UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH THE IRON PHALLUS

Sometimes you set out on an adventure and at some juncture are tempted to turn back.  For me, that moment was as I was about to disembark a train packed with foreigners in Kawasaki, Japan and heard an American holding a sweating can of Asahi beer bellow down the car, "DICK FEST 2013!!"  

*    *    *

LAL and I had taken the long night bus to Tokyo with the wretchedly uncomfortable seats, intent on experiencing the magic of Tokyo Disneysea, bingeing on Chicago deep dish pizza and burritos, and attending a local festival, the Kanamara Matsuri.  

The matsuri derives inspiration from a myth, and the myth begins with a woman.  Before Lorena Bobbitt, there was a woman of Kawasaki who was cursed to have a demon residing in her nether regions.  This was somehow a non-issue until she got married and her husband attempted to consummate their union, whereupon the demon emasculated him.  Undeterred, the woman went on to marry another man, with the same results.  The future of her connubial bliss looked bleak, and in some other cultures she might have been consigned to being an old maid, or dispatched from this mortal plane altogether.  Instead, the local blacksmith took pity on the poor maid and forged an iron phallus to be inserted in her vajajay, at which point the demon chomped down and was pulled out by its teeth.  The woman went on to lead a happy life.  Female empowerment!

The piece de resistance, a modest five feet high. 

The festival that pays tribute to this tale is both a celebration of fertility and an opportunity for local prostitutes to pray for protection against sexually transmitted diseases and infections.  By some accounts, the proceeds from the matsuri go towards AIDS research.  Yet the real theme of the day isn't fertility or sexual health and education or philanthropy.  Rather, it seems to be: let's look at penises and buy penis memorabilia* and have awkward photos taken of ourselves with said phalluses.  Or better yet, let's take voyeuristic photos of other people, preferably scantily clad women.   

This young woman and her friends took turns posing on this terracotta penis with their penis lollipops as incredibly dodgy foreign men leered and took photos.  

This man had created his own penis helm so that people could take photos with him.   The foreigner on the right is attempting to lick the helmet.

There were some things that I couldn't explain: the cross-dressing men, the lone male foreigner in a deer costume with his girlfriend, or the parents who brought their toddlers. This last concern arose not so much out of Puritan values, but because of the sheer size of the crowds.  The temple grounds were relatively tiny, like a small childrens' playground, and people crammed into the area until it was impossible to navigate the throngs of people.  You simply had to give yourself over to the flow of the crowd and allow yourself to be swept along, but not without a lot of jostling and elbowed ribs and shoving.  Eventually it became too overwhelming, and LAL and I activated the escape hatch and headed back towards the train.  We were a little sorry to miss the procession of the iron phallus, but we managed to catch a glimpse of it as we were pushed through the exit. 

Though I'm glad we went, I would not feel the need to ever go again.  Whatever the underlying meaning of the event in the past, today it has been hijacked by a lot of loud, bro-ish foreigners.  Any indirect connection the festival may have had to female empowerment is long since gone.  It's entertaining, but the crowds make it impossible to enjoy even something as simple as people watching.  And yet I gained yet another story to regale my nephew with one day: the time his aunt went to the penis festival.  Hopefully it earns me cool points.

The "biggest" seller at the festival: the penis lollipop.

*T-shirts, erotic hand towels, pencil toppers, candles, candies, etc. 

LIFE IS SWEET

Here's the lowdown on sugary confections in Japan: they are (predominantly) bland and expensive.  Unlike in the west where snacks, desserts and even drinks taste as though someone is trying to inject liquid cane sugar directly into your bloodstream, the Japanese use sweeteners sparingly for a more delicate flavor.  This is both a positive and a negative; while I appreciate not having my teeth ache with every bite, I'm disappointed that if I ordered two small slices of cake, one vanilla and one chocolate, they would taste exactly the same.  Moreover, each small piece would set me back about $5.  Granted, the cost is based partly on the fact that there is an artistry and sophistication of presentation that one doesn't typically see outside of a French patisserie.  However, I don't need to be awed by the beauty of something that I'm probably going to demolish in a matter of minutes (assuming that it is tasty).  

Every once in a while, though, you come across something outside the box of Japan's ubiquitous flavorings.  (For the record, they are: green tea, sweet red bean, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and chestnut.  Sometimes sweet potato or even pumpkin.) Tokyo's 100% Chocolate Cafe seems to have found the sweet spot in pairing Japanese sensibilities with adventurous flavors.  Owned and operated by the Meiji Corporation (which makes a number of products, including several varieties of chocolate and candy), they boast 56 different flavors of chocolate, using cacao from all over the world.  Some of the flavors have a Japanese spin, like kinako (toasted soybean flour, a nutty taste) or yes, green tea.  They also offer zanier options like chili, lemon salt, jasmine, etc.  

