[RAMEN] The Sapporo Chronicles [Part I] (from November 29, 2002)
The Sapporo Chronicles [Part I]
Sapporo and Otaru, actually. This one deserves to be told in rich, chronological narrative. DJ Ham mixing up fast, free, and fresh lifestyle choices just for you.
SUNDAY
The Plane Trip
This was my first trip to Hokkaido, but solely on the basis of this isolated experience, I will wager this: on any plane heading north, there are 120 guys sitting in your cabin who were cloned from Yoshi Ikuzo. We also had one of those really, brutally pissed off flight attendants. In fact, her eyes rolled into the back of her skull when we asked for oolong tea. She was nonetheless a welcome substitute for that huge, fat person inevitably named Ruth, Cheryl, or Meredith found on Continental or Delta flights. You know, the uniform three sizes too small for the Humvee-like butt that can't navigate narrow aisles, and the hoarse, three-packs-a-day Marlboro Man voice that cracks, "You want some CAUGHFEE?"
Alas, things were not to go as planned. A heavy fog over Sapporo, no doubt caused by our flight attendant's constipation, forced our 747 to circle in the air for about 30 minutes. Then, in typical Japanese form, our plane -- did I mention that it was a 747? -- ran out of fuel and headed for Hakodate Airport instead. So much for the let's-take-the-early-morning-plane-so-we-have-more-time-in-Hokkaido theory. We spent the better part of an hour in the terminal, admiring how the Japanese always jack up the heating in public spaces to Trinidadian conditions despite complaining about energy prices. And at long last, it was time to reboard the plane to complete our journey to New Chitose. The 120 Yoshi Ikuzos, now thoroughly drunk at the ripe hour of 10 AM, broke out in song: "Mou ichido, mou ichido . . ."
[120 of these guys on your plane.]
Otaru
A beautiful train ride along the sea took us to Otaru. This lovely coastal town is famed for stained glass, romantic walks along the canal, and the Ishihara Yujiro museum. Whatever. Time to eat. When you say Otaru, you think of sushi, and we promptly set about asking the townsfolk. We climbed into a coffin curiously shaped like a taxi cab with a driver whose name loosely translates as Great Halitosis of the North. He recommended a place popular with young locals, and asked if that would be all right with us. Shit, man, just get us out of here.
We hit this joint named Oyamada or something near Sushiya-Dori. Harboring our doubts, we ordered an omakase course for just one person. Evidently G.H.O.T.N. has no sense of taste, his tongue lost years ago to that gaseous plague in his mouth. So we fled and jumped into a bookstore tended by a kindly old lady. "There are eighty sushi places on Sushiya-Dori," she said, "and they all suck." We successfully pressed her for a tip and sealed the deal by buying a crap magazine. "Still, there's nothing as good as Tsukiji," she added.
True to form, the old lady's recommendation was a bit off the beaten path. We had some trouble finding the right alley and asked a fishmonger for directions. "Huh?" He sounded surprised. "That place is REALLY good, you know." Aw shucks, like we were looking for another place that served rodent droppings. There seemed to be the slightest resigned tone in his voice, as if the townspeople had betrayed a treasured secret. "Take that left, then take a right."
To Heaven. It was a well-kept, clean counter and restaurant. The second and third generations worked side-by-side behind the glass showcasing the day's limited but flawless offerings. In perhaps the regional fashion, the rice was molded into rather small packets of somewhat hard grains, not 100% to our liking. However, the neta were superb. The scallops and fresh salmon were odorless except for a thin brushing of Edomae-style tare, but delivered sweet and vivid flavors. The best squid I have ever had bore the marks of the old master's unseen, skillful knife; finely, slenderly spaced grooves teased the mouth like ika somen, as the wash of rice and gentle vinegar followed. Likewise, his knife gave the botan ebi shape and volume, an indescribable crunch and tickling sensation at the same time. For good measure, the old man gave each of us an otoro on the house. Voluptuous and fatty, not stringy, and the perfect way to end a meal with a stupid smile on your face.
