Restaurant review: Din Tai Fung, Shiodome

I am indebted to www.bento.com for their review of this place; I was in the neighbourhood after reserving a ferry ticket and needed somewhere that was open at 5pm on a Sunday. Not always an easy thing to find, unless you're willing to settle for something bland from a chain. This place also had the benefit of being a walk away in the depths of the Shiodome thicket of skyscrapers.

I didn't realise until I arrived that Din Tai Fung was in the same building as Bice, the wonderful southern Italian 'sky restaurant' where I had my birthday lunch. Still, as I walked past some sort of screechy faux-opera being staged in the sunken courtyard outside and joined the queue snaking along blond wooden stools outside the shopfront of the restaurant, I was intrigued to see what made this place so popular. An irreverent part of me from my days as a student of Spanish literature is always tempted to apply the first part of García Lorca's Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, which keeps chanting 'a las cinco de la tarde' (meaning 'at 5pm') in an ever more ominous refrain, to restaurants: there is indeed no time that is more terrible or deathly in the search for a good meal. This makes it all the more noteworthy that Din Tai Fung had a line of people patiently waiting, despite the plethora of other, queueless restaurants in the building.

I guess they all knew a good thing when they smelled it. As I got closer to the entrance, shuffling along the bank of stools, my nose quivered slightly as the aroma of pork broth got stronger. It smelt rich, slightly fatty and unctuous; there was a definite note of spice, but that didn't diminish its meatiness. Din Tai Fung's signature dish is 'xiao long bao', steamed dumplings loaded with minced pork and a shot of intense meaty broth. I had read about how these were made before - the broth is solidified into aspic that then melts with the heat of the steam inside the dumpling - but hadn't had the chance to try them. The waitress also brought a laminated card of eating instructions in English, complete with cute little diagrams. Far from being patronised, I was glad to have the guide: it meant I could avoid committing some faux pas by eating them in my usual inadvertently uncouth fashion. I did as I was told and dipped the dumpling in soy sauce, manoeuvered it onto a china spoon with my chopsticks, pierced it and pressed it slightly to release the broth and layered some shreds of ginger on top - all this before eating anything! The first mouthful was sublime, though: the sharp fragrance of the ginger shards and the savoury hit of the soy sauce balanced the round, earthily soft meat and the shock of the hot broth in both taste and texture.

There were various other components included in my 2000 yen set meal: a small dish of mysterious nutty tofu with pickled greens, a large helping of prawn fried rice, an astringent lemon jelly which was significantly nicer than I expected from its rather unflattering photograph on the menu. The star act, though, was indisputably those dumplings. They came in two forms - four plain, and two whose wrappers had been twisted into a pineapple shape to hold the booty of fat prawns amidst their folds. I couldn't decide which I liked best. Next time - and I am sure I will be going back - I'd be very tempted by the boxes of dumplings they sell by the till to steam at home.

If this is typical Taiwanese food, book me on the next flight to Taipei...

Smackyglamour

It's finally Golden Week, the mega public holiday that lasts for ages. Technically it started yesterday, but this being Japan, where everyone keeps the rules, nobody bunked off school today as it was not technically a holiday and thus we had three tests.

Bank holiday weekend plans mostly involve sleeping but will also, assuming we manage to get ferry tickets, involve an overnight trip to Niijima, an island south of Tokyo which has nice scenery, a faux-Grecian onsen hot spring and other assorted delights. There are three options for getting there: flying in a very small plane, which costs rather more than I want to spend; the overnight ferry, which takes nine hours and does not come with anywhere assigned to sleep unless you pay lots extra, meaning you sleep on the deck; and the jetfoil boat, which costs a bit more than the ferry but takes under three hours. I will be going for option 3, unsurprisingly for those of you who have travelled with me before.

