It's currently 1:45am. This will likely not be posted until I can get to the room with the CAT5 cable. Maybe check my email.
Sushi in Italy? Si, signore!
The plan is to get up early in the morning and hike (part of) the Cinque Terre.
The trouble is, I'm still sleep deprived, dead tired, and sloshed on a melange of Ligurian white wine, northern Italian Gewurztraminer, and Japanese beer. All at the hands of my cousin, who beyond being a kick-ass sushi chef apparently makes the best Genovese pesto and trofie around. Needless to say, I'm stuffed.Yet I'm a bit restless. After sunset aperitivi overlooking the Ligurian coast, the most amazing salmon sushi I've had in forever (the finest salmon in Paris pales in comparison, even though it's all from Norway – must be magic fairy dust), and bonding with new family members, the first day of this holiday has set the bar pretty high. Tonight's sushi exemplifies what we ideally want from our experiences: Simplicity of purpose, clarity of expression, and the need to say "wow."
Cinque Terre better be as cool as advertised. The leaning tower of Pisa better have some gangsta lean. And Florence, well, I better to go into an actual food coma there. Or I'm just going to come back here and eat sushi.
Besides sushi, my cousin serves up cute baby.
All posturing aside, I could pack up and go home tonight and not be disappointed. Despite the impossible roads, dearth of internet, and some of the most horrendous fashion sense this side of the Châtelet-Les Halles train station, the Portofino area is without a doubt somewhere I could come back to over and over, even if just for one night. The Mediterranean gently lapping at the rocky shore... The colorful sailboats and even more colorful beach huts... The walls of star jasmine and various other flora allowed to grow wild... The friendly locals who won't hesitate to introduce themselves. (I must've said "Ciao!" at least 96,000 times tonight.) If anything, for a cranky city boy like me it's all very humbling and, as I sit up in bed meditating on plans for tomorrow, a little bit zen.
Santa Margherita di Ligure
I have a tendency not to relax nor – as you can see – unplug on vacation. If it were up to me, I'd probably be cliff diving or free climbing at every opportunity. Luckily I'm surrounded by people who are ensuring I simply go with the flow.
Hmm, isn't one of the villages of Cinque Terre perched on a cliff?
We got to Tsukiji Fish Market around 5:00 am and walked up and down the narrow stalls, dodging two-stroke powered carts zipipng by with nary a honk or warning, checking out just about every creature that can be fished out of the sea. There are millions of pieces of seafood here, almost all of which is bought and either re-sold or served right up today.
If there's any question as to how fresh your seafood is in Japan, just make a trip to Tsukiji. And if you want the freshest, tastiest seafood possible, then it's best to just hit up one of the many reputable sushi restaurants in the Tsukiji Market itself. The thing is, you might wait. A lot. For instance, eating at Daiwa - the most famous and coveted sushi bar in Tsukiji and possibly the world - warrants at least a two-hour wait, queueing up tightly with the masses in the morning cold. There were at least a hundred people in line...
Of course, that was when we left, after having had the best omakase ever. It was simple, yes. Nothing too exotic - just ebi, uni, toro, tamago, ika, ikura, etc.... And then there's the tuna, the reason all those people pack like sardines into the line for Daiwa. My piece of maguro was laid in front of me and I thought my sushi had been topped with steak. And it almost tasted like steak. And the toro? Fatty, light pink, and looking like another slab of prime meat. But it was fish. And tender, as such. It was ridiculous. Over the top. And it really made for an excellent breakfast at six in the morning.
And because we got there so early, we weren't in the line pictured above. We waited maybe twenty, painful, saliva-inducing minutes before we struck seafood gold.
Ladies and gentlemen, I may have just had the best sushi on the face of the planet. If I thought before that this trip was over, that I had seen the ultimate, tasted the most insanely extraordinary, or experienced anything coming close to the be-all and end-all, I was wrong. This was it.
If I lived near Tsukiji, I'd be having sushi for breakfast every morning. All at a cool $35. A bargain anywhere in the world for food this good.
Maybe it's the fact that I learned McDonald's has my beloved WiFi. Maybe I should've taken it as a sign that I was craving a chicken sandwich this afternoon. Maybe I should've known the deal when Makoto asked me if I was hungry today, and I pointed to some cafe and said, "coffee," meaning I wanted an espresso and a western-style pastry. Which we promptly got, and I didn't care that I was paying $10 for a tiny coffee and equally tiny piece of chocolate capuccino cake. Or whatever the hell they called it.
It seems to happen on a lot of trips. On the fourth or fifth day, I just get sick of the local food. My mouth is screaming for a break. Not that I don't have a sophisticated palate, nor is it that I don't respect the local foodways. I'm just used to the amazing diversity of food in California. And let's face it: Other than fast food joints and hundreds of horrendous looking pseudo-Italian restaurants, the dining is pretty homogenous around here. Just like how in Spain I tired of jamon and queso every day and night for the better part of a week, I think I need a break from raw fish. Or maybe chopsticks, even. Hell, eating my cake today, I felt awkward using a fork for fuck's sake.
I think tonight's dinner was the proverbial straw causing the proverbial breakage of the proverbial camel's proverbial back.
Aunt Hiroko, Makoto and I walked around the corner to the local sushi joint. I knew not to expect anything spectacular, but I was just as happy to be at "the local," enjoying freshly made food provided by an old couple who have been doing this for years. Some Japanese serial drama was on the TV in the corner, the hot sake flowed, and my kinspeople - as soon as I gave them the "nademo-ii" go-ahead - started ordering like potheads with a case of the munchies.
The flaming dish of scallops was awesome. So were the flaming oysters. And my ceviche-like preparation of some white fish was brilliant, whatever the hell the swimming critter may have been before my friendly neighborhood sushi-ya filleted it, doused it in ponzu and spring onion, and put it in a bowl in front of me.
Then I got to my moriawase of sushi and I took pause. Yes, the shrimp was tasty. The toro was to-die-for good. But then I hit a wall. My squid, while fine, bored me. The maguro bored me as well. Even the uni (sea urchin) didn't do anything for me. By the time I got to the tai, I could barely put it down. I was so tired of raw fish flesh that I didn't even want to swallow it. But spitting it out in your napkin isn't an option here. Because there are no napkins. You have the wet handtowel they give you before the meal, but it seems a bit daft to hork up a piece of fish into it.
It's not like I haven't met a piece of sushi I didn't like before. But this wasn't some cheap-ass $2 sushi, or a sushi tray from Safeway's deli section. This was fresh, we-just-pulled-it-out-of-the-ocean-with-our-bare-hands shit.
Luckily, I think this only applies to raw fish. After the feeling of nausea and gastronomic ennui subsided, I avoided subsequent raw fish but went to town on a plate of sea bream head, cheeks, and belly. Cooked, of course.
Still, this doesn't bode well for tomorrow when we head to my mom's hometown. Which is a fishing village. Although I found out during dinner tonight that we'll be pit-stopping for a night in another town on Shikoku, as I have some long-lost relative who's supposedly dying to see me. The good news is that I'll be staying in a hotel for the first time this trip, which means I can stop feeling like I'm imposing on my relatives - whom I have to frikkin' trick into letting me pay for things. The bad news is I'll probably still be without internet, meaning at next login, I'll have to post another two day's worth of stuff.
Makoto, my mom and I took the train to Nara - once Japan's capital ages and ages ago (before Tokyo, obviously, and before Kyoto) and now a major tourist destinations for culture fiends, history nuts, and maybe even religious fanatics. Nara is, after all, all about the temples.
But this trip, I've been thinking with my stomach. And one of the first things I smelled after we got into Nara koen (park) was the distinct smell of freshly made senbei (rice crackers). It's a specialty here, and having your rice crackers just out of the fryer - or however they do it - is orders of magnitude better than the packaged ones you get at the store. And these come in even more flavors.
If you do wind up in Nara (and many people do), just keep in mind that not all rice crackers are equal. You might see a stand or two or fifty with a nice old lady selling bundles of flat rice crackers. These are called shika senbei as in "deer crackers," and they're specially made to feed the deer that pretty much have run of this place. They are everywhere, and other than the musky smell of wet deer - or worse yet, deer piss - it's pretty awesome. They're used to people so they'll eat out of your hands, let you pet them, and - don't tell anyone - let you spank their bottoms and ask 'em whose their buck. The only group with a population greater than the deer's in Nara is the tourist. They are everywhere. Gigantic school groups. Hordes of stereotypical Japanese with zillions of cameras. And maybe only a few Westerners. They do flock here for good reason, though. Nara is home to Todai-Ji, the largest wooden building in the world. It also happens to be a ginormous Buddhist temple, and inside it contains a Buddha as tall as the building itself... reputed to be the largest bronze statue in the world.
They're impressive and huge beyond words. There's a pillar behind the Buddha that has a hole in it large enough for a person to squeeze through. It's supposedly the size of one of the Buddha's nostrils. That's how big the damn thing is. Oh, and as for the hole, it's good fun watching kids go through, but it's even more fun watching adults do it... because I have to admit - I was awaiting someone getting stuck and having to see the Jaws of Life used on an 800 year-old monument.
What? It's not like they don't have enough temples to go around Nara. And I fully acknowledge that it wouldn't be my dumb ass getting rescued. I know I'm a big boy. In fact, I was a bit bummed that I couldn't go through the hole, so I consoled myself with the local specialty kaki-no-ha sushi. Basically, it's sushi that's been wrapped in a persimmon leaf, imparting a more vegetal, herby flavor overall. Quite good for a little snack.
Refueled, we hiked around a bit and hit up Kasuga Taisha shrine. It was a bit underwhelming, to be honest, but the hundreds (maybe thousands?) of stone lanterns surrounding the place made it worth the trek.
Notice I used the words "hike" and "trek." It's not like it's that arduous a journey through Nara, but we found ourselves - you guessed it - hungry again. So we headed back toward the train station and had a late afternoon lunch at Tonkatsu Ganko, whose specialty is... wait for it... wait for it.. Tonkatsu! That's breaded and fried pork cutlets for the uninitiated - and they make 'em delicious here. Everything else was a bit on the weak side. For instance, their curry is nowhere near as good as mine. Trust me. But their namesake food is tender, juicy, crispy perfection. It's shocking that they're part of the hokey Ganko chain (their bespectacled logo can be seen all around downtown Osaka), but hey, sometimes even chains do it right.
Over lunch, my mom looked over our little photo together trying to find the similarities between two pretty dissimilar cousins. We figured we have similar eyebrows, and maybe the same nose. Besides that conversation, we pretty much just had our noses down in the trough and ate. Another distinct quality we share.
Anyway, I'm home now, but I'm already being pressed to get ready for dinner. What's for dinner? Well, my mom and I had a little discussion...
Considering the amount of beer, wine, and grappa I consumed last night, my head should be hurting, my stomach should be burning, and my gag reflex twitching whilst keeping down bile.
But I'm not. Because I think all that booze was buffered by amounts of food most Americans don't see until Thanksgiving. Or in Oprah's glove compartment.
At any rate, we ate. And ate. And ate.
We all met up at what's pretty much ground zero for our family gatherings in Osaka - Aunt Fusako's restaurant. There's a super-casual back room reserved for family gatherings. You take off your shoes, grab a piece of floor, and dig into the nabemono (hot pot) or whatnot on the low little tables as you slurp your beer. Traditional family stuff.
Naturally, there was sushi artfully made by Makoto. And quickly. So quick, that I could barely see what he was doing with his hands. Even with my fancy new photographic gear, good lighting, and everything, he was still a mysterious blur. But the quality wasn't lost in the speed. At all. Deliciously rich yellowtail. Crazy fresh tuna. Amazing amberjack. Good lord... this was a feast!
Then there was the hot pot, where a delicious broth bubbled with the freshest enoki mushrooms I've ever had, the most tender leeks, astoundingly delicious salmon, and the gorgeous white flesh of the ugly monkfish. When my mom informed everyone that I love ankimo (that's monkfish liver), everyone was shocked. Gai-jin aren't supposed to like that! They're supposed to revile organs. Especially seafood organs. My aunt was so surprised (and happy that I'm not a total roundeye devil) that she gave me a hunk of ankimo nearly the size of my fist. I was very honored. And I shared... some of it.
The real highlight, though, wasn't the meal. As fantastic as it was, it was completely unmatched by the company. Here we were, three generations of my mom's family. My mom, her sisters, my cousins... It was awesome. Oh, and there were my cousins' kids, who are among the cutest in the damn world. Wanna see?
THIS JUST IN: There must be some great genes in my family. As I was blogging this, my cousin Neema just IMed me with a video chat, with his son Parsa on his lap. I'm swimming in cute.
Anyway, it was a great evening. And even if we hadn't been eating piles of startlingly fresh seafood, had we not been tucked away in the awesome back room of a cool little restaurant, had we not been drinking to our hearts' content - it still would've ranked as one of my best days traveling. Ever.
Because as awesome as it is scaling mountains, jumping off bridges, diving - whatever - nothing warms the heart nearly as much as connecting with relatives you last saw when you were barely old enough to tie your own shoes... and somehow communicating with them despite a huge language disparity.
