3.22.2004
Nothing but noodles
It was a stay-in-pajamas day, the kind of day where the dreary sky betrays the passage of time. So my brother calls to make a lunch date, and all I can think of is noodles. Hot soup noodles that require slurping, which means splattering warm salty broth on shirt and lunch date. And if you can’t splatter soup on family, on whom can you?
We ambled to Mifune, a noodle shop in Japantown that looks like a lacquered bento box--blood red and black walls, small booth/compartments filled with happy, slurping customers. Regardless of the time of day, Mifune seems packed to the brim, but somehow, there’s always a table waiting. An older waiter, with thick glasses and a slight wobble in his step, led us to a booth by the window, looking out at the many restaurants packed tight in this section of the mall.
Even if you’ve already eaten, it’s impossible not to build up an appetite--for food, entertainment, or simply entertaining food--walking through this cobblestoned section of the Japantown mall in San Francisco. Every restaurant offers a coming attraction of its specialties in perfect plastic molds outside its doors. Sushi boats at Isobune slide by at an alarming clip with salmon roe and tamago treats. Chefs in traditional garb are put on display at Benihana as they pour batter for takoyaki, octopus and savory fried dough on a stick, into heavy round molds. A chestnut vendor entices passers-by, in Japanese and English, to try a nut or two.
Mifune has become a pilgrimage for my friends and I following a long soak at Kabuki Hot Springs, also located near Japantown mall, behind the Kabuki 8 Theater. Unable to keep our chatter to a whisper any longer in the silence-only soak tub, we flee to the restaurant to gab over udon and veritable piles of ahi sashimi, and as much tea as we can swallow in between stories.
The menu at Mifune is straightforward; if you’re arriving for lunch, there are pictures of the specials available--however, the images have no description. It’s good to ask what you're ordering if you can’t recognize the items. Most are soba (cold buckwheat noodles served on a tray with a dipping sauce) or udon (thick flour noodles in a hot broth flavored with bonito flakes and seaweed) with a partner of sashimi or sushi, for a little over $8. Although this might seem steep in a city that offers sandwiches for under $5, it is worth the investment on quality.
Most Asian food aficionados will agree that when it comes to soup, it’s all about the broth. Many noodle joints falter in this pursuit--one can always tell when a new broth batch has been put on to brew, as soups are thin and barely meaty. Mifune has never disappointed in this area; its udon broth is rich and savory, not too salty, and surprisingly, consistent. Noodles are never soggy, and tofu or vegetable additions always fresh and crisp. The sashimi is not super-star quality, but plentiful; in most restaurants, sashimi of this quantity alone would cost more than $10.
We slurped well and leisurely. I ordered vegetable udon, complete with shiitake mushrooms, carrots and green onions, with a side of unagi over rice, broiled fresh-water eel with what my brother called a “first-cousin” of teriyaki sauce on top. The sauce is not as cloying as teriyaki, but sweet with a touch of soy. He ordered kitsune udon, topped with fried bean curd and fish cake, with a mound of ahi sashimi on the side. Graciously, he offered me a slice or two, but before I could make up my mind, the pile had disappeared.
It was a stay-in-pajamas day, the kind of day where the dreary sky betrays the passage of time. So my brother calls to make a lunch date, and all I can think of is noodles. Hot soup noodles that require slurping, which means splattering warm salty broth on shirt and lunch date. And if you can’t splatter soup on family, on whom can you?
We ambled to Mifune, a noodle shop in Japantown that looks like a lacquered bento box--blood red and black walls, small booth/compartments filled with happy, slurping customers. Regardless of the time of day, Mifune seems packed to the brim, but somehow, there’s always a table waiting. An older waiter, with thick glasses and a slight wobble in his step, led us to a booth by the window, looking out at the many restaurants packed tight in this section of the mall.
Even if you’ve already eaten, it’s impossible not to build up an appetite--for food, entertainment, or simply entertaining food--walking through this cobblestoned section of the Japantown mall in San Francisco. Every restaurant offers a coming attraction of its specialties in perfect plastic molds outside its doors. Sushi boats at Isobune slide by at an alarming clip with salmon roe and tamago treats. Chefs in traditional garb are put on display at Benihana as they pour batter for takoyaki, octopus and savory fried dough on a stick, into heavy round molds. A chestnut vendor entices passers-by, in Japanese and English, to try a nut or two.
Mifune has become a pilgrimage for my friends and I following a long soak at Kabuki Hot Springs, also located near Japantown mall, behind the Kabuki 8 Theater. Unable to keep our chatter to a whisper any longer in the silence-only soak tub, we flee to the restaurant to gab over udon and veritable piles of ahi sashimi, and as much tea as we can swallow in between stories.
The menu at Mifune is straightforward; if you’re arriving for lunch, there are pictures of the specials available--however, the images have no description. It’s good to ask what you're ordering if you can’t recognize the items. Most are soba (cold buckwheat noodles served on a tray with a dipping sauce) or udon (thick flour noodles in a hot broth flavored with bonito flakes and seaweed) with a partner of sashimi or sushi, for a little over $8. Although this might seem steep in a city that offers sandwiches for under $5, it is worth the investment on quality.
Most Asian food aficionados will agree that when it comes to soup, it’s all about the broth. Many noodle joints falter in this pursuit--one can always tell when a new broth batch has been put on to brew, as soups are thin and barely meaty. Mifune has never disappointed in this area; its udon broth is rich and savory, not too salty, and surprisingly, consistent. Noodles are never soggy, and tofu or vegetable additions always fresh and crisp. The sashimi is not super-star quality, but plentiful; in most restaurants, sashimi of this quantity alone would cost more than $10.