I saw someone carrying a bag today that looked like it contained boutique-style clothes. Entertainingly, the name of the shop was 'Smackyglam' - is that a lowbrow version of heroin chic, I wondered? The internet tells me that not only is it a well-known brand in Japan, but Mischa Barton has modelled for them, thus making herself an icon of Smackyglamour. What a distinction to have!

I have also taken tentative steps towards turning a (semi) new leaf with regard to learning Japanese - I hope the start of May will be marked by a slightly more focused and rounded effort at learning the bloody language... anyway, I looked at my new exam prep kanji book, and almost got excited by the title of weeks 1 and 2, 'Going Out'. 'That will be relevant, for once', I told myself. My sense of eager anticipation fizzled abruptly out when I opened Day 1, and discovered it was about car parks. Gutted.

Practical jokes

The other day we learned the word for 'prank' in Japanese. After giving us the timeless example of the pin stuck on the chair, which always struck me as a rather cruel example of the genre, Nishimura-sensei asked for examples of practical jokes we had played as children. I don't know whether I actually did this or just lifted the idea from the pages of Enid Blyton, but I tried, haphazardly, to explain the concept of an apple pie bed. It got lots of laughs, once people had understood - that kind of humour tends to appeal more than the sharper sarcasm or irony that British people seem to prefer.

Anyway, I raise the subject because, as some of you may know, I myself have been the subject of a couple of pranks recently. Anyone remember the time Facebook announced I had died? And yesterday there was a slightly strange phone call from a blocked number, with a faintly electronic-sounding American accent saying he was 'Phil Temple' and wanted to ask me some questions... I have identified the culprit, and I am fairly certain he/she isn't reading this (though I may be wrong there) but I have yet to enact my revenge. If anyone has any gems that they'd like to contribute so I can get my own back* then please do share them with me. I think this one needs something more than clingfilm over the toilet or a glass of water propped up on the door...

* This was, incidentally, one of the best kids' TV shows of the 90s, and I was in the audience, though alas, my cousin Gemma did not get to put Saracen from Gladiators in the Gunk Dunk. Actually, if anyone knows where I could get hold of a Gunk Dunk, that might work very well for what I need...

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PS If you sign in with your Googlemail name, or with all sorts of other blog site logins, you can leave comments, which would be lovely...

Restaurant Review: Arinomama

UPDATE: Having rushed there in vain to get in before last orders at 1.30 this afternoon, I have finally learned the name of this place: 'Arinomama', which means 'as it is' or 'frankly'. Rather a good name, don't you think?

I went to my favourite local restaurant for lunch today, and I'm ashamed to say I still don't know its name despite having eaten there more times than I can count. It never really seems important: I always describe it by its location (tucked away on a small side street behind the udon noodle restaurant, over on the other side of the level crossing over the railway), and besides, though I keep extolling its virtues to people, it's a rare occasion that I'm not eating there alone. This doesn't bother me in the slightest: one of the things I love about the place is that there are always several lone diners, treated with utmost respect and minimal distraction. The faint classical music in the background - real music, not Muzak - adds to the sense of tranquility.

Adding to my air of contentment is the wonderful food, served in pleasingly hefty quantities. The restaurants specialises in teishoku: meaning 'set meals', this results in a large tray being set in front of the diner, with a wide array of delights in little bowls. Teishoku has some essential components - rice, miso soup, pickles - but here they're distinguished by small superior touches. The miso soup is loaded with seaweed and cubes of fresh tofu; there are always three types of homemade pickles; the rice is so plentiful I always wonder if I'll manage to finish. Then there are the exciting extras: soft silken tofu, served with tiny shreds of spring onion and waiting for a slug of intense dark soy sauce to complete it. Crisp shredded cabbage with julienned red and yellow peppers, the occasional flavourful but unintrusive sliver of red onion, wide-hipped chunks of bloodshot tomato, peppy sesame dressing. Another vegetable side dish, this one typically earthier than the others, perhaps including some delicate spindly mushrooms, mellow carrot or slightly smoky aubergine.

