Category Archives: Food & Beverage

Thursday Crumbs

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Not long ago I had a pork cutlet at a Korean restaurant, done in the katsudon style I’ve encountered in Japanese restaurants and at home. This particular cutlet was remarkably large. So much so that I was inspired to take a picture.

Large, but thin, so it wasn’t overfilling. Overall, quite good.

At an Asian grocery store the other day — Asian grocery stores are endlessly interesting — I saw this on offer.

I have to say I’m intrigued. People believe outdoor markets ought to be part of any visit to non-OECD cities, for that all-important authenticity and to see the locals, but if you really want authenticity, grocery stores are the place to go in any country. Ye shall know them by their grocery stores.

More debris from the Saturday grilling and gabfest.

The caps to the bottles I posted the other day, arranged in the same order.

I had a shandy over the weekend and later, during a moment when I had much else to do, naturally decided to look up the word, the story of which I didn’t know. I know more now, after reading this.

Shandy, a shortening of shandygaff, origin obscure. Now that’s a fine word. If I were a brewer, I’d use it for my shandies. Radler is a good word to know too.

Had a curry doughnut today. I don’t eat that many of them, but when I do I enjoy them.

“In Japanese bakeries of virtually every stripe, you can buy a thing called a curry doughnut,” I wrote once upon a time. “What a discovery that was. No part of it is sweet. Browned by frying on the outside, it’s soft on the inside, and a spicy brown curry resides at its core. An enormous amount of fat, I’m sure, and heartburn later on, but boy they’re good going down.

“My favorite spot for curry doughnuts used to be the Cascade Bakery, near the main promenade of Hanshin Station, Umeda, in the heart of Osaka. Even now, I can get one in Arlington Heights, Illinois, if I’m so inclined. I know at least two Japanese bakeries in that town that sell them. But it’s been a while.”

I’ve been to only two Afghan restaurants that I remember. One was in New York City in 2005. The other was ca. 1987 in Chicago: The Helmand.

Writing in 2005, I said: “I can remember visiting an Afghan restaurant only once before, about 20 years ago, a place on the North Side of Chicago near Belmont Blvd., long gone now. Much later I learned that it was owned by relatives of Mohammed [sic] Karzai. I vaguely remember it being exotically good.”

I have a matchbook from the place even now. Can you get matchbooks at restaurants any more? My experience is you can’t. In New York in March I experienced a brief and very minor moment of excitement when I picked up what I though was a small matchbox advertising a restaurant. Matches! Turned out to contain toothpicks.

Whatever happened to Hamid Karzai? Having managed to survive the Afghan presidency, no small thing, he seems to be living in comfortable semi-retirement after his career in peculation.

Here, Here, Some Beer

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Friends were over on Saturday for meat, beer and conversation on the deck, despite rain that morning. By mid-afternoon, the deck was dry enough to sit around.

We had more meat and conversation than beer, though there were a few empty bottles left over afterward, as there have been before. And before that.

I acquired a “flight” of beers before the event at an area grocery store with a beer cave, and these are three of them. As usual, my beer-buying technique was to look for a variety of states and countries of origin, and interesting labels.

Raging Bitch was the hit among the beer names. Its acid-trip Ralph Steadman artwork was remarked upon as well.

A product of the Flying Dog Brewery in Maryland. Later, I read the marketing blarney on the bottle, attributed to Steadman. It’s pretty good:

“Two inflammatory words, one wild drink. Nectar imprisoned in a bottle. Let it out. It is cruel to keep a wild animal locked up. Uncap it. Release it… stand back!! Wallow in its goldenn glow in a glass beneath a white foaming head. Remember, enjoying a RAGING BITCH, unleashed, untamed, unbridled and in heat is pure GONZO!!”

Gonzo, eh? Maybe if you added peyote, which we did not. Otherwise, it was reportedly  a pleasant brew.

Voodoo Ranger, by New Belgium Brewing of Colorado and North Carolina, had another amusing label.
It didn’t assert its gonzo-ness. The label did say, “Brilliantly balanced for easy drinking, this pale ale is packed with citrus and tropical fruit flavors from eight different hop varieties.”

The center beer, PilsnerUrquell from Plzeň (Pilsen), Czech Republic, had the most conventional label, appealing to a drinker’s sense of tradition. The label said:

“In 1842, the Citizen’s Brewery of Plzeň brewed the world’s first golden pilsner and never stopped. We make it in the same way in the same place, with 100% of our ingridients from the same farming regions in Czech, as always.”

Not pictured is the grapefruit shandy that I tried, which a guest brought. It went down well, but in combo with meat and another bottle of beer, I later had a rare but fortunately fleeting bout of indigestion. I’d say it was worth it, though.

They Might Be Serious About This Burger Thing

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Today I encountered the strangest press release I’ve seen in a long time, and I’ve seen a few odd ones over the years. Normally, press releases purposely avoid eccentricity of any kind. Sometimes there are as dull as can be. But not always. Especially in this case. It starts off:

BURGER, Calif., June 11, 2018 /PRNewswire/ — Today, IHOP® Restaurants announces that it is going by a new name – IHOb. For burgers…

Turns out it’s a temporary “name change.” IHOP wants to add a little oomph to its effort to compete in the crowded field of hamburgers in America.

The change, in fact, celebrates the debut of the brand’s new Ultimate Steakburgers, a line-up of seven mouth-watering, all-natural burgers…. According to a company spokesburger, “These burgers are so burgerin’ good, we re-burgered our name to the International House of Burgers!”

That isn’t even the strange part. The third, fourth and fifth paragraphs of the release are, and I quote exactly as they appear:

Also, burgers burgers burgers. Burgerin’ burgers burgers. Reburgered burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers. Burger burgerings burgers burgers burgers. Burgerin’ burgers burgers. Moreover, burgers burgered burgers burgers. Burgers burgers burgerin’ burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgerin’ burgers.

Furthermore, burgers burgers burgers. Burgerin’ burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgers burgerin’ burgers burgers! Burgers burgers burgers reburgered burgers burgers burgers burgering burgers. Not to mention, burgers burgered burgers burgered. Burgers, burgers, burgerin’ burgers and burger burgers.

Lastly, burgers burgers #burgers. Reburgered burgers burgers burgered burgers burgered burger burgers. Burgers burgers burgers?

I Got Great Entertainment Value From My DoDeCaHORN in Early ’90s Japan

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In early 1992, a curious-minded friend asked me in a letter about the cost of living in Japan. At the time the oft-used example, probably by lazy journalists, was the $10 cup of coffee (shocking in a pre-Starbucks-everywhere context, I guess). I’m sure you would have been able to find such a brew at upscale hotels in Tokyo, but it wasn’t part of my experience.

So I wrote him the following.

March 1992

Japan is justly famous for its high cost of living. But one can adapt, especially as a single person, though you never really grow fond of the system, the basis of which is to squeeze consumers as much as possible. Luckily, I’m no more a typical consumer in Japan than I was in the United States. Remarkably, my personal cost of living is roughly the same in absolute (dollar) terms, and a little less in terms of percentage of income, than in Chicago.

That might seem strange, but there are several factors to consider. Japanese income tax is a flat 10%, sales tax on everything is 3%, so neither of those is especially onerous. I have no car, which I believe would be a useless luxury in Japan, and endlessly expensive. For instance, gasoline is about four times as expensive as in the U.S. I buy few articles of clothes here. They’re expensive, but it’s also true that it’s hard to find my size anyway. I’ve supplemented my wardrobe during travels outside Japan, especially in Hong Kong, where clothes are reasonably priced (except I couldn’t find shoes there either). A spare pair of glasses was a deal in Hong Kong, too.

I’ve been slow in acquiring household appliances. Some of them I bought new — a gas cooker, about $100; a Korean-made TV, about $200; a bottom-of-the-line VCR, also about $200; a DoDeCaHORN combination CD player/double cassette deck with AM/FM band, again about $200. I’m highly satisfied with the quality of these goods, as you might expect from Japanese (and Korean) electronics.

Other items I’ve bought recently have been from departing foreigners in sayonara sales. Recently I acquired a table, microwave oven, book shelf, a number of books and other things that way, cheap. I’ve found a few things in the street for free. My Osaka Gas Fan Heater 2200 is an example, which I found the first summer I was here, before I needed it, abandoned by its owner. Such finds are called gomi, or so-dai-gomi if the items are large.

Food is a major expense. Some things are insanely expensive, such as bread, at $1.50 for four or five measly slices, or $4 or $5 for a glob of raw hamburger American stores wouldn’t package that small, or liters of milk that cost as much as a gallon in the U.S. You might think those aren’t typical Japanese foods, but they are now. Consumption of “Western foods” is so commonplace that the distinction makes little sense in most cases. Besides, rice and fish aren’t particularly cheap, either.