No, I'm not telling where. Finding one for yourself is half the fun, after all.
[To be continued.]
Yesterday I went to church. Tall spires of blue laserlight, religious icons and elements floating through the air, and a gospel recited in operatic, sweeping grand soul style. The Modern Church of Earth Wind & Fire. The unmistakable presence of God was in the house; the miraculous appearance of visionary leader Maurice White was ample proof of that. When Maurice walked in with the band, I was simultaneously overcome with shock and joy. Here is a man, almost 60 years old, who has been wracked by Parkinson's disease for a decade. And despite the fact that we couldn't see anything from the rear of the Tokyo International Forum (our seats were actually located in Chiba prefecture), we could sense that every step Maurice took was excruciating. His performance was drawn from pure will and adrenaline, but when he sang -- oh that voice! His suffering limited him to one or two songs at a time and to only about a third of the entire program. Maurice constantly retreated backstage, probably to get a booster shot or some other desperate treatment.
He has always moved with some of that Bernie Kosar clumsiness, though the pain was obvious. But last night he was Donovan McNabb. The broken body propelled only by the unravaged spirit. Two Sundays ago, playing on a snapped ankle, McNabb passed for four touchdowns. Maurice White on stage was still more legendary.
It was a few hours later when the Earth Wind & Fire concert reminded me uncomfortably of the time I saw Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at the Greek in Berkeley. From his oppressively heavy, debilitated frame rang out his true and clear, astounding voice. He died that same year, I think.
In case you were wondering, Verdine White is still crazy. Yes, Verdine. The guy who looks like the "Beast," as in Beauty and the . . .
FANTASY FOOTBALL LAST WEEK
Coach Ham's tastefully named fantasy football team, the Peking Ducks, entered Week 12 of the season tied for the league lead at 8-3. Never a believer in tinkering with the lineup, Coach made only one change: benching 49ers running back Garrison Hearst for insensitive comments he made to the Fresno Bee newspaper regarding gays. Then Coach Ham went on the trip.
Even without Hearst, the Ducks were sure to have plenty of firepower. However, our offensive core of quarterback Peyton Manning (Colts), running backs Ahman Green (Packers) and Antowain Smith (Pats), and stud receiver Eric Moulds (Bills) produced a stupefying ZERO touchdowns. Bit-part players tight end Billy Miller (Texans), kicker Ryan Longwell (Packers), and the Rams defense also contributed nothing. Like the skies in snowy Sapporo, my mood gradually grew grey, dark, and cold. After Sunday's games, the high-flying Ducks found themselves losing to the pitiful Sendai Lawson Riceball Finger-Packers (real name withheld to protect the innocent) by the fantasy football score of 34 to 58.
Enter Monday Night Football, and Terrell Owens, T.O., his ownself. In the first half, a 32-yard reception. Three minutes later, touchdown. In the second half, receptions of 26 and 21 yards, and a touchdown from 18 yards out with 1:06 remaining in the third quarter. All told, 13 catches for 166 yards. Ducks win in the clutch, 62 to 58.
Finally, in keeping with my reputation as a man of the people, I am willing to audition any recommendations you may have for the name of Coach Ham's 2003 fantasy football team. Please note that it is common practice to use a city name followed by a pluralized mascot or nickname. Were it not for this convention, I would certainly call my guys the Red-Assed Baboons. Incidentally, my friend came up with the following immortal verse in elementary school:
Baboon, Baboon, oh why do you moon?
With your ass so red, as big as a bed
I think there's a potentially great fight song in here. I also have a matching sweater.
In another all-time flash of brilliance, some buddies and I once named a friend's squad the Manila Envelopes, in honor of his Filipino heritage. At any rate, I am presently mulling over these candidates:
Seoul Train Dancers
Ura-Harajuku Kogals
Dogenzaka Rotating Beds
Is there a theme here? I think not.