And all this without mentioning the star attraction: I've yet to encounter a main dish I haven't liked. As well as a respectably varied main menu (with a well-translated English version, I might add, which makes the whole experience a thousand times easier), there are five or six daily specials. A typical dish is 'buriteriyaki' (Japanese amberjack... no, me neither, and I don't think it would be that much help showing what it looks like when alive, as I've never seen it in that state either, so here's a picture of it in sashimi form), luscious, unctuous fleshy fish, almost completely devoid of the kind of bones that used to plague the Queen Mother (RIP), served in a deep brown, slightly sweet, rich sauce.

Today, though, I had my all-time favourite: tomato gyouza dumplings. As far as I can tell, this is a rare venture into fusion cookery; my fumbling attempts at description have invariably resulted in baffled expressions on Japanese people's faces, and as this confusion has persisted even when I've spoken English, I think I can safely assume it's the dish rather than my explanation which is new to them. The dumplings are remarkably simple: a slender sliver of pork, ribboned with a healthy amount of fat, is wrapped around a chunk of the same sort of tomato that goes into the salad. This bundle is then enveloped in a thin wrapper of soft, slippery dough, making a half-moon shape. The whole caboodle is then fried, forming delicious and cholestrol-heavy crispy bits where they've been left to sizzle in the pan. Dipped in soy sauce mixed with a little chilli, they are wonderfully comforting - punchy yet familiar-tasting, with bite but soft enough to gobble shamelessly.

The experience is completed by a bottomless ceramic handleless cup of murky brownish green tea, which has a miraculous capacity to clear the mind and is thoughtfully served from a Thermos-style dispenser left on the table so you can have as much as you like. There is also cold draft beer or a considerable range of shochu or sake if you're more inclined towards dipsomania. There are even three choices for dessert: carrot cake (which emerges as a curious mixture of carrot cake and corn bread because of its use of carrot juice rather than grated carrot), tangerine jelly or creme caramel. And all of this comes for a base price of under 1000 yen - no more than seven pounds for a feast of Japanese culinary treats, and not much more if you add drinks and desserts to the mix. If there's anywhere better for a weekday dinner, I defy you to show me where...

Possessed

Something said by someone I met this month, Stanza, got me thinking about objects and what they can mean. I was about to start writing about to what extent I could be defined by my possessions, and then I started making a mental list of things to include. Recent acquisitions include a pestle and mortar (the pestle made of a knobbly stick), an ice bucket, a green snakeskin Pasmo smarcard holder, a printer still in its box, a box of luminous magnetic drawing pins, a red cashmere jumper, and a box of Lindt cognac chocolates. You might think that these objects put me into a box that, while I certainly inhabit it much of the time, can sometimes seem like a pigeonhole.

What strikes me more is that each of those things I mentioned was a gift; when I try to think of what I've bought myself recently, I really struggle. There's a CD of Japanese soul covers, half a blowtorch (I am a co-owner), a new razor and electric toothbrush, and that's about it. Even the toothbrush was actually bought a couple of months ago. This paints a picture of me as a distinctly thrifty person, not the first adjective I would come up with for myself, though who am I to say?

This isn't to say that I don't like having things - far from it. I take great pleasure in having nice things and using them often; there's no question that I enjoy wearing my new jumper (as I am right now) more than I do when I don a tattier older one that is that little bit less soft and luxurious. I am certainly grateful when people give things to me. That isn't just a momentary feeling when I receive a present, but is something more lasting; it sounds sanctimonious but I do feel a ripple of appreciation each time I use something I treasure that I've been given by someone. But some of that appreciation stems from a sense that I couldn't have got whatever the thing is, or sometimes that I just wouldn't have thought of it. That doesn't mean I don't want or need it, but I think it's an interesting conclusion to reach that I often don't know what I want. I feel like that doesn't reflect me when it comes to life choices - at least, I hope it doesn't - but there's no denying it on a more material level.