We slurped well and leisurely. I ordered vegetable udon, complete with shiitake mushrooms, carrots and green onions, with a side of unagi over rice, broiled fresh-water eel with what my brother called a “first-cousin” of teriyaki sauce on top. The sauce is not as cloying as teriyaki, but sweet with a touch of soy. He ordered kitsune udon, topped with fried bean curd and fish cake, with a mound of ahi sashimi on the side. Graciously, he offered me a slice or two, but before I could make up my mind, the pile had disappeared.
3.03.2004
At the Golden Dragon
LOS ANGELES--I spent Monday morning looking for a new colony of artists’ galleries amid trinket shops and travel agencies on wide streets that border what Angelenos call their Chinatown. The main thoroughfares cater to pedestrian tourists who while ambling gawk at garish yellow and orange lanterns, ceramic dragons, Oriental kitsch. Disneyland knows no borders.
It was 10 a.m. and dim sum time, according to the screaming sign on one restaurant on Hill Street called The Golden Dragon. Small gaggles of Chinese women, older and slightly stooping, huddled outside the entrance to shelter from the wind and occasional rain sprinkle. Two elderly men negotiated newspaper umbrellas as a third spit and walked resolutely inside. Rainy day dim sum is one of my favorite treats, so I scooted in the large tiled entryway and headed for the door.
Local dives are an elusive lot. It’s not often apparent to strangers what exactly it is about a place that has neighbors returning, day in and day out. Perhaps it’s the hostess, who at this early hour is wearing a hot pink shirt that gathers tightly at her cleavage, and pads around in patent leather boots. Perhaps it’s the gust of hot air that caresses patrons as they enter the main dining room crammed with dozens of tables, covered in yellow tablecloths, as cheery as a spring flower bed. Maybe it’s the subtle, elusive charm of the dim sum cart ladies, wrapped in black aprons, hair greasy and falling in eyes as they hawk their wares with mute gestures and the occasional staccato grunt.
At the Golden Dragon, however, it’s definitely not the food. Most Southern Californian restaurants are subject to a rating system by their respective Departments of Health. The sanitation police rate each establishment like a term paper: with either an A, B or C. Any lower and your doors are padlocked until you get that body out of the dish washing system and tell the roaches to find a new motel.
I’ve never seen any restaurant with a rating lower than an A. The Golden Dragon, however, had a C, displayed quite proudly on its greasy glass front doors, right next to its hours of operation. Apparently the Golden Dragon never closes, and, it never cleans. Oddly enough, this didn’t deter me. The old adage always has its place with local dives: Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. At least for me, if I did keel over at least I would with a full stomach. I do have priorities.
I was whisked into the dining room by the lady in pink and showed a table at the perimeter, but along an aisle so I could flag down the bored dim sum cart ladies without much difficulty. Much to my dismay, a tourist family from some pasty Midwestern state was almost immediately seated directly across from my table. One started playing percussion with his chopsticks. I sighed audibly, and clanked the top of my teapot.
Right then the lady with the fryer cart started down the aisle, and I flagged her before the Midwestern troupe had a chance to put down their toys. Instant gratification would be mine, and just in time, as three cups of scalding Oolong tea had already put my nerves on a jagged caffeinated edge.
The fryer lady had an impressive set-up. A griddle on wheels, her cart gleamed with oil and sweat, no doubt her own. Plexiglas shielded nosy diners from sputtering pot stickers, shrimp noodles or turnip cakes as she turned each over to crisp, bathing each dumpling liberally with oil from a squirt bottle. I asked for shrimp noodles and she put some pot stickers on. Not wanting to insult, I sat there not playing drums with my chopsticks while she idly flipped a few porky pot stickers around her griddle, staring vacantly into the hungry crowd that grew larger and louder.
I received my pot stickers on a plastic plate. They looked injured, beaten, burned unevenly by someone’s errant cigarette. The oil smelled of plastic and soap. I looked at the fryer lady and asked her for shrimp noodles again. She blinked, as if waking up, and stared at me clutching her hot spatula. I sank a bit lower in my seat, contemplating what was worth more: shrimp noodles or a forehead with griddle marks. I opted for the noodles and stood my ground. She sighed and started flipping again.
I got my noodles with a side of peanut grease and hoisin sauce. The fryer lady stormed off in a huff, only to be replaced by the lady with-the-treats-under-glass, which you cannot touch. Most are fried balls of dough, or fried sticks of dough, or just steamed dough. One particularly colorful glass bowl of red and yellow Jell-O sported a paper umbrella that wiggled as the cart wobbled. I was immediately offered egg rolls, an understandably safe offering for a non-Asian patron. I shrugged them off, pleading premature artery clogging. She scooted over to the Midwestern group, who collectively ordered three plates without shame.
A liberal application of chili sauce and soy masked most of the oil from the noodles, and warmed the shrimp dumplings long enough for me to swallow them whole. I did shoot one off the table, its doughy skin turned impenetrable from overcooking. I’m sure the staff will find it later; if they don’t, the Health Department probably will.
A pot of tea later and I had swallowed my fill. Two men next to me had thrown a few silver coins on their table and left; their plates were covered in the aftermath of almond cookies. I had barely noticed them eating as their hands spent most of the time in the air, gesturing story after story. Three ladies sat barking and giggling at another table, nibbling on a plