by learning kanji, so breadcrumbs they shall remain.

Beers were sharing the table with us, and I returned to decoding the menu –not for long though. I rather like being totally in the hands of those that know the place. And those that know kanji. Suddenly salads swooped upon us, a slice of daikon dissuading me until I saw tiny anchovies curled and fried like toe-nail clippings, if not quite as crunchy 

I was the third gasp on the table as we each took a slice of the sashimi, fleshy petals of fish tied beneath a bushel of watercress and rocket. Sometimes sashimi can have all the soggy appeal of a hay-feverish handkerchief. Not so here. Each labium was firm as a nurse, and as pale and pink in their gelatinousness. Not a speck of pollen in sight, though sadly the end of the plate soon was.

The sashimi was replaced by two theatrical fish, side-by-side, each looking slightly aghast that they had been fried. Blank white eyes popped like capers when I lunged headfirst. Mina had just taken the tail, though it was surprising we could part them at all with our blunt hashi. Having had head twice that weekend already, I was not sure I could handle a third time: some foods in Japan can still take a while to get used to. I liked it even less when half the vertebrae was wedged between my incisors, and no amount of Jane Austin-like mouth covering could give me the discretion required. Surgery would have to wait. But not before I had finished rummaging around the skull, brain and God knows what in my mouth. A rather odd assortment that I do not care to dwell too much on when eating: though the weak saline iodine metallic pulp is strangely good, common sense forbids that one identifies the different parts. I had always been told fish makes you brighter.

All the while the sea-urchin slept wilted on the coy wasabi leaves; orange like a fake tan and fluffy as the flounder that followed. This was arranged, flesh from spine, in a striking spiral as if fried ballet, as the tail curled up high from the plate; head looking across in earnest and that soft white meat huddled like orphans within the embrace of brittle bones. Head last this time, though I felt a bit safer doing it. Rule of thumb: if deeply fried, then deeply delicious. But it was the softer bits that surprised all the more, as light as the leap of a lamb, with just the occasional thin grey vessel pasted upon the shear white surfaces.

Apparently the broccoli didn’t taste like oranges, and the pork most definitely did not taste like chocolate and rose, yet as those are the only recollections I have of the next dish I will move onto the miso soup, recommend it, and recommend this restaurant too. Heads, oranges and all.

'An' seems a particularly short name; I hadn't realised it was called that until I began typing. It was also the location of Fabian's last dinner, or last supper, as others were wont to call it; I had tried to avoid being too obvious, though he does worship his father. Yuki had booked us here, and as a local of the area you may assume its because this is insider knowledge. Outsiders though will have already spotted the bulge of blossom raising their blooms along the canal, like bridesmaids waiting prettily in vain outside an invisible porch. 

Fabian's Porsche had already set sail as he prepared to return home, so he probably deserved at least the restaurant of his choice. How fortunate that we had that superb meal in Grand Hyatt previously: 'An' was not his first choice, nor even his second or third. It may have been the third actually, but when you're choosing a restaurant seldom does one have to count so high. Everywhere was booked. Which is puzzling, as anyone walking the streets would have observed that so too was everyone else, and eating, and drinking. Maybe our favourite yakitori places wanted to join the fun too.

I had come here the previous weekend, drastically over hung and in search of a new piece of furniture. I had turned to a hidden antique store nearby where I had spied Rietveld's Red Blue Chair chair, but with a vacant pane staring back, I had to settle myself with octoballs and go to Tokyu Hands instead.

Filling in for chicken tonight was soba, or so I thought. Actually that did not come until the end, and on after a bit of arm-twisting and face-down feet-shuffling as I meekly accepted I might have already eaten too much. Of other people's food. Actually tonight I was well behaved, even notably offering food to others first before devouring myself. Sitting next to Mina does wonders for one's morality. The first thing that stands out was the tempura, specifically the avocado -sensationally soft, yet without the concern of rot. Makes great change from the flavourless wan mounds found in superstores here.

The soba sauce was also divine, though I had to eventually relent to Mina's insistence that water be added. I suppose she's allowed some as well. I'm trying to remember what else we ate, but I rather feel that wasn't the point. Fab was leaving. Shit. But let's leave that last farewell until the end. For now I must remark on the phenomenal design of our table, which had a sous-table beneath, ensuring we could pass the card to one another without him ever suspecting. Though locking him in the loo while we wrapped his present may have given something away...

I never imagined he would leave. At what point does a farewell party become a good-bye? I was pretty sure it was in the street some hours later, surprised by my own tears as a time together promised simply vanished. Karaoke and several beers lubricated the emotions, and I pushed Alfonso aside for one last embrace and muttered Adieu. Last supper indeed.