Given the choice, though, I would always buy myself a nice lunch rather than a new gadget, and a holiday would come before a computer or a new phone pretty much every time. Does that make me and my wants transient? Or are my memories just more important than my material legacy?

Retrospective: Al Dhiyafa Street, Dubai

The green neon of Al Mallah shrieks out against the off-white pallor of the streetlamps. The desert-dwellers of yore (and also the desert safari-trippers of today, I would imagine) must be startled by the death of starlight at the hands of these all-powerful man-made lights. The effect is utterly uncompromising, and on reflection I think you could do worse in finding metaphors for the sudden, vigorous impact of Dubai upon the Arabian desert on which it stands.

Below the signage, there is an ever-present mass of people chatting, gossiping, giggling and joshing, clustered around stainless steel tables that litter the pavement. The enticing smell of meat and falafel on a charcoal grill seeps out from the open doorway of the restaurant, flooding the corner with olfactory temptation. There are white waxed-paper bundles strewn over the tabletops, holding the booty of shish kebabs, scoopfuls of pickled chilli peppers and warm pitta pockets clutching nuggets of grilled lamb. The waiters have the look of those who are habitues of the hard sell, but at 60p for a falafel sandwich nobody is complaining. Besides, Al Mallah is famed for having the best falafel in all of Dubai, no mean feat in this Arabic metropolis with an indefatigable appetite for Lebanese food.

For me, the most delectable treats of Al Mallah can be found in the drinks section of its plastic-laminated menu. Gaudy pictures of hurricane glasses with fluted rims promise exotic concoctions of mango, coconut, strawberry and banana. The drinks' names - the Maradona, the Platini, the Charles and the Diana - are wonderfully evocative, without giving the slightest hint as to the contents of the glass. I could guess that there won't be any alcohol involved - Al Mallah is very clearly not an establishment linked to a 4* or 5* hotel, which is a precondition for alcohol sales in Dubai - but beyond that, I have no idea whatsoever what I'm ordering. That's all part of the fun, though.

I remember sitting at these same tables on my first visit to Dubai, back in early September 2008. It was Ramadan then, which meant all but a few restaurants were shut until sunset, and those few that remained open tended to hang an obscuring curtain across their windows to become discreet from the gaze of passers-by. Al Dhiyafa street would be weirdly quiet until iftar, the meal to break the fast upon nightfall, at which point it would suddenly become thronged with people. Customers would crowd into Al Mallah, but most had enough sense to sit in the overlit but blissfully cool air-conditioned interior. Being British and therefore deprived of heat, I stubbornly sat outside and tried to convince myself that the high 30s temperature was pleasant summery weather. The sweat on my brow must have just been because of one too many chillis, I told myself. Still, I remember rushing to the fan outside the air-conditioning shop across the street on my way home.

This time it was much more comfortable. My cousin Laura and I sat sipping our mocktails next to a boisterous group of young people, speaking Arabic yet composed of men and women, a comparatively rare sight even in cosmopolitan Dubai. Around us, the busy shopfronts of restaurants, clothes boutiques, banks and pharmacies stayed lit, taking in and pushing out customers well into the night. Cars plod along the dual-carriageway up towards Al Satwa, past the back-alley tailors and the mosque or back down towards the Sheikh Zayed Road superhighway. I can't imagine this rare pedesrian paradise of a street not being there, yet it's said that this area is soon to be home to demolition trucks and wrecking balls, rebuilding it into yet another of Dubai's upmarket but faintly faceless new neighbourhoods. I can't help but mourn Satwa for the vibrant, friendly and mixed neighbourhood that it has become. And if everything is demolished, where will I find the best falafel in town on my next visit to Dubai?