56 flavors of goodness

The cafe also provides a menu of cakes, parfaits, and chocolate drinks.  I had an incredibly airy chiffon cake (what some would call "angel food cake") covered in a chocolate and almond concoction that I can't quite name.  "Concoction" makes it sound off-putting, but actually it was delicious.  Very smooth, light, and not too rich, but with as intense a flavor as Nutella, with a thinner consistency.  

I'll be back in Tokyo in May, and I'll be waiting outside when the cafe opens, ready for my next fix.


Tokyo locations for 100% Chocolate Cafe:

Sumida-ku, Tokyo 1-1-2 push 
Tokyo Sky Tree Town Solamachi 4F 

and

Kyobashi, Chuo-ku, Tokyo 2-4-16
Meiji Kyobashi Building 1F 

MAIKO MAKEOVER

I've never been much of one for playing dress up, and my Halloween costumes have been traditionally lackluster. The only exceptions were ones where my mother made my costume and did my makeup or face paint.  My deficiency in creativity boils down to this: laziness.  The more involved the outfit, the less I want to wear it.  Yet I jumped at the chance to be dressed in a traditional Japanese kimono, which is a far more complicated process than shrugging on a bathrobe.  

First you have to find a kimono.  Many kimono are family heirlooms passed from generation to generation, valued at thousands of dollars.  However, you can also find cheaper kimono at second hand shops for as little as a few hundred dollars, though these are often of lesser quality and don’t include accoutrements like obi, the wide silk sash that is tied around the kimono, or geta, wooden sandals.  The cheapest kind of kimono is the yukata, a casual lightweight cotton robe worn in the summertime.  These run for as little as $30 (not including accessories), but they lack the gravitas and luxuriousness of the more formal silk kimono. 

Summer yukata.  From satoshi7.livejournal.com

For those of us not blessed with inherited kimono and who don’t have hundreds or thousands of dollars to buy one, there are other ways to get a kimono fix.  A panoply businesses in Japan cater to women who wish to dress up like a geisha.  Some Japanese tourist organizations offer opportunities to try on kimono, as do places like Toei Uzumasa Eigamura, a film set and theme park in Kyoto.  However, you can also have professional portraits taken at a studio, as I did.  This experience is popular among the Japanese as well as tourists; many young Japanese women have formal matchmaking portraits done, or to celebrate weddings, coming of age, or graduation.  Modern women come in and in just a few short hours are transformed into timeless geisha or maiko, apprentice geisha.*  

A small army of women is required to outfit someone in a kimono, but their efficiency is admirable.  In about an hour I was morphed from nondescript gaijin to resplendent maiko.  Still, it was quite an involved process.  I was asked to undress and then shrouded in a light cotton shift so that I could be sent to makeup, where a woman slathered cold white paint on my face neck, and shoulders, leaving only the nape of my neck exposed.  Even my eyebrows were drowned in white and drawn in again later on, followed by rouge, eyeliner, and vivid red paint on my lips.  At some point I was asked to make a tough decision: which kimono did I want to wear for the pictures?  The fifty or so options were a wide array of colors and patterns; once I had made my choice, the ladies started layering me like an onion. More light cotton robes, a corset-like contraption, a red and white collar, and finally, the kimono itself, which was far heavier than I had anticipated.  Tabi (white socks designed to give you a kind of ninja turtle cleft in your toes) were put on my feet, and a lacquered-looking wig placed on my head.  I was cinched in by the obi, which was so thick it could have acted as a plate of armor.  A device that looked like the headrest yanked from a car seat was shoved down the back of the obi, and the tail was arranged over it, almost like a bustle.  Now properly equipped for my close up, I tottered on the platformed geta, shuffling forward a little at a time, as my legs were constricted by the folds of the kimono.  The photographer posed me with different props, and fifteen minutes later, we were finished.  Back in the dressing room, the ladies whisked off all the layers, and I went to the sink to scrub off all the paint, resuming my normal appearance, from butterfly back to caterpillar.  

I admit that I was thrilled when a friend of mine showed these pictures to her Japanese coworker,  who inspected them and said that I could pass for Japanese.

You can see the exposed part of my neck in this shot; apparently Japanese men found this spot highly alluring. 

