Chopsticks

One of the most under appreciated inventions of the western world is something we use every day, at nearly every meal – the fork. Whether you use silver, aluminum, or the plastic variety, you are furthering a cultural tradition that dates back six hundred years. Few people realize that the fork was popularized as a life-saving device. Prior to the Age of the Fork, Italians had eaten dinner using large knives. With families being what they are, arguments around the dinner table erupted and sooner or later someone would be stabbed. By the 15^th century, however, the Italians noticed that stab wounds from forks were not always fatal– thus the modern world was born! While the west has developed the intricacies of a 16-piece place setting, our eastern brethren have for two thousand years perfected the elegant mealtime art form of, chopsticks.

Called hashi in Japanese, the underlying concept of chopsticks is revolutionarily simple – two thin staves of wood used to elevate sustenance from plate to mouth. It is so simple that even a child can do it, and more than a billion do. Of course the material need not be wood. While the variety found in the United States is somewhat limited, the diversity available in Japan is staggering. There are chopsticks of every shape, size, color, and price. There are the plastic training sticks for your toddler with images of their favorite cartoon character and giant padded chopsticks for your arthritic aunt. The more ostentatious can even purchase handmade lacquerware with inlaid gold for the price of an inexpensive automobile.

Just as a good mechanic has to have the right tool for the right job, no single set of chopsticks is appropriate for every meal. Sticks with sharp needle-like points are perfect for delicate operations, while the blunt nose variety are better suited for tougher fare. Having a problem with some foods sliding off the end of the sticks? Try ones with a textured tip to better grip the food. Want to cook without scalding your hand? The 18-inch cooking sticks are perfect for use with a wok or sword fighting with a younger sibling.

This amazing history of gastronomical engineering design floated through my mind as I walked the streets of Kanazawa in search of dinner on my last night there. In bold neon from a second story window beckoned English characters spelling “Chopstick Café.” As I walked closer I could make out the smaller print to determine that the restaurant had additional locations in “Kanazawa, Tokyo, Vancouver, Los Angeles, and Santa Monika.” Any business that can understand the subtle differences in the 16 miles between Los Angeles and Santa Monica has to be worth trying.

After being greeted and escorted through the foyer by an attractive hostess, we were assaulted by the volume of the restaurant. All of Japan is loud anyway, but this was a din greater than that of the nightlife on the streets below. For a server to take your order, you had to tell them, and then they would shout it to the kitchen. The chefs in return would have to answer the call by repeating the order – the whole dozen or so of them. Needless to say as it was a busy night, no one in the whole place ever shut up long enough to get a word in edgewise. The lighting was dark and the furniture, smooth and cold. Modern. The very embodiment of “cool.” The tables on the outer edge, overlooking the streets below, were already filled by the time we walked in, so we chose seats at the bar facing the kitchen.

The kitchen was the center of the restaurant. All the action was on display and the chefs were the performers. It was choreographed chaos to witness the hurried preparation of a dozen gourmet non-traditional Japanese dishes simultaneously. Directly in front of me, on a stand on the back counter, was an entire leg of some large animal; I’m still not entirely sure of what, but, as orders came in the chefs would carve a piece from it and off they went. I had the teriyaki duck and, as you might imagine, it was delicious.

A waiter brought a whole fish on a plate out to a couple several seats down. It wasn’t a fish fillet; it was an entire fish, head, scales, fins and all. After setting it down, waiter casually reached out from under the counter and pulled out an industrial blowtorch, identical to what can be purchased from your local hardware store. Setting the torch on a high burn, he went to work on the fish. With orange flames licking the edges of the plate, the waiter blackened the fish right there. The only thing stranger than the unsettling knowledge that your waiter was a pyromaniac was the calm and expectant look on the faces of the couple. Not only were they unconcerned about the fireworks before them, they rather enjoyed it. Once complete, they immediately used their chopsticks to break pieces of the fish off and start to eat it. Why would you go to an expensive restaurant for something you could have done in the garage for a fraction of the cost?!

With our funds quickly depleted, we departed for cheaper forms of late night entertainment. With all the gratitude that would be expected of a good waitress, we were given a 10% off coupon for our next visit. As we were leaving for Tokyo in the morning and then to the States, it left me wondering, would they honor the coupon at their Santa Monika location?

Rest House

At the center of Tokyo lies the most expensive real estate in the world – the fortress of Edo Castle. Constructed in the 15^th century by the Tokugawa Shogunate, it is now the site of the Imperial Palace and was purported by some to be worth more than all the property in California combined. Today only one part of the sprawling palace grounds is open to the public, the Kokyo Higashi Gyoen (East Imperial Gardens).