Organic panic

I just can't resist a free sample. I had been walking on the other side of the street and had even gone slightly past the shop in question when I was drawn into the entrance lobby by the sheen of something gaudy and orange in little plastic cups and the allure of things on a tray held by an enthusiastically smiling Japanese man. I asked what the orange stuff was and he said 'carrot juice' in an over-eager way. Not something I would typically choose but it wasn't too bad. The tray turned out to be holding very dry, worthy rice crackers - the type eaten by people who need to exercise their jaw like an overexcited toddler and are trying to break their dependence on Nutrigrain. Once I'd eaten them, I thought it would be rude to just walk off, so I wandered into the shop. Everything was incredibly virtuous and organic. My panic mounted as I passed the aisle of Soya Dream: what was I going to buy? Hemp oil wasn't tempting me... Eventually I settled on a fairly neutral bag of dried chickpeas, which didn't break the bank and can be made into something delicious with the addition of some fat and salt, among other ingredients. The woman at the check-out could sense I was not a regular customer, and I thought I had escaped but... just as I was holding out my hand for the receipt, she struck: 'Do you have a points card?' I don't think I am ever going to be quite eco enough to qualify as a member of this particular shop, but maybe that can be my New Tax Year resolution.

Clucking sashimi

I was perched at the end of a table in a restaurant yesterday with two fellow English people, Chris and Charlotte. Various dishes were put in front of us, and most were things I recognise after a few months in Japan. Included in the selection was fried chicken - not knee cartilage this time (that's a nice little surprise the first time), salad with crispy fried potato bits and slightly mysterious opaque white dressing which is almost Caesar but not quite, and 'nabe', which is a type of stew cooked on a tabletop hob with tofu, chicken, mushrooms and cabbage in stock.

Accompanying all these was a plate of light pink sashimi, served with pungent green wasabi and shredded white daikon radish. I tucked in and enjoyed it, though I wasn't quite sure what kind of fish it was. The three of us talked about it for a little while and none of us was quite sure. The flavour was delicate but definitely felt like something marine, though it was a little hard to tell through the wasabi and soy sauce that accompanied it. I decided to take the opportunity of ordering another beer (on the 'nomihodai' all you can drink deal) to ask the waitress what it was. In my best Japanese, I politely asked: 'Sumimasen, kono sakana wa nan toiu sashimi desu ka?' (Excuse me, what fish is this sashimi?) She looked a bit puzzled, and I started to stumble through rephrasing it, thinking that my Japanese wasn't up to scratch. But she interrupted me and said, in a loud voice, 'tori!' I paused for a second, wondering whether she had said 'toro', which means fatty tuna. That had been one of the options we had considered before asking the waitress, but the colour is normally a lot darker than the stuff in front of us. Chris pointed out, though, that they take bits of fish from so many different parts of the fish that it could still be a bit of tuna, which was highly plausible - my tuna identification skills can leave a lot to be desired (!).

But back to the waitress' revelation - I could see Chris across the table from me processing what she had said at exactly the same time as me. Just as we both came to understand what she said, the waitress jumped in again and said 'chicken!' in an exclamatory tone. We looked at each other faintly. I've never seen a chicken breast on a plastic tray in Sainsbury's and thought 'you know what would be nice with that? I could marinade it and grill it, or perhaps cook it in a casserole, but it would be nicer just to slice it up and eat it raw with a bit of horseradish and some watery radish, don't you think?' So far nobody has died from salmonella - actually, I say that, I'm just talking about me. I hope the others haven't kicked the bucket just yet.

Togari Onsen Snowboarding

I am as amazed as everyone else that I didn't break myself while snowboarding. I know, the words 'I' and 'snowboarding' are not an obvious combination... but I even managed to be described as a 'fast learner', which is the first and probably last time that phrase will be used about me with respect to sport of any kind. I managed the sideslip thing facing forwards, and tentatively tried it on toe side, facing into the hill. This is another of those times when it would be really good to have eyes in the back of my head, something I really want to develop. Going at about one mile an hour, I slipped into a Japanese girl while trying to slide backwards, and although we were both absolutely fine and I apologied profusely, she gave me a filthy look, which rather put me off doing any more sliding backwards down the slope.

