Wow, what a meal the other night (Wednesday – first night at the ryokan). Traditionally, guests don’t leave their inns to eat. Rather, the best chefs work at the best hotels and you can eat like a king in-house.
Yoko ordered a bunch of regional specialties at our dinner. The six of us ate in a private dining room, sitting on the tatami mats on small, legless chairs in traditional fashion. A very respectful, kimono-clad woman attended our room, bowing every time she entered and kneeing to open and close the door. With all of us wearing kimonos loaned to us by the hotel (also, standard), it felt like we were in some sort of silk wall hanging or watercolor portrait. Very cool…
The tables were already covered with food when we entered. Each of us had the same selection: Japanese hotpot (slices of raw fish and vegetables that you cook yourself in a broth and then dip in seasonings), sashimi, sushi appetitizers, a dish of rice that the attendant cooked while we ate, miso soup with lobster, vegetables and the usual Japanese garnishes of seaweed and pickles.
The Japanese, apparently, drink all the time (I mentioned the breakfast beer), so Yoko and Reiko ordered bottles of Sapporo and I asked for a bottle of white wine and we got down to business with hearty cries of Itadakimasu! and Kampai!
As we ate the food (which was all incredibly fresh – particularly the sashimi scallops), the waitress brought out two more dishes – regional delicacies. Yoko had arranged ahead of time for us to try both of them. The first, Red Snapper, was served broiled whole and garnished in a rich, sesame teriyaki sauce. With three fish for the six of us, each person received half of a fish respectively. Mine was piled high on a plate – eyeballs to tail, skin and all.
It was very good. The fish’s skin was perfectly crisp and the white flesh underneath melted away as it hit your tongue. Snapper doesn’t have a thick, fishy taste. Rather, the meat had soaked in the flavors of the marinade and had a light, buttery finish.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to eat the fish’s eyeball. Apparently that, along with the spine and tail, are the only things the Japanese don’t eat. However, Yoko did say I should try the eye socket because it was “good for your blood.” Not wanting to offend, I popped the wobbly disc into my mouth and crunched down on the jelly-filled substance. Um… the bitter flavor and awful consistency didn’t pair well with the rest of the delicious fish. Thankfully, I only had one socket to get through.
What I didn’t know at the time was that a little bit of whole fish was just a warm-up for the culinary adventure to come. Thing were about to get a whole lot scarier. Let me introduce you to owabi – an expensive, fresh-caught specialty. We Americans would refer to it either as “live giant snail” (me) or “Eeeeeeeeeek!” (Mom and Sis).
Now, most would be pout off by snails in the first place. Personally, I rather enjoy escargot as an appetizer, but they’re small, manageable and served sautéed in butter and garlic. Note the operative word there being “cooked.”
That night, not all of our dinner was served out of the oven. Rather, the owabi was placed, shell-down, on a small plate and presented separately from the rest of the meal. I think the intention was to have us guests especially note its wriggly freshness.
That was kind of hard to miss; the underside of the slimy snail rippled and wriggled as the animal struggled to flip itself over and ooze off to the closest tidal pool. At first, the snails just undulated quietly, almost like they were breathing rhythmically (Were they? I didn’t ask… too busy trying not to have a “reversal.”) But after a few minutes, their struggles became fiercer and they began to twist their bodies back and forth, rocking their shells against the plate. Clink, click, clack.
For a brief moment, I had to steel myself to find some courage to quietly go on with dinner. Jen and Mom both let out shrieks and had to hide their respective snails out of sight. I can’t say that I blame them – owabi ain’t gonna be winning no beauty contest this century. We also didn’t have any warning that a giant, oozy, wriggling snail was going to feature as the main course. Just, plop, here you go – enjoy!
Thankfully, we didn’t have to eat the snails raw. There wasn’t any way I could do that. Each table has a small 4x4-inch grill with a sterno can. At the proper time, our server lit the sterno and I dropped my snail, shell down, onto the flames. The struggles intensified.
“How do you know when it’s been cooked?” I asked, reasonably.
“Oh, when it stops moving of course.”
“Right.”
It took a few minutes of some frantic, wavy death-wriggles, but the little guy eventually stopped moving. I left him on the grill to cook for a few more minutes. Can’t be too careful, you know.