Sapporo and Otaru, actually. This one deserves to be told in rich, chronological narrative. DJ Ham mixing up fast, free, and fresh lifestyle choices just for you.
SUNDAY
The Plane Trip
This was my first trip to Hokkaido, but solely on the basis of this isolated experience, I will wager this: on any plane heading north, there are 120 guys sitting in your cabin who were cloned from Yoshi Ikuzo. We also had one of those really, brutally pissed off flight attendants. In fact, her eyes rolled into the back of her skull when we asked for oolong tea. She was nonetheless a welcome substitute for that huge, fat person inevitably named Ruth, Cheryl, or Meredith found on Continental or Delta flights. You know, the uniform three sizes too small for the Humvee-like butt that can't navigate narrow aisles, and the hoarse, three-packs-a-day Marlboro Man voice that cracks, "You want some CAUGHFEE?"
Alas, things were not to go as planned. A heavy fog over Sapporo, no doubt caused by our flight attendant's constipation, forced our 747 to circle in the air for about 30 minutes. Then, in typical Japanese form, our plane -- did I mention that it was a 747? -- ran out of fuel and headed for Hakodate Airport instead. So much for the let's-take-the-early-morning-plane-so-we-have-more-time-in-Hokkaido theory. We spent the better part of an hour in the terminal, admiring how the Japanese always jack up the heating in public spaces to Trinidadian conditions despite complaining about energy prices. And at long last, it was time to reboard the plane to complete our journey to New Chitose. The 120 Yoshi Ikuzos, now thoroughly drunk at the ripe hour of 10 AM, broke out in song: "Mou ichido, mou ichido . . ."
[120 of these guys on your plane.]
Otaru
A beautiful train ride along the sea took us to Otaru. This lovely coastal town is famed for stained glass, romantic walks along the canal, and the Ishihara Yujiro museum. Whatever. Time to eat. When you say Otaru, you think of sushi, and we promptly set about asking the townsfolk. We climbed into a coffin curiously shaped like a taxi cab with a driver whose name loosely translates as Great Halitosis of the North. He recommended a place popular with young locals, and asked if that would be all right with us. Shit, man, just get us out of here.
We hit this joint named Oyamada or something near Sushiya-Dori. Harboring our doubts, we ordered an omakase course for just one person. Evidently G.H.O.T.N. has no sense of taste, his tongue lost years ago to that gaseous plague in his mouth. So we fled and jumped into a bookstore tended by a kindly old lady. "There are eighty sushi places on Sushiya-Dori," she said, "and they all suck." We successfully pressed her for a tip and sealed the deal by buying a crap magazine. "Still, there's nothing as good as Tsukiji," she added.
True to form, the old lady's recommendation was a bit off the beaten path. We had some trouble finding the right alley and asked a fishmonger for directions. "Huh?" He sounded surprised. "That place is REALLY good, you know." Aw shucks, like we were looking for another place that served rodent droppings. There seemed to be the slightest resigned tone in his voice, as if the townspeople had betrayed a treasured secret. "Take that left, then take a right."
To Heaven. It was a well-kept, clean counter and restaurant. The second and third generations worked side-by-side behind the glass showcasing the day's limited but flawless offerings. In perhaps the regional fashion, the rice was molded into rather small packets of somewhat hard grains, not 100% to our liking. However, the neta were superb. The scallops and fresh salmon were odorless except for a thin brushing of Edomae-style tare, but delivered sweet and vivid flavors. The best squid I have ever had bore the marks of the old master's unseen, skillful knife; finely, slenderly spaced grooves teased the mouth like ika somen, as the wash of rice and gentle vinegar followed. Likewise, his knife gave the botan ebi shape and volume, an indescribable crunch and tickling sensation at the same time. For good measure, the old man gave each of us an otoro on the house. Voluptuous and fatty, not stringy, and the perfect way to end a meal with a stupid smile on your face.