There are two things I would change for next time. Unsurprisingly, number one would be to spend more money and get the bullet train rather than the slow overnight coach. This could have been worse - it didn't match the horror of Alsina Graells' Sevilla to Murcia extravaganza, stopping at every small town en route - but it was Not Fun with capital letters nonetheless. Number two would be to invest in some sort of joint protection. I caught the edge of the board a couple of times and sat down (actually, that sounds like I had a choice: I fell) abruptly, which bruised my coccyx. It still aches a little a week later, so a 'tailbone pad' (sounds very dodgy) would be useful equipment if I were to try again, which I might. I looked on the internet and was bamboozled by the sheer range of products in this vein - as a non-sportsman, I had never before been exposed to the variety of things involving foam, lycra and plastic. Originally I thought I would get a set of three hip and tailbone pads, but then I realised they needed a 'girdle' (which didn't look like what I imagined that to be, more like a pair of cycling shorts with pockets) to sit in, and I think that might be a bit extreme for me... Likewise the dedicated ski/snowboard protector shorts things, which are ideal but cost more money than I want to spend, having been on a piste twice in my life. The compromise option might be a mouldable piece of foam used by figure skaters, which you tuck into thermalwear and which cushions you if (or when, for me) you fall. It looks remarkably low-tech but perhaps it's just what I need.

There was also an excellent onsen (natural hot spring), which had both an inside bath and, excitingly, a really nice outdoor one. There are few things better than soaking aching limbs in a very hot bath while it's freezing cold outside. I think the topic of onsens and Japanese bathing is worthy of more expansive explanation, but that will have to wait for another post...

Comedy van

I couldn't resist taking a picture of this... do you think Nick Griffin was inside?!

A day at the sumo

I am waiting for the slowest bath in the world ever to fill up and thought this would be a golden opportunity to tell you all about sumo wrestling... obviously my bathing needs come first, but I hope you're pleased to learn that the blog came a very close second.

Sumo was amazing, as you might expect. In classic Japanese expectation-dampening-style, we were warned that the seats we had booked were 'rather far away from the ring' and that we 'might wish to use field glasses'. This had me conjuring up visions of trench warfare and overfed military commanders peering through lenses at their men bayonetting the enemy several kilometres away, over the brow of a hill... but when we got there, we could see perfectly well. The only time you might need the binoculars was if you wanted to have a closer look at the referee's robe - this sounds unlikely but there was one section in which the referee appeared to be wearing leopard-print, which obviously merited closer inspection. Disappointingly, it turned out to be an ornate bird motif, not the aforementioned animal print. Overall the winning costume (we had an ongoing competition for the best-dressed referee) came near the start, and was a shiny gold robe with blue detailing. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a gangsta rap video.

A whole paragraph and I haven't even mentioned the wrestlers yet. They were generally mega-huge by Japanese standards, and most of them were pretty hefty by Western measures too. Just before I came in, there was apparently a bout between a quite small guy and a morbidly obese man, in which the smaller wrestler managed to bury his entire head inside the flab of the other wrestler. The crowd went wild, even more so when the small man managed to use his head to thrust the fatso out the ring. You can't help but get caught up with the feeling of the crowd - the wrestlers egg people on with the ritual throwing of salt into the ring (the prelude to a match, often done several times to psych out the opponent) and occasional strong-man gestures to the audience which transcended language. In that respect it was weirdly similar to World's Strongest Man or, dare I say it, Gladiators. The atmosphere generally was great - people really got into the fights, especially when there was an obvious disparity between the wrestlers or when a favourite was up. At one point the reigning champion was beaten by an underdog, and people threw their seat cushions into the ring in appreciation. The nearest seats to the ring, which I'm sure cost an arm and a leg, are at foot level only a metre or so from the boundary rope. I would fear for my life if I sat there, as the risk of being asphyxiated by sumo flab is not insubstantial.