We got my flip rolling tape (I’ll try to post it soon) and I dressed the owabi with a pat of butter and squeezed a lemon wedge over it. The outer edges of the snail’s body contracted involuntarily when the acidic fruit juice hit it. While it did that, I ignored the double-twist somersault my stomach performed simultaneously. “Too late to stop now,” I thought.
I sliced off a piece using a knife and fork.
Hmm… that looks big.
I cut it in half.
Better, but…
I cut it in half again.
After that, there was no turning back. I stabbed a chunk, took a breath and popped it into my mouth. One chew. Two chews. A third… and then I had the rhythm going.
The result? No gagging, spitting or choking. The snail was tough, springy and fairly flavorless as a whole. I’d say part of the texture came from possible over-cooking, but that’d just be a guess (note: probably incorrect – our dinner the next night contained three small slices of owabi, served cooked and they were similarly tough). If I had to compare the snail to anything, I’d say it’s probably like a scallop – only with 1/10th of the flavor and about 20 times the chewiness. Japaanes love subtlety in their flavors, so that’s probably what makes this exotic treat a $40-per-piece delicacy.
As for me, I would’ve been perfectly satisfied with some shrimp tempura or gyoza or something. But, hey, you only live once.
Still alive in Japan… catch you soon!
Showing posts with label onsen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label onsen. Show all posts
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Eating, bathing, eating, bathing... and then eating and bathing some more.
(Editor’s note: This was written a couple days ago, but since Mike was trapped out in the Japanese boondocks with no Internet, no cell phone and only an honest-to-God rotary telephone in his hotel room, it couldn’t be posted until now. Also, this along with most posts will be cut from emails to Sonja, so if Mike says he loves you, he really means he loves her. Although he does love you, too… he’s just not ready to say it out loud yet.)
So, during out day-and-a-half in-country, we haven’t done much of anything besides eat. It took us a couple hours to get from the airport to Yoko’s place. She doesn’t live too far from the city center (45 minutes or so), but the airport is on the other side of Tokyo. We took a bus from the airport to a hotel that’s about 15 minutes away and Reiko picked us up there with a friend’s mini van to fit the ridiculous amount of baggage.
Yoko had a spread of fresh sushi (ordered from a local place) along with some handmade food waiting for our arrival. She cooked a cabbage stew, which is Grandma’s favorite dish. I didn’t get the name of it, but it’s cabbage, potatoes, carrots and strips of beef cooked in a light broth - very nice. We had fresh salad and an egg custard that had chunks of fish in it (Sounds disgusting, but it’s actually quite tasty - almost like a omelet, but with a consistency of pudding, served slightly warmed. That sounds even worse, no?). We ate, drank beer, talked and Grandma showed off her suitcases of gifts (that took an hour). It was a lot fun, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Mom, Jen and I slept in the living room downstairs. Yoko’s couches, which are soft leather benches, can be pushed together to form small beds. I had my own, but Mom and Jen had to share the equivalent of a twin. We were all so tired, it wasn’t really a problem.
I’ll have to take some pictures of Yoko’s place so you can see it... it’s interesting and I’m glad we got to stay in a “real” Japanese home. Every single square inch of space is filled with something useful. The ceilings are low, the seats are small and I sometimes feel like a giant - it’s kinda fun!
As it turns out, Yoko doesn’t have the Internet at her place and, oddly, this hotel we’re in doesn’t either. It’s weird because it’s an incredible nice place. I have no idea where in Japan we are, but it’s a four-hour bus ride from Tokyo. Our hotel overlooks the Pacific (the room Grandma, Mom, Jenna and I are sharing has a ocean view). Originally, we were going to Hakone and Mt. Fuji, but apparently Yoko decided to come here with her time share privileges instead. She thought the weather would be better.
I think there’s less to do and see here, but that’s okay - it is a vacation after all, right?
Our hotel (the Okomoto Club in Atawa) is a tradition ryokan (Japanese Inn). The rooms are all covered in tatami mats and are subdivided by sliding rice paper screens. At night, while you’re at dinner, the staff comes in and lays out futons on the floor for you to sleep on. They’re remarkably comfortable and have thick, yet breathable, comforters. If I can afford to buy one, I might and then cruelly make my mom and sister cart it back to the States for me.
Like most ryokans, this place has its own onsen (natural hot spring) and they’ve built indoor/outdoor facilities for men and women. Hallelujah that there was no “family room” and I didn’t have to see my mom, sister, grandmother, great aunt and second cousin naked. I’d have to stick chopsticks in my eyes, throw up and drown myself all at once.
I had two visits to the onsen today. It’s very relaxing, but it definitely gets you out of your comfort zone as you go in completely naked and it’s one big open room full of strangers. The resort we’re at either caters to the old people or retirees are the only ones that can come up here during the week, because I was surrounded by a lot of wrinky, bald-butted Japanese old dudes.
There is some etiquette involved in using an onsen. You first enter the Japanese version of a locker room (the main difference is that it doesn’t smell like socks and the floors are A) clean and B) covered in bamboo tatami mats). There, you strip off your kimono (yup, I’ve been wearing a robe around the ryokan - hotel), put it into a basket in a cubby hole that serves as a locker. After that, you head into the main room of the onsen. But instead of heading (nude) straight for the pool of steaming hot water, you first must wash yourself. It’s along the lines of showering before you hop into the public pool, only that here, people actually do it. And they don’t pee in the pool, either.
Along one wall, stands a row of overturned buckets, which you can use as a stool to wash yourself. There’s a smaller bucket, about the size of a standard Tupperware container, which you can fill from a faucet and rinse yourself off. If you prefer using a showerhead, those are also available. It’s customary to at least splash water over your body (in particular, the family jewels), but you also have the option to use provided washcloths, soap and shampoo to give yourself a head-to-toe cleaning. I picked that option for both visits - no use in offending anyone! Plus it’s fun to scrub-a-dub-dub in a room that looks like a giant tub.
Both times, I chose to hop into the indoor spring first. It’s a large tile bath with one step leading down into it and benches lining the sides. The water’s only about 3 feet deep, so you can splash around, but you can’t swim. It’s quite relaxing.
I did commit an onsen faux pas. Not wanting to look like I was scared and never done that before, I strutted around like I owned the place. Everyone’s naked, no reason to hide along the walls or anything, right?
When I first went in, there were only three other people: one guy washing himself off (for 25 minutes!) and two in the outdoor spring area. So, I left my washcloth at the stand and hopped in the spring. Then, a group of about 8-10 guys came into the room... and every single one of them had their washcloth hovering or cupped over their ding-a-ling. So, although you’re naked, you’re not supposed to just walk around hanging brain. Whoops (Note to self: write to Lonely Planet and tell them to include that in their next edition… it would’ve been nice to know).
I got out and grabbed my cloth and tried to fit in. I think I failed, though, as everyone else had a nice, normal, white cloth and somehow I’d wound up with a florescent green one from my room. Holding it in front of me, I looked like a gay Indian, wearing his favorite loincloth to a sweaty nightclub. Rock on.
Once I figured that out, I enjoyed myself a little more. I took a second dip at night and had the place to myself. It was fun being in the outdoor onsen by myself, looking up at where the stars should be (it was too cloudy to see anything), palm trees (didn’t know they had those) and a the lights from a couple other hotels (I pretended they couldn’t see me). I sat there on the stone tiles of the tub, listened to the trickle of fresh water coming through pipes into the tub and sighed contentedly.
So, during out day-and-a-half in-country, we haven’t done much of anything besides eat. It took us a couple hours to get from the airport to Yoko’s place. She doesn’t live too far from the city center (45 minutes or so), but the airport is on the other side of Tokyo. We took a bus from the airport to a hotel that’s about 15 minutes away and Reiko picked us up there with a friend’s mini van to fit the ridiculous amount of baggage.
Yoko had a spread of fresh sushi (ordered from a local place) along with some handmade food waiting for our arrival. She cooked a cabbage stew, which is Grandma’s favorite dish. I didn’t get the name of it, but it’s cabbage, potatoes, carrots and strips of beef cooked in a light broth - very nice. We had fresh salad and an egg custard that had chunks of fish in it (Sounds disgusting, but it’s actually quite tasty - almost like a omelet, but with a consistency of pudding, served slightly warmed. That sounds even worse, no?). We ate, drank beer, talked and Grandma showed off her suitcases of gifts (that took an hour). It was a lot fun, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Mom, Jen and I slept in the living room downstairs. Yoko’s couches, which are soft leather benches, can be pushed together to form small beds. I had my own, but Mom and Jen had to share the equivalent of a twin. We were all so tired, it wasn’t really a problem.
I’ll have to take some pictures of Yoko’s place so you can see it... it’s interesting and I’m glad we got to stay in a “real” Japanese home. Every single square inch of space is filled with something useful. The ceilings are low, the seats are small and I sometimes feel like a giant - it’s kinda fun!
As it turns out, Yoko doesn’t have the Internet at her place and, oddly, this hotel we’re in doesn’t either. It’s weird because it’s an incredible nice place. I have no idea where in Japan we are, but it’s a four-hour bus ride from Tokyo. Our hotel overlooks the Pacific (the room Grandma, Mom, Jenna and I are sharing has a ocean view). Originally, we were going to Hakone and Mt. Fuji, but apparently Yoko decided to come here with her time share privileges instead. She thought the weather would be better.
I think there’s less to do and see here, but that’s okay - it is a vacation after all, right?
Our hotel (the Okomoto Club in Atawa) is a tradition ryokan (Japanese Inn). The rooms are all covered in tatami mats and are subdivided by sliding rice paper screens. At night, while you’re at dinner, the staff comes in and lays out futons on the floor for you to sleep on. They’re remarkably comfortable and have thick, yet breathable, comforters. If I can afford to buy one, I might and then cruelly make my mom and sister cart it back to the States for me.
Like most ryokans, this place has its own onsen (natural hot spring) and they’ve built indoor/outdoor facilities for men and women. Hallelujah that there was no “family room” and I didn’t have to see my mom, sister, grandmother, great aunt and second cousin naked. I’d have to stick chopsticks in my eyes, throw up and drown myself all at once.
I had two visits to the onsen today. It’s very relaxing, but it definitely gets you out of your comfort zone as you go in completely naked and it’s one big open room full of strangers. The resort we’re at either caters to the old people or retirees are the only ones that can come up here during the week, because I was surrounded by a lot of wrinky, bald-butted Japanese old dudes.
There is some etiquette involved in using an onsen. You first enter the Japanese version of a locker room (the main difference is that it doesn’t smell like socks and the floors are A) clean and B) covered in bamboo tatami mats). There, you strip off your kimono (yup, I’ve been wearing a robe around the ryokan - hotel), put it into a basket in a cubby hole that serves as a locker. After that, you head into the main room of the onsen. But instead of heading (nude) straight for the pool of steaming hot water, you first must wash yourself. It’s along the lines of showering before you hop into the public pool, only that here, people actually do it. And they don’t pee in the pool, either.
Along one wall, stands a row of overturned buckets, which you can use as a stool to wash yourself. There’s a smaller bucket, about the size of a standard Tupperware container, which you can fill from a faucet and rinse yourself off. If you prefer using a showerhead, those are also available. It’s customary to at least splash water over your body (in particular, the family jewels), but you also have the option to use provided washcloths, soap and shampoo to give yourself a head-to-toe cleaning. I picked that option for both visits - no use in offending anyone! Plus it’s fun to scrub-a-dub-dub in a room that looks like a giant tub.
Both times, I chose to hop into the indoor spring first. It’s a large tile bath with one step leading down into it and benches lining the sides. The water’s only about 3 feet deep, so you can splash around, but you can’t swim. It’s quite relaxing.
I did commit an onsen faux pas. Not wanting to look like I was scared and never done that before, I strutted around like I owned the place. Everyone’s naked, no reason to hide along the walls or anything, right?
When I first went in, there were only three other people: one guy washing himself off (for 25 minutes!) and two in the outdoor spring area. So, I left my washcloth at the stand and hopped in the spring. Then, a group of about 8-10 guys came into the room... and every single one of them had their washcloth hovering or cupped over their ding-a-ling. So, although you’re naked, you’re not supposed to just walk around hanging brain. Whoops (Note to self: write to Lonely Planet and tell them to include that in their next edition… it would’ve been nice to know).
I got out and grabbed my cloth and tried to fit in. I think I failed, though, as everyone else had a nice, normal, white cloth and somehow I’d wound up with a florescent green one from my room. Holding it in front of me, I looked like a gay Indian, wearing his favorite loincloth to a sweaty nightclub. Rock on.
Once I figured that out, I enjoyed myself a little more. I took a second dip at night and had the place to myself. It was fun being in the outdoor onsen by myself, looking up at where the stars should be (it was too cloudy to see anything), palm trees (didn’t know they had those) and a the lights from a couple other hotels (I pretended they couldn’t see me). I sat there on the stone tiles of the tub, listened to the trickle of fresh water coming through pipes into the tub and sighed contentedly.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Ramblings from Japan...
ON THE FLIGHT OVER...
My “entertainment” selections for the 12-hour flight from Chicago to Tokyo: The Spiderwick Chronicles, Definitely Maybe, The Bucket List, Mad Money, Shine a Light and The Other Boleyn Girl. Let’s just say I read. A lot.
Boingo’s airport signal strength (both in Chicago and Tokyo) is equivalent to me trying to do bench press reps at the NFL combine.
What the heck did people do to kill time waiting to board before the iPhone? Currently going through email, SMS, Twitter, Facebook and Bejeweled withdrawl.
Did you know Cup o’ Noodles qualifies as a “meal” on United Airlines’ long-haul flights. Me neither.
ON FAMILY...
Upon seeing pictures of my fiancée, my second cousin Reiko remarked, “She has a nice bust!” Normally, I’d chalk that up to as a “lost in translation moment,” but she repeated it several times.
My great aunt Yoko (who’s hosting us while we’re in Tokyo) has a fat toy Chihuahua who’s terrified of me. It’s like a hairy, freaked-out football and I want to kick it.
Grandma, in addition to slipping right back into her native language and culture, also started slipping out of her clothes. Apparently, pants are optional if you’re 70-plus. Thank goodness she wears huge cotton briefs.
You haven’t been entertained until you’ve watched two technologically ignorant septuagenarians spend eight minutes yelling at each other and jabbing fingers at a ticket machine in confusion. All they had to do was push the “English” button in the corner, told me which station we needed to go to, and we’d have been off in 30 seconds. But, no…
ON TELEVISION...
They have Aflac commercials here and they use a duck, but not Gilbert Godfried’s voice. It’s kinda weird. And the duck has one feather sticking up on the top of its head, too. I thought you should know.
Also, Akinori Iwamura (the 2nd baseman for the Tampa Bay Rays) hit a home run today and it made it into the news block, not just sports. They love them some Japanese ballplayers over here, even if they’re playing in Tampa.
Japanese ping-pong players get endorsement deals from the Asian version of Gatorade. It’s like watching Forrest Gump, only lamer.
The Colonel is still the spokeslogo for KFC. Only he looks a little Japanese... that could just be the late-night sushi talking, though.
I’ve seen maybe six other Caucasian people in a week here (discounting the tourists at the airport), yet 25% of Japanese advertisements feature blonde-and-blue-eyed Abercrombie-esque models. It’s strangely disconcerting.
ON JAPAN...
I am taller than every women I’ve seen and at least 2/3rds of the men. I’m 5’8” on an extremely good day with reduced gravity. This rocks.
I wear flip-flops, which confuses Yoko to no end. You see, to her (and every Japanese person over 50), flip-flops are indoor house shoes. It’s proper to cover your feet when you’re outdoors. We’ve compromised, though: she stops pestering me to wear sneakers and I just have to wipe my feet with a washcloth for five minutes before I come into her house.
The Japanese society is one that revolves around the clock and punctuality. Trains arrive the instant they’re supposed to (not a minute sooner), people meet you exactly when they say they will and a dinner reservation for 6 p.m. actually means dinner is set for six. But, when the Nagels arrive, they make history - for the first time ever, a bus was delayed. Why? Because our cousin had to stand in front of it for 10 minutes, while my grandma and great aunt teamed up to get us lost and make us late. Ever been glared at by two-dozen angry retirees while you’re trying to find a seat on the bus? It’s not fun.
Having a shaved head apparently makes you a Yakuza (Japanese mafia). So not only am I taller than everyone, but people are terrified of me. Although, I don’t know if it’s the hair or the flip-flops that’s setting them off…
Ask for mizu at restaurants and you get odd stares. Refill a water bottle at a bubbler and people point and laugh. Apparently, you’re not allowed to drink anything besides tea or Sapporo (which, incidentally, they serve at breakfast).
Bidets – surprisingly powerful and well-aimed.
My “entertainment” selections for the 12-hour flight from Chicago to Tokyo: The Spiderwick Chronicles, Definitely Maybe, The Bucket List, Mad Money, Shine a Light and The Other Boleyn Girl. Let’s just say I read. A lot.
Boingo’s airport signal strength (both in Chicago and Tokyo) is equivalent to me trying to do bench press reps at the NFL combine.
What the heck did people do to kill time waiting to board before the iPhone? Currently going through email, SMS, Twitter, Facebook and Bejeweled withdrawl.
Did you know Cup o’ Noodles qualifies as a “meal” on United Airlines’ long-haul flights. Me neither.
ON FAMILY...
Upon seeing pictures of my fiancée, my second cousin Reiko remarked, “She has a nice bust!” Normally, I’d chalk that up to as a “lost in translation moment,” but she repeated it several times.
My great aunt Yoko (who’s hosting us while we’re in Tokyo) has a fat toy Chihuahua who’s terrified of me. It’s like a hairy, freaked-out football and I want to kick it.
Grandma, in addition to slipping right back into her native language and culture, also started slipping out of her clothes. Apparently, pants are optional if you’re 70-plus. Thank goodness she wears huge cotton briefs.
You haven’t been entertained until you’ve watched two technologically ignorant septuagenarians spend eight minutes yelling at each other and jabbing fingers at a ticket machine in confusion. All they had to do was push the “English” button in the corner, told me which station we needed to go to, and we’d have been off in 30 seconds. But, no…
ON TELEVISION...
They have Aflac commercials here and they use a duck, but not Gilbert Godfried’s voice. It’s kinda weird. And the duck has one feather sticking up on the top of its head, too. I thought you should know.
Also, Akinori Iwamura (the 2nd baseman for the Tampa Bay Rays) hit a home run today and it made it into the news block, not just sports. They love them some Japanese ballplayers over here, even if they’re playing in Tampa.
Japanese ping-pong players get endorsement deals from the Asian version of Gatorade. It’s like watching Forrest Gump, only lamer.
The Colonel is still the spokeslogo for KFC. Only he looks a little Japanese... that could just be the late-night sushi talking, though.
I’ve seen maybe six other Caucasian people in a week here (discounting the tourists at the airport), yet 25% of Japanese advertisements feature blonde-and-blue-eyed Abercrombie-esque models. It’s strangely disconcerting.
ON JAPAN...
I am taller than every women I’ve seen and at least 2/3rds of the men. I’m 5’8” on an extremely good day with reduced gravity. This rocks.
I wear flip-flops, which confuses Yoko to no end. You see, to her (and every Japanese person over 50), flip-flops are indoor house shoes. It’s proper to cover your feet when you’re outdoors. We’ve compromised, though: she stops pestering me to wear sneakers and I just have to wipe my feet with a washcloth for five minutes before I come into her house.
The Japanese society is one that revolves around the clock and punctuality. Trains arrive the instant they’re supposed to (not a minute sooner), people meet you exactly when they say they will and a dinner reservation for 6 p.m. actually means dinner is set for six. But, when the Nagels arrive, they make history - for the first time ever, a bus was delayed. Why? Because our cousin had to stand in front of it for 10 minutes, while my grandma and great aunt teamed up to get us lost and make us late. Ever been glared at by two-dozen angry retirees while you’re trying to find a seat on the bus? It’s not fun.
Having a shaved head apparently makes you a Yakuza (Japanese mafia). So not only am I taller than everyone, but people are terrified of me. Although, I don’t know if it’s the hair or the flip-flops that’s setting them off…
Ask for mizu at restaurants and you get odd stares. Refill a water bottle at a bubbler and people point and laugh. Apparently, you’re not allowed to drink anything besides tea or Sapporo (which, incidentally, they serve at breakfast).
Bidets – surprisingly powerful and well-aimed.
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