It was a mid-week August day when my brother and I decided to take up the Ministry of Tourism’s suggestion and visit. The gardens are located within the inner walls of the old fortress. While the site is considered some of the finest horticulture in the country, all I really wanted to see was the fortifications of the largest castle in all of Japan. The steep granite walls and deep moats were never taken in battle.

We entered through the Otemon Gate, an imposing structure through which visiting feudal lords were made to enter and was once under the guard of Koga Ninjas. While the modern gate guards more closely resemble the American Secret Service than ninjas, the scene was still impressive. We were given a numbered plastic token, which had to be returned upon our departure and we made our way in. Once inside the walls, the constant din of sound that is Tokyo, faded and I was left wondering how such a serene, quite space could exist when surrounded by more than 12 million people.

One of the first things you see after you turn the corner is a sign in English that reads “Rest House 100m ahead.” I thought that remark quite amusing. After all, American parks were not so exciting that they required more than a bench now and then. As the sun traveled higher in the sky, however, the temperature kept pace. By 11:00 am, the temperature had passed 105^oF. While in sunny Southern California this would have been mildly unpleasant, with 99% humidity it became clear that the rest houses were not just intended for the elderly. Dabbing the beads of sweat off our faces with bandanas, like our Japanese counterparts, we decided a short break was in order. By the end of our garden excursion we found ourselves walking from rest house to rest house and seeing the plants on the way.

While not an atheistically pleasing edifice, the fully enclosed, air-conditioned room looked beautiful to us – it even had the requisite vending machine. Out of the forty varieties of ice-cold green tea, which I would recommend only trying once in your life, I took the Coca-Cola. Though the only thing on the can I could understand was the trademark ribbon, my first sip confirmed its identity. Coke never tasted so good.

Curry

It wasn’t until we were on the bus, riding from Narita International Airport, that it finally sunk in – we were in Japan. My brother and I had been planning this trip for the better part of year, but even during the ten and a half hour flight from Los Angeles, it never seemed real until that moment. With a light rain falling outside, I pressed my face to the window for most of the hour ride into Tokyo; trying to see everything all at once.

From our hotel room, twelve stories up, we could see a great multitude busily going about their business in the district known as Shinjuku below. As real as all of this had been from the bus window, the thought of actually going out there was more than a bit disconcerting. I do not sleep in buses, I do not sleep in planes. By the time the bellman closed the door and left our hotel room, I had been awake for the better part of twenty three hours. The thought of just letting the city wait until morning crossed my mind, but we had come too far to allow uneasiness to stop us. Besides, I was starving.

The best American equivalent to Shinjuku is the French Quarter in New Orleans. The streets are impossibly small with a great number of pedestrians. There are literally restaurants and food stands everywhere, separated by the occasional arcade and seedy pachinko parlor. Standing at street level, the smells of a hundred different types of food, storm drains, and cigarette smoke coalesce into a scent that is truly unique. One level beneath us lay the busiest train station in the world. With several miles of tunnels, the subterranean shopping arcade connected the basements of all the adjacent buildings with the station entrance at the far end.

Close to the stairwell we used to come down into the arcade, there was a curry shop. Japanese curry is really all about the sauce, to which really any other food can be added along with rice. In a window outside the restaurant, examples where shown of all that was served within. There was hamburger meat, hot dogs, even bean paste croquettes mixed in endless variation and variety with the reddish brown sauce and sticky white rice. Deciding on the hot dog curry, I proceeded to sit down. The restaurant itself was made up of a counter with stools with the kitchen window in the back. This looked to be a place for commuters, as the other patrons were more interested in eating quickly than talking with their neighbor. Other than food, the only thing on the counter was a pitcher of water, some glasses, and several dishes of very foreign looking condiments.

Almost as soon as I sat down, the chef came out from the back, yelled something in Japanese and pointed outside. With the distinct impression he wanted me to leave, I stepped outside more than a bit perplexed. What does a man have to do to eat in this town?

As my brother and I were debating what we did wrong, another gentleman walked towards the restaurant. What would he do? He walked over to a vending machine at the far end of the display window, put his money in, and got a small ticket. He then took the ticket inside and sat down. We waited, watching to see if he would also be asked to leave. But, instead of a yelling cook, the waitress took his ticket and promptly brought food. Taking the other man’s lead, my brother and I did the same. Moments later, with a steaming plate of curry in front of me, I heard Karen Carpenter singing over the radio “I’m on top of the world…” While I might not have felt quite at the top, I knew I was a long way from home.