Possibly the highlight of the day - though that's definitely the wrong word to use here - was the light entertainment between the two divisions of the tournament, when kids aged 7-10 from Tokyo International School came on to tackle a professional wrestler. There were tons of these kids, most of whom seemed to be cherubic and blond, who took on the professional three at a time. He could send them scuttling with one lethargic swipe, and at one point scooped a boy up by his nappy-thong. The poor boy's legs were flailing as the audience went wild. It was horrific but marvellous entertainment, though I fear it may have come at the cost of significant psychological trauma to these small boys.

An interesting phenomenon of wrestling in recent times has been the emergence of non-Japanese wrestlers. Some of the most successful have been Mongolian, but there were even European wrestlers yesterday: you could guess their genetic heritage by the telltale celluloid on their thighs, something that none of the Japanese wrestlers seemed to have, despite their wobbly bellies. This notwithstanding, I'm thinking that sumo wrestling might be a good career move for me - what do you reckon?

Habits and late-night munch fodder

Hello again.

I mentioned this blog in class today, in the context of identifying something I have made a habit of doing. I felt rather guilty when saying this as my blogposts have to date been less than habitual, but there's something about Japanese classes that coaxes all my tall stories and downright lies out my mouth before I can stop myself. I do try and say truthful things most of the time, but I have been caught out many a time by the need to have an instant answer to questions about all manner of personal details. I evidently need a hobby - but not just any hobby, rather one that is easy to say in Japanese and doesn't sound odd. Cookery does the trick, but can sometimes be stolen by other people who are asked the same question before me, so I need a back-up. I'm tempted to look up 'conducting druid ceremonies' and running with that. I am also expected to be able to name something that each of my parents is good at, an added complication being that the adjective in question ('jouzu') only refers to skills and not to knowledge. So I can't say that Dad is 'jouzu' at JFK assassination research, though he undoubtedly is. Try as I might, I cannot remember the Japanese for DIY beyond the fact that it literally translates into English as 'Sunday carpenter' (rather cute, don't you think?), so his skill has been determined as painting. The leading contender for Mum is obviously cookery, but again, that is often stolen by other people in the class. I am sorely tempted to go with 'embroidery' as an answer from now on - I'll leave it to you readers to decide how true that is.

I ate a weird yet wonderful Japanese delicacy last weekend called 'chawan-mushi'. Think creme caramel, but then get rid of the sugar and replace it with soy sauce. Add some fish flakes, cook and then chill until set, and there you have it. I don't know if I would have gone for this had it not come as a standard accompaniment to an AMAZING sushi selection, but I'm certainly glad to have tried it. Can't quite imagine it taking off in the UK, though...

... unlike the other strange yet delicious product I have tried recently: cheese curry naan. Every bit as good as it sounds. It had stringy mozzarella-style cheese atop a slightly smoky, punchy brown curry masala on top of bouncy, fluffy yet still slightly crispy naan. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but none of us eating this naan could remember seeing anything equivalent in British kebab vans or late-night takeaways. Surely this would be a popular product with drunk people after midnight? It's got everything you need - the double hit of fat, in the form of the butter on the naan and the cheese, portability, plus that spicy edge which I think makes it even better than cheesy chips. It would be dirt cheap to make, and would sell like hot cakes (or hot naans....), no? No-one can steal the idea now, I've put out there as jointly mine.

It may amuse those of you who saw me put off playing games of badminton for several years at KCS to learn that I have just bought two rackets and a shuttlecock. This was primarily motivated by the fact that they cost 65p for the lot, and I just couldn't resist the bargain. I am keen to play in the park somewhere but for the fact that I don't yet have any sensible shoes in which to do so. I need to steel myself to deal with the Japanese shoe-buying experience, which entails knowing how big my feet are in centimetres. I'll venture forth to buy some trainers tomorrow and will report back.