No, I'm not telling where. Finding one for yourself is half the fun, after all.
[To be continued.]
Yesterday I went to church. Tall spires of blue laserlight, religious icons and elements floating through the air, and a gospel recited in operatic, sweeping grand soul style. The Modern Church of Earth Wind & Fire. The unmistakable presence of God was in the house; the miraculous appearance of visionary leader Maurice White was ample proof of that. When Maurice walked in with the band, I was simultaneously overcome with shock and joy. Here is a man, almost 60 years old, who has been wracked by Parkinson's disease for a decade. And despite the fact that we couldn't see anything from the rear of the Tokyo International Forum (our seats were actually located in Chiba prefecture), we could sense that every step Maurice took was excruciating. His performance was drawn from pure will and adrenaline, but when he sang -- oh that voice! His suffering limited him to one or two songs at a time and to only about a third of the entire program. Maurice constantly retreated backstage, probably to get a booster shot or some other desperate treatment.
He has always moved with some of that Bernie Kosar clumsiness, though the pain was obvious. But last night he was Donovan McNabb. The broken body propelled only by the unravaged spirit. Two Sundays ago, playing on a snapped ankle, McNabb passed for four touchdowns. Maurice White on stage was still more legendary.
It was a few hours later when the Earth Wind & Fire concert reminded me uncomfortably of the time I saw Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at the Greek in Berkeley. From his oppressively heavy, debilitated frame rang out his true and clear, astounding voice. He died that same year, I think.
In case you were wondering, Verdine White is still crazy. Yes, Verdine. The guy who looks like the "Beast," as in Beauty and the . . .
FANTASY FOOTBALL LAST WEEK
Coach Ham's tastefully named fantasy football team, the Peking Ducks, entered Week 12 of the season tied for the league lead at 8-3. Never a believer in tinkering with the lineup, Coach made only one change: benching 49ers running back Garrison Hearst for insensitive comments he made to the Fresno Bee newspaper regarding gays. Then Coach Ham went on the trip.
Even without Hearst, the Ducks were sure to have plenty of firepower. However, our offensive core of quarterback Peyton Manning (Colts), running backs Ahman Green (Packers) and Antowain Smith (Pats), and stud receiver Eric Moulds (Bills) produced a stupefying ZERO touchdowns. Bit-part players tight end Billy Miller (Texans), kicker Ryan Longwell (Packers), and the Rams defense also contributed nothing. Like the skies in snowy Sapporo, my mood gradually grew grey, dark, and cold. After Sunday's games, the high-flying Ducks found themselves losing to the pitiful Sendai Lawson Riceball Finger-Packers (real name withheld to protect the innocent) by the fantasy football score of 34 to 58.
Enter Monday Night Football, and Terrell Owens, T.O., his ownself. In the first half, a 32-yard reception. Three minutes later, touchdown. In the second half, receptions of 26 and 21 yards, and a touchdown from 18 yards out with 1:06 remaining in the third quarter. All told, 13 catches for 166 yards. Ducks win in the clutch, 62 to 58.
Finally, in keeping with my reputation as a man of the people, I am willing to audition any recommendations you may have for the name of Coach Ham's 2003 fantasy football team. Please note that it is common practice to use a city name followed by a pluralized mascot or nickname. Were it not for this convention, I would certainly call my guys the Red-Assed Baboons. Incidentally, my friend came up with the following immortal verse in elementary school:
Baboon, Baboon, oh why do you moon?
With your ass so red, as big as a bed
I think there's a potentially great fight song in here. I also have a matching sweater.
In another all-time flash of brilliance, some buddies and I once named a friend's squad the Manila Envelopes, in honor of his Filipino heritage. At any rate, I am presently mulling over these candidates:
Seoul Train Dancers
Ura-Harajuku Kogals
Dogenzaka Rotating Beds
Is there a theme here? I think not.
posted by hamu86 at 11:34 PM
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