*The differences between geisha and maiko are subtle, and despite the renown of geisha outside of Japan, maiko are almost unknown.  Maiko are geisha in training, and study for years before they ascend to the level of geisha.  Maiko typically wear brighter colors and more ornaments in their hair.  The collars of their kimono are usually red with white or silver patterns, and their makeup is more vivid and noticeable.  Geisha are women trained in traditional Japanese arts like music, dance, and tea ceremony.  They are also skilled hostesses, adept at making conversation and entertaining guests (though not sexually- geisha are not prostitutes).  Geisha wear subdued colors and relatively little makeup.  Their kimono have shorter sleeves, and they tie their obi differently, making the obi shorter than the way the maiko wear them.    This website has a fairly excellent summation of the differences between geisha and maiko.

AYA maiko experience, Kyoto
605-0825 499,Shimogawara ,Gion, Higashiyama-Ku , Kyoto-Shi JAPAN
TEL:+81-75-532-6666 / FAX: +81-75-532-6667
E-mail:info@kyoto-maiko.com

ROBOT LOVE

This totally dates me, but back in middle school, tamagotchis were all the rage.  Children were glued to these little devices the size of your palm, each programmed with a different pet avatar.  The purpose of the game was to feed, water, exercise and clean up after your tamagotchi.  If you neglected it, it would sicken and eventually die.  I don't remember what happened if you were successful in raising your tamagotchi, as mine withered fairly quickly (my real dog was far more lovable), but I trust you at least earned some sense of pride in having cultivated this imaginary thing for so long.  I think bragging rights were involved, something like, "My tamagotchi is three months old!" And then someone else would rain on your parade by saying, "Yeah, well mine is a year old."  Clearly the youth of the 90s were investing their time well.  

It may not be a surprise that the tamagotchi was invented by a Japanese entrepreneur.  Some people saw the tamagotchi as a portent of a future in which technology could be used to forge relationships not just between humans, but also between humans and machines.  So if you were a child who couldn't have a pet for some reason, the tamagotchi could act as a surrogate.  Taken further, machines could act as substitutes for all kinds of interactions, from having a pet to asking someone for directions to providing care for the elderly.  Of course,  the most lucrative monetization of the intersection between human relationships and technology is through love and sex.  Online businesses geared towards these areas are thriving, whether Internet dating sites or seedier outfits offering services like nudity and online sex.  However, most of these businesses require an actual person on the other end to generate responses. Japan has found ways to circumvent this requirement, with surprising success.

In 2009 Nintendo created a dating simulation game called "Love Plus," which they released only in Japan.  Here's the back story, as told by the Love Plus website (Google translated from Japanese):

In the "City of Towa" new town has been moved, you will experience the fateful encounter with the girl. As a "friend." So, I'll just stack the memories of two people. Fateful day called "confession", and visited · · ·. However, the story of a girl with you, This is not the end of it. Story of two people as "The Lovers", from here is going to continue. 

So, gamers pretending to be new students at a local high school choose from three female profiles (all high school aged and wearing school uniforms), and court the girl of their choice, taking her out on dates, messaging and talking back and forth, etc.  The profiles are programmed to initiate contact as well as respond (eg, the gamer might receive a message asking his opinion on his girlfriend's new haircut).  When the relationship starts getting serious, the user can kiss his girlfriend, introduce her to his friends or parents, or repeat "I love you" a hundred times into the console.  At least one Japanese resort town teamed up with Love Plus to provide summer vacation packages for gamers and their digital companions, including souvenirs, photo opportunities, and a romantic overnight at a famous hotel.  The promotion was offered "until the end of summer, when the girls would go back to school."  I guess contributing to the delinquency of a minor would really overstep the bounds of propriety.     

The options.  From otakudepot.com   

There are a number of advantages to dating a virtual person, the greatest being that you are guaranteed acceptance by the object of your affections.  You are also in complete control; she (they don't seem to make male avatars yet) will never break up with you, never refuse you, and never cheat on you.  And yet, she will never mature past the intellectual and emotional mentality of a sixteen year-old girl either, so even if you stay together past software upgrades, technological mishaps, etc., as a fifty-year-old man you could still find yourself receiving messages from your girlfriend telling you that she can't talk because she needs time to study for her geometry test the next day (though I somehow doubt that these simulations are programmed to delay gratification).  

Love Plus vs. Real Relationships.  From kotaku.com

A final benefit to simulated dating: if you happen to meet a flesh and blood woman and develop a romance with her, you can end your LovePlus relationship with a simple flick of a switch.  Right?  Maybe not.  I read of one account of a groom who invited his electronic girlfriend to his wedding, even setting a place for her at the reception so that she could meet his friends and family.  Later in the evening the bride (who understandably objected to being upstaged at her own wedding by a Nintendo DS game) took a mallet to the groom's sim card, destroying his data.  Onlookers said that he decided at the last minute he decided to help, but did so with tears in his eyes. 