I was looking at my bank statement earlier - and forgot to get my traditional comforting cup of something warming to help brace myself, error - and noticed a pesky direct debit from Carphone Warehouse. I may have cancelled my UK mobile contract but that was with Orange, not the bloodsuckers at the CW, who still managed to get some of my money one last time. Given how much I hate this company - I am more than happy to vent my spleen in detail if anyone has not yet heard my tale of woe and is a glutton for punishment, but I'll restrain myself for now - it gave me more pleasure than anything to do with online banking has in ages to cancel that direct debit and write them a terse little note on their website telling them to get rid of the policy. Never again am I going there.

To end on a happier financial note - I get paid very very soon! It may even have been today but if not it will have arrived, I hope, by Monday. We are already plotting where to go to celebrate the money that will imminently be burning holes in pockets...

Deadly blowfish

Hello hello. Sorry I've been gone so long. One of my New Year's resolutions was to write this more regularly... I guess I'll just have to have a delayed start on that one!

Last week I ate fugu, the potentially lethally poisonous Japanese blowfish, which was rather exciting in a culinary Russian roulette kind of way. The restaurant, in true Japanese style, had a giant plastic model of a blowfish's jaw above the front door, as well as a murky tank full of mean-looking fish in the window. Restaurants here often take the approach of only really serving one kind of cuisine, as that's what everyone will order anyway; while there are plenty of exceptions to that rule, this place only had fuyu on the menu, albeit in lots of guises. We started with some sashimi (raw shreds with pickled radish). Apparently very skilled fugu chefs (who all have to have a special license to serve the fish) leave a smidgeon of poison on the knife they use to cut the fish, as in minute quantities it gives a pleasant buzz to the eating experience. I've heard that, in these cases, your mouth goes numb for a little while and then there's a buzz - worryingly, this is also the first symptom of actual poisoning. I waited for my jaw to lock or something but nothing happened (alas). We then had grilled fish and vegetables - the most exciting thing there was that the heart of the fish (it had been chopped into bits for us) was still beating for a good ten minutes after it was brought to the table. There are few things more disturbing than seeing a fish muscle shudder on a plate in front of you, knowing it is about to be grilled and eaten. It tasted delicious, though, once rigor mortis had set in. There was then a broth-like soup with more fish and vegetables, and finally rice was stirred in to make fish-flavoured congee. The flavour of the fish was peculiar - it had an almost herbal sharpness to it, a little like a mix between basil, juniper and aniseed, but with salty, fishy undertones. It's not my favourite thing ever, but I'm really glad to have tried it and would have it again.

Every so often I notice more of the weird and wonderful things that surround me here. At the end of last term I bought a packet of 'almond fish' - exactly what it says on the label, except they were missing an 'and' - it was a mixture of salted almonds and pungent dried whitebait. There was no hint in the convenience store that this was anything different to the peanuts, pistachios and cashews next to it on the rack. Bizarre. Also spotted in a 'konbini' (convenience store) was a strawberry and cream sandwich, made with white bread and next to the regular tuna salad and ham and cheese options. Finally (for now - I have a feeling this will be a very productive theme to pursue in future posts), there is a small shop - I hesitate even to use the word, it's more a kiosk really, but open to the street, that sells nothing but ukeleles. A man sits on a stool in there, leaving room for one customer, and serenades passers-by with his merchandise. He is incredible. Apparently he sometimes gives lessons if you ask him nicely - I fear my lack of musical talent will stop me from taking him up on that, but I dare say someone else with more musicality could have a go (Will G, Matt, I'm thinking of you in particular...).

Tomorrow I am visiting a high school after my Japanese lessons finish, which should be interesting, and then after that there is the Daiwa New Year party (shinenkai): I will report back on both very soon...