Properly done, eating out is little more expensive than eating at home, due to high grocery costs. I know a lot these days about (relatively) cheap Japanese eateries, including the location of a score of places that offer meals for $5-$8, most of them filling and excellent nutritionally and gastronomically: noodle soups, chicken and pork cutlet meals, Japanese-style Chinese food, rice dishes, curries and more.

Then there’s the matter of rent. I have a modest place, one-and-a-half rooms, certainly less than I had in Chicago. For it I pay slightly less rent, in dollar terms, and somewhat less as a percentage of income. Except in winter, when gas bills are high, utilities aren’t bad.

One more thing: entertainment. Fun can be dear in this country. Luckily for me, I’m seldom inclined to visit bars, no doubt the greatest black hole for yen around. I do go to an izakaya once a week with friends, but that’s as much cheap restaurant as bar. Video tape rentals are about $4 for new movies, less for others. Movies in the theater run at least $18, but I know a couple of second-run houses for less than half that. Some of the best museums and temples in the country are only a few dollars to get in and, if I really don’t want to spend much for entertainment, I take the subway to some part of town I don’t know well and walk around. That never gets old.

Folderol for March 1

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In the wee first hours of March this year, I woke up to light rain. After I went back to sleep, weird and unsettling dreams came. I don’t know if that was connected with the rain, but I was surprised in the morning to see that a lot of rain fell as I slept, more than I would have thought. Rain that forms large puddles near the back fence.

In Andersonville last weekend, we saw a shop called Cowboys & Astronauts, just off Clark St. I liked the sign advertising the place.
Its web site says: “Cowboys and Astronauts, Chicago’s newest men’s lifestyle and supplies destination, is proud to announce that we have opened our storefront in the heart of Andersonville. We hope that you will swing by and check out our curated blend of apparel, accessories, grooming, travel supplies, home goods, and gifts.”

Curated men’s lifestyle and supplies, eh? I’m resisting the urge to mock that idea. We didn’t go in, so I can’t comment on the goods. But we could see that the store did have a faux space suit on display. I’ll give them that.

Next: eggs. Occasionally, I write on my eggs. Just for grins.

How often do you see a truckload of portable toilets? Of the plastic-molded outdoor cubicle type, loaded and ready go wherever they need to go?

Not often. I think the truck was delivering a few to the park behind the house. Maybe that’s an early sign of spring.

Dim Sum & Banh Mi

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After watching a very short early afternoon parade on Argyle St. in Chicago, the thing to do is cross Broadway and eat dim sum at Furama. The laughing buddhas encourage you to do so when you get there.

Been a while since we’d had any dim sum, not sure how long. I also couldn’t remember the first time I’d ever had it. Not that that matters to anyone, even me, but I did wonder. It might have been at Furama more than 30 years ago, during one of my periodic visits to Chicago before I moved there. I know I was familiar with it by the time I had dim sum with friends in Boston on January 1, 1990.

I read in the Tribune that dim sum out of carts is considered passe these days. “When you go out for dim sum now in Chicago, after your server sets down your first pot of tea, you’ll scan other tables to see fellow diners reach with chopsticks into steamer baskets and small plates, then you’ll notice something missing: the carts,” Louisa Chu wrote last year.

“The iconic steaming silver serving carts were once considered signs of traditional dim sum, the Chinese weekend brunch where families gathered to share food and stories. But the customs and meal itself are changing, locally and globally.”

That’s mildly disappointing. The carts are important to the experience. Luckily, Furama still does it that way, and so we enjoyed the various things you get from dim sum carts: ha gow, siu mai, cheong fun, lo mai gai, und so weiter. One thing I’ve never acquired a taste for: fried chicken feet, fung zau.

Afterward, we went a block to the north to Ba Le Sandwich Shop to buy takeout Vietnamese food for later consumption. A dragon, maybe to mark the Tet, greeted customers.

Whenever we’re in the neighborhood, we visit Ba Le for banh mi sandwiches or other good things, since everything there is good, and not very expensive. When we lived in the neighborhood, we used to go there too. One spring day in 1998, when we took a very small Lilly on her first picnic in Lincoln Park, we stopped at Ba Le for provisions.