The time-honored wedding tradition of the smashing the sim card. From japandailypress.com

Some users, however, become so infatuated with their avatars that they make a lifelong commitment to them, as one man did when he married his girlfriend Nene in a non-legally binding ceremony in Guam in 2009.  I can only imagine that this guy was obsessively playing his Nintendo DS one day and his friends kept telling him to put it down until finally one of them said, exasperated, "Dude, if you like it so much why don't you marry it?" At which point the guy said, "Challenge accepted!"  No word as to whether he and Nene are still together.

The big question is, how can men sustain an emotional connection with these literally two-dimensional girls?  Unlike other inanimate objects that fetishists favor like love dolls or body pillows, the Nintendo DS girls will never take corporeal form.  They'll never be more tangible than pixels on a screen. The power of imagination is strong, but surely it has limits?  An article interviewing three LovePlus users* offers one explanation:

Both men, along with another friend, 39-year-old Nobuhito Sugiye, can articulate a philosophical basis for their affection and their fear of loss. That is, for them these computer girls possess the same tamashii — spirits — that devotees of Japanese animism, or Shinto, believe can inhabit all things, from rocks and streams to humans.

This might make sense if you were Japanese.  Or Shinto.  But LovePlus has ensnared an array of men, probably not all of whom believe that their electronic girlfriend is imbued with the same spirit as the wind or a tree. Somehow these men can look past the lack of human contact and imagine exactly what they want: a girl who is completely devoted to them, and only to them.  

Japan gets a lot of flack internationally for its unconventional views on romance, relationships, and sex.  LovePlus is a prime example of this disconnect.  The predominantly conservative and prim Japanese society seems content to look the other way as the market for companionship remains one of the few robust sectors of the national economy.  However, what if you found out that your friend or coworker was dating a virtual woman and wanted to introduce you? What if it were your son or your brother setting a place at the table for this entity at a family dinner party? Does this cross a line, or is it an acceptable alternative to loneliness?   Whatever your thoughts, this is only the beginning.  Just as the tamagotchi pioneered new uses for technology, LovePlus is the prototype of something even more complex and intricate in the years to come. The only question is, what will that be, and, if you're like me, how creepy will you find it? 

*The article also reveals that at least two of the three have chosen the same profile to date, so in some sense it's as though they are dating the same girl.  

HELLO, HANOI

Socialism! High five!

Every once in a while, you go on a trip that just doesn't resonate.  Maybe you were incapacitated by food poisoning, or a sudden workers strike ruined your plans, or the weather was so abysmal that you couldn't enjoy any of the sights.  In the end you are relieved to finally depart for your next destination, and when your friends and family politely ask about your vacation, you don't want to get into it for fear you'll rant to them for half an hour.  That pretty much sums up my time in Hanoi and its surroundings.  

The fault for this malcontentment may lie mostly with me; maybe I went at the wrong time of year or chose the wrong activities.  Caveat: I'll also admit that I'm not in a position to write authoritatively about northern Vietnam.  So frenetic was my pace that I really only spent two full days in Hanoi, two days in the mountains at Sapa, and another two in Ha Long Bay.  That's too little time to draw any conclusions or to get a real sense of these places.  That said, I did walk away with a definite impression, and unfortunately, it was not favorable.  

There's a lot to find charming about northern Vietnam: the vestiges of French colonial architecture, the vivid green of mountains so high they crowd out the sky, the colorful clothing of the hill tribes, the surreal beauty of limestone cliffs rising out of Ha Long Bay.  Hanoi teems with motorcycle scooters and bikes and men lounging about clapping or making catcalls in order to get your attention and entice you to hire them to give you a ride.  There are little restaurants that open up onto the sidewalk with low tables and baby stools, so that people sit with their knees pulled up to their chests as they slurp noodles or iced coffees with condensed milk.  And then there are the tourists, everywhere the tourists, trying to make sense of the streets with their maps and avoiding being killed when crossing the road (forget pedestrian crosswalks or traffic signals- they mean nothing in this chaos).  Even Ha Long Bay, a 4 hour drive from Hanoi, swarms with foreign visitors, feeling like a school field trip, the kind where your mom packed you a lunch and you had a buddy you held hands with the whole time.  

Lest anyone forget by whose beneficence the Republic of Vietnam exists, there are socialist symbols everywhere, such as the hammer and sickle, as well as tributes to Ho Chi Minh.  You can also visit Uncle Ho (as he is called by his countrymen) in person in Hanoi.  The Ho Chi Minh complex includes the presidential palace, HCM's house, and the garage for his 3 cars (one French, the others Soviet-made).  At the heart of the complex is the mausoleum itself, where HCM lies preserved like a wax dummy, save for the intervals when he is sent to Russia for touch ups.  This for the man who wanted to a simple cremation performed.  But the myth must live on, I suppose, even after the man dies. 

Uncle Ho (underneath the flag) oversees a lesson at the local school in Sapa

BFF Lenin

For me, the romance (real or imagined) wore thin very quickly.  Maybe it was the taxi driver who tried to stick his hand in my wallet to see if I had smaller bills when I was paying my fare, or being manhandled for no reason by guards at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum.  There are the shopkeepers and restaurant owners who ignore you when you're trying to purchase something or order food (the vendors were a real shock after Cambodia, where if your gaze lingers on an object for more than 5 seconds, the seller will immediately insist that you to buy it).  There were a lot of nos: No walking on this sidewalk; No cameras; No, you can't sit at that table in the empty restaurant; No, you can't use this public bathroom without paying; No, you can't hike today at this getaway for hiking; No, you can't open the windows when the A/C breaks an hour into a 4 hour bus ride. 

The most alarming incident was being picked up at my hotel for the journey to Ha Long Bay.  An hour into the trip, the bus pulled over on the highway, and the guide told me get off.  "Why?" I asked, shocked.  The other passengers looked nervous as well.  The guide didn't answer for a minute, and instead started to swing my luggage off the bus, before telling me to leave again.  I told him I wasn't going anywhere until he told me why.  "This isn't your boat," he said curtly, "You have to wait for another bus."  I looked out onto the shoulder of the highway, where there was nothing in sight- no phones, no store to duck into and wait.  When I asked when the bus was coming, he shrugged.  Things could have gotten uglier; there was no way I was leaving the bus to be abandoned in the middle of nowhere.  Fortunately, the second bus showed up after a few minutes, and I was able to transfer.  

Hazy Ha Long Bay

Vietnam has all the requisites for being a prime tourist destination: infrastructure, an abundant workforce, a wide array of historic and natural attractions.  What's more, tourism is an important component in sustaining the Vietnamese economy (contributing to 4.3% of its GDP and 3.7% of its jobs).  Yet there is a big disconnect between tolerance and hospitality.  Having traveled and lived abroad, I'm accustomed to a sense of foreigner alienation, particularly in countries where I don't blend in with the rest of the populace.  Vietnam, however, was something more.  There I was just a number, a meal ticket to be punched.  And while that's understandable in a sense in places like the hill tribe territory where people are exploited and disadvantaged and rely mostly on tourist dollars to survive, it's surprising in urban areas.    

Rice fields, Sapa

With the Red Dao women in Sapa.  We stopped for a break on the hike, and they all pulled out their embroidery and started working. 

If this sounds like a lot of kvetching by a hoity-toity foreigner, I don't mean for it to.  I met some interesting and kind people, though they were tourists like myself.  I had (one) excellent meal.  I got away from my safe and comfortable life in Japan for a short time, a true luxury.  I even had my faith in humanity restored on my way back to The Land of the Rising Sun.  I returned on a red eye flight that included a 4 hour layover in Seoul.  I passed out in the airport at Incheon, only to wake a short time later to find that the businessman lounging in the recliner next to me was leaving to board his flight...but not before he covered me with his airline blanket.  

Vietnam has enthralled many people over the years, and I'm sure it will continue to do so.  But for me, as the Japanese say, I was "kiteru ureshi, kaite ureshi," or "Glad to come, glad to leave."    

The goods: bun cha in Hanoi. My favorite meal of the trip.

GOOD EATS

I'm always intrigued by peoples' itineraries when they come to Japan.  Where they want to go, what they want to see, what they want to do.  At some point in the laundry list they inevitably say, "And of course we have to eat sushi."  Yet there is so much more to Japanese food than sushi, and some of the most amazing things I've had here had nothing to do with fish.  After detailing some of the exceedingly strange things I've eaten in the Land of the Rising Sun, I want to pay homage to the best, in no particular order.  

Taiyaki, Nara

Taiyaki. Taiyaki is a kind of snack food made by pouring batter into two hot, fish-shaped molds.  Some sort of filling (sweet or savory) is placed on top of the batter, and then the molds are pressed together to make a whole fish.  Popular flavors include adzuki (red bean paste) and vanilla custard.  Also available are German potato, cheese, sweet potato, etc.  

You can find taiyaki a number of places, but my favorite is in Koriyama in Nara prefecture.  To get there, go east out of Kintetsu Koriyama station.  Walk down the main road until you come to a left turn with a Mos Burger on the corner.  Across from the Mos Burger is a little taiyaki shop.   

Asuka ruby strawberries, Nara

Fruit.  The quality of the fruit in Japan is remarkable, and it's one of the things I'll miss most about living here.  In America, buying produce can take eons as you rummage through the bins to find a few pieces that aren't blemished, bruised or half-rotten.  In Japan you can shop quickly and with confidence, knowing whatever you pick up will be fresh and perfect.  The flip side, however, is that fruit is expensive, on par with meat or fish.  This is due to the fact that Japanese farmers grow relatively small crops in order to maximize the nutrients absorbed by the plants.  So if someone plants melons, they will prune any offshoots of the vine so that the water, fertilizer, etc. is concentrated into one melon instead of six.  Many crops are grown in specially designed, climate controlled greenhouses in order to provide perfect conditions for growth.  Thus, it's a costly process, and the consumer bears that cost down the line.  However, having sampled the finished product, I have to say it's worth it. 

Spicy pickled cucumber, Osaka

Soup dumplings, Osaka

Din Tai Fung.  These two dishes are somewhat of a cheat, as they both belong to a Taiwanese chain called Din Tai Fung that has restaurants all over the Pacific (including the American west coast).  DTF is renowned for its soup dumplings, which are literally meat and hot broth wrapped up in a delicious wonton wrapper and steamed.  Many of my dining companions have speculated as to how the dumplings are made; at our last feast, someone guess that they use a syringe to inject the soup.*  Whatever it is, keep doing it.  I can't get enough.  Also excellent are their towers of pickled cucumbers with garlic and chili oil.  

The Osaka branch of Din Tai Fung: 
5-1-5 Namba Chuo-ku 
Osaka 542-8510 
(7F Takashimaya Dept. Store) 
TEL：06-6633-1103


*Note: LAL made an inquiry at DTF and her server told her that the broth is frozen into pearls and then placed with meat in a dumpling wrapper, which is steamed, melting the pearls.  You tricky geniuses. 

Kobe beef before

Wagyu beef, Kobe

Kobe beef.  You hear things about Kobe beef, wonderful, improbably ecstatic things that may sound exaggerated.  It's the food of the gods, one of the must-eats of your life, it melts in your mouth, etc.  

Everything you've heard is true.  

The first time I ever heard about Kobe beef was (oddly enough) when I took a semester of Mandarin in college.  One of my classmates had studied in Japan for a time, and the first story he told me was about hiking to the top of a mountain to this village where they serve Kobe beef.  He went into a restaurant filled with small tables with little hibachis, sat down, and waited for the waitress to bring him a steak.  "It was tiny," he said, "And cost about $100.  She told me to lightly salt and pepper it, and then sear it for only a few minutes on the hibachi."  I waited with bated breath for the punchline.  His eyes misted over as he went on, "When I took that first bite, a single tear rolled down  my cheek.  I knew I was never going to eat anything this delicious ever again."  Short of crying, this pretty much describes my first taste of Kobe beef.  All the delicious fat marbling the beef had liquefied to make it the tenderest, juiciest, most gorgeous piece of food I'd ever tasted.  A friend called it "a transcendental experience;" I have to agree.

Wakkoqu
3F Shin-Kobe Oriental Avenue1, 1-Chome Kitano-cho Chuo-ku Kobe-City   

Kagoshima ramen, Kyushu

Ramen.  Ramen is one of those dishes that is served everywhere in a country, like pizza or hamburgers in the United States.  However, in Japan each region has its own take on this ubiquitous soup; different toppings, cuts of pork, concentration of broth, etc.  I've said this elsewhere on the blog, but I'm going to say it again because it's so vitally important: Japanese ramen is not to be confused with Cup of Noodles.  Any association between the two hedges on blasphemy.  Yes, they are both called ramen, and yes, they both originated in Japan.  But there end the similarities.  Real ramen is hearty, rich and oh so tasty.  The quintessential comfort food.  

Pleen once told me a story about a friend of hers who works in Asia.  He was working in Japan for an extended period of time with a Japanese team, and at the conclusion of his trip, he decided he wanted to take them all out for dinner.  He suggested they go to a really great ramen restaurant, which they did, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, until sometime later (days or even weeks), he found out that he had made an inadvertent faux pas.  Ramen is not considered "high class;" it's more of a casual meal out with friends, late night drunk food, or a hangover cure than fine dining.  But who cares.  It's wonderful.  

Ippudo is a well-regarded chain of ramen restaurants that uses 6 different pig parts to make their bowls of deliciousness.  There's a location in New York that's good.  My favorite, however, is ramen from Kyushu, which is light and flavorful and uses kurobuta pork.  

Jellyfish and spicy pickled cucumber, Kyoto

Cephalopods.  It won't surprise you that the Japanese are masters at preparing fish, especially delicate varieties like squid, octopus, and cuttlefish.  The trick, of course, is to cook them without letting them become rubbery.  From calamari to baby octopus on a stick, the Japanese knock it out of the park every time. 