February 1st Miscellanea

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February, bah. A really cold week lies ahead, with some snow. The only good thing is that January is over.

We got a call one recent day at 7:41 a.m., not the best time, but I guess it couldn’t wait. Our machine recorded it, so I can transcribe it here, with a few details changed.

“Please stand by for an informational message from your community. There may be a short delay before the message begins.

(pause)

“This is an important message from the Schleswig-Holstein Police Department. Please be on the lookout for a missing juvenile named W—-. Male, white, five feet tall, approximately 90 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Last seen wearing a purple Washington Huskies sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and black, white and red Nike Air Jordan sneakers. Please call the Schleswig-Holstein Police Department or 911 if you have any information. Thank you.”

At 8:44 a.m., there was another call.

“Please stand by for an informational message from your community. There may be a short delay before the message begins.

(pause)

“This is an important message from the Schleswig-Holstein Police Department. The missing juvenile referenced in the previous message has been located safely. Thank you for your assistance.”

That was a first. Maybe W—- wandered off without telling anyone. It was a relatively warm morning.

Something I happened across in my online wanderings, an incident in New Jersey: “A 16-year-old from Willingboro was arrested by West Windsor Police on Dec. 4 after attempting to steal a car. The theft was thwarted because the car had a stick shift, and the would-be thief only knew how to drive cars with an automatic transmission.”

You’d think the JD — there’s a term to bring back — would have backed away when he saw that the car had a stick, and before police got involved. Then again, JDs aren’t known for their brains.

This falls under the My, How Things Have Change File: Recently I got an email from a grocery store that has my address. The subject line said: ORDER YOUR SUPER BOWL SUSHI PLATTER FOR $29.99.

I’m not holding a Super Bowl party, or going to one, or watching the damn thing at all, but somehow I don’t associate it with sushi. Just me being old. I vaguely remember, about 30 years ago, Mike Royko (maybe) mocking in print the fact that sushi was being sold at some baseball game, probably in California. That seemed strange, I suppose.

Since then, though still associated with Japan, sushi has been fully assimilated into American eating habits. Probably not too many people younger than me would give sushi at a Super Bowl party a second thought.

Ann at 1111

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No store-bought birthday cake this year for Ann, at her request. Her mother made a cheesecake.

It was good cheesecake. We didn’t have a numeral 5 candle. You’d think we would, considering my age, but no. So the numeral 1 stood for a decade, the smaller candles for years. Ann was OK with that arrangement.

I thought of, but forgot to suggest, that the numbers be in base 2, which would be 1111. There’s no reason to use base 10 for birthday candles other than the dead hand of decimal tradition, after all.

This Has Never Happened in January

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According to Accuweather at least, the highs in my part of the suburbs on January 26 and 27, 2018, were 51 F and 50 F respectively. Maybe so, but on Saturday the 27th from about 11 am to 2 pm, the air felt warmer. On my deck it felt warmer, maybe because of its southern exposure.

It felt so warm I decided to cook some sausages on the grill, which usually spends its winters standing idly in the back yard. That’s probably not good for the long-term condition of the grill, but it’s a nuisance to find a spot for it into the garage. Anyway, just after noon on Saturday the grill was smokin’.

It only looks like a dry grass hazard. Because of recent snow meltage — earlier in the week — the ground was damp, even soggy in spots.

Even better, we sat on the deck and ate the sausages for lunch. An al fresco lunch in northern Illinois in January. I don’t even need one hand to count the number of times I’ve done that. I’m not sure I even need more than one finger.

Of course it didn’t last. By Sunday temps were back below freezing, with a dusting of snow. But brevity made the warmth all the more pleasant.

Don’t Forget Dessert!

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We still get newspapers, and newspaper circulars, delivered to our house. For how much longer, I don’t know. I’ve called to cancel a few times over the years, but every time I do the newspaper lowers the cost of the subscription a lot.

The paper still has its interests. Even in the circulars.

Found this a while ago — it was at the bottom of a circular advertising a brand of fast food I never buy. Among all of the choices, it’s third or fourth string. The addition of fried Twinkies isn’t going to change that.

I had a fried Twinkie in its native setting a few years ago, at a street festival in the Midwest. Note to my non-existent hipster readers: that is an authentic experience. It costs more than in an inauthentic, fast-food setting, but you should expect to pay more for authenticity. I should add that it’s one of that class of experiences you can do exactly once and not regret never doing again.