The photo above is of jellyfish (which is not a cephalopod, but I'm throwing it in there because of the tentacles) at an izakaya (bar) in Kyoto.  The jellyfish had a little bit of body, but wasn't chewy (or alternatively, gelatinous).  It was marinated in a spicy vinegar sauce that was simple but killer.  Highly recommended if you're feeling adventurous. 

5am maguro at Tsukiji Market, Tokyo

Sushi.  I know, I know.  You've been reading along, wondering "Where's the sushi?" The truth is, the best sushi I've eaten in Japan was at an uncomfortably tiny mom and pop restaurant in Osaka.  You eat whatever they have fresh that day, and that's that.  There are no reservations, and if they are packed when you get there, then too bad.  Still, you can get decent sushi pretty much anywhere.  In fact, what I've found to be the deciding factor between the good and the unpalatable has nothing to do with fish (though you can certainly discern the difference in quality between the different cuts).  Instead it's the rice that can make or break your nigiri.  If the rice is fresh (sticky, lightly seasoned and maybe even still slightly warm), it makes each bite so much better.  

Nara zushi- this is salmon or mackerel nigiri wrapped in persimmon leaf to keep out bacteria

There is a documentary on Netflix that has received raves, called Jiro Dreams of Sushi.  Octogenarian sushi chef Jiro is a total badass- he has been named a national treasure by the government of Japan, and received three Michelin stars.  The amount of care and attention that go into his food is amazing.  

The film is pure food porn, and it will make you want to get on a plane to Tokyo and hunt down a reservation at his tiny restaurant within Ginza subway station.  However, if you're a foreigner, be prepared to hire a Japanese guide to "escort" you through the meal.  Jiro won't let unaccompanied foreigners eat at his restaurant.  If you're a woman, you can also expect to treated differently; Jiro nonchalantly states that he serves women smaller portions than men.  If you don't like it, tough.  At Jiro's restaurant, he is god.  

Favorite sushi place, Osaka
KOYOSHI 
1-3-12 Shibata 
Kita-Ku, Osaka (train stop is Hanku Umeda) 

A FOLLOW UP

The buraku/dowa.  From kotaku.com.au

Each week I cast about for a topic of discussion for my adult English conversation group (the grannies).  When I've scraped the bottom of the idea barrel, I try to think of some holiday we haven't covered yet.  The obvious holiday contender for February is Valentine's Day, of course, but they know all about that.  And anyway, what is there to say about Valentine's Day except that it's designed to put pressure on people in relationships to be particularly romantic and thoughtful, and to make people who aren't in relationships feel bad about the fact that there is no one to do anything romantic and thoughtful for them.  However, last month I had a major brainwave: Black History Month.  

For anyone who did not grow up in the American public school system, Black History Month was a concept created after the civil rights movement* to honor the contributions of black Americans to American history, and their accomplishments.  It was my favorite month of school growing up, and every year I'd get excited as the posters of Dr. King and Harriet Tubman would be unfurled, and the librarian would set up a special section of books for students to peruse.  One time in high school, a classmate of mine unthinkingly asked aloud, "Why don't we have White History Month?"  To which my friend Lauryn immediately shot back, "Every day is White History Month!"  After a moment she added: "And even then, they gave us the shortest month of the year!"

After three weeks of discussing the history of slavery, emancipation, the Jim Crow laws, and the Civil Rights Act of 1964, I turned the tables on the grannies last Thursday and asked about racism in Japan.  Typically I avoid controversial subjects with them, but this coincided nicely with our theme for the month, and I wanted to know their opinions after recently learning about some of Japan's darker historical moments. What they said floored me.

"Do you think there is racism in Japan?" I asked.  First there was a prolonged period of staring at notebooks, a sure sign of discomfort in class.  Luckily we have Beatles Granny, who is no more shy about sharing her opinion than Judge Judy. "Oh no!" she said, shaking her head.  "Maybe in the past, but not now."  This was a complete 180 from the week before when she had said, "Well, you know, there's racism in Japan, too."  So I started asking questions about specific groups that I knew had been discriminated against throughout Japanese history, and every time, Beatles Granny would say, "Well, maybe in the past. But not now."  I was about to give up when Lone Grandpa asked, "Eri-sensei? What is racism? Is it...skin color?"

Aha.  A fundamental error in debate: first, define your terms.  I explained that no, racism was not just based on skin color.  My skin and that of a Japanese person could both be called white, but we have different heritages, so racism had more to do with ethnicity and ancestry than skin color.  A collective "Ooooh!" went around the table.  "Ah, yes," said Lone Grandpa, "There is definitely ethnic discrimination today in Japan."  Facepalm.  

The talk that ensued is too long and tortuous to relate, but here were some points that they highlighted that were new to me:

• The uyoku (extreme right wing) believe there is only one race in Japan, the Emperor's children.  This excludes Okinawans and the Ainu.  Most Japanese people don't agree with this nationalistic interpretation.  The group couldn't believe that modern Japanese would have any problems with mainland Japanese marrying Okinawans, or leasing apartments to them.  
• They did acknowledge, however, that prejudice against foreigners was frequent, and that a lot of Japanese landlords won't rent to foreigners, particularly westerners.  
• They were shocked to learn that in Germany it is illegal to deny that the Holocaust occurred.  When I asked why the topic of racism was not taught in schools in Japan, I was told that it was "too confusing."  Lone Grandpa told me that the avoidance of this topic is what makes celebrations like Black History Month in America so remarkable.
• Beatles Granny argued that we shouldn't talk about the Japanese military in school, or what it did during past wars.  Her view was that "we have to separate regular people from the government."  She said that "regular people became victims of the war," not only because they died, but also because they were ordered to do things they didn't want to do by the government, and couldn't refuse for fear of retribution.
• Beatles Granny also assert that discrimination can be a good thing.  Her argument was that without competition, society would collapse.  We have to compete to better ourselves and to evolve, and social castes and hierarchies are part of that.  

Towards the end, the conversation took an unexpected turn.  Granny M suddenly piped up with a factoid she thought qualified as a kind of discrimination.  We live in Nara prefecture; to the west of us is another prefecture called Wakayama.  Back in the Edo period, during the days of the shogunate, Japan was ruled by various families.  Wakayama was "owned" by the Tokugawa clan, the most powerful family in Japan at the time.  Nara was controlled by a separate, less powerful group.  Thus, Wakayama was considered more powerful than Nara based on its patronage.  However, Granny M claims that the prefectural rankings from the Edo period still exist today, and that the national government endows money to different prefectures based on their place within the national hierarchy.

The rest of the group was shocked by this, and claimed that it could not be true.  Lone Grandpa verified the story, though, and went on to give another example.  One of the largest rivers in Nara is the Yoshino River, which originates in this prefecture and flows into Wakayama.  However, Wakayama controls the rights to the water.  So even though the source of the river is in Nara, it must petition Wakayama in order to build a dam or use the water for some purpose.  All because of laws made some 200-400 years ago.  

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After class, a couple of the grannies approached me individually to talk about their experiences growing up.  Granny Le Chef said, "When my family moved to Nara from Gifu, my parents told me, 'Never ask someone where they are from.' Some people, if you ask this question, they are very offended.  But this is so different than Gifu; I thought it was very strange."  Granny M told me that her parents warned her and her sister against talking about race outside of the family.  They were afraid that if anyone heard them talking about the buraku,** the buraku might unite and attack the family.  

Granny M seemed to view the dowa as a rather rough lot.  She said that today, the dowa still live in communities where they have been living for generations. Traditionally, they were forced to settle in these areas, segregating them from the rest of Japanese society.  Now they refuse to move, creating problems for developers.  They also claim that because of past discrimination, they shouldn't have to pay the same taxes as "normal Japanese people" [Granny M's words]. So "normal Japanese people" are discriminated against in terms of the taxes they have to pay, which are higher than those of the dowa.  The dowa get other privileges as well, like free school supplies for their children, etc.

Granny M was quick to acknowledge that this was mostly a generational issue.  "This is just my opinion," she said.  "Other people in the group may have other opinions.  I think it depends on your parents, but I don't think my daughters care about this."  It's hard to get a sense of whether  other Japanese people feel the same way; the topic is taboo to a point where any allusion can make for tense conversation or a change of topic.  Indeed, the last thing Granny M said to me on Thursday (and she repeated it about three times) was: "But Eri-san, please don't talk about this at school or with other people.  Maybe this isn't a good topic to talk about."  By Japanese standards, she might as well have put duct tape over my mouth.  Her advice was well received; I'd never dream of asking anyone at school about this.  Thankfully the grannies are up for anything, and are not easily offended. 

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*Actually, the concept originated in the early 20th century thanks to historian Carter G. Woodson; however, it wasn't until the late 1960s that it was nationally recognized and observed. 

**Last week on the blog I referred to this socioeconomic group as the burakumin.  After doing some more reading, I learned that the terms burakmin or buraku are highly offensive in Japanese culture, and the politically correct term is "dowa."  Sorry about that.  However, I'm referring to the dowa here as buraku, because that's the term Granny M used when telling me her story.  But she may have referred to them this way because that's the term I introduced.  No one in the group said anything to me about it being offensive, though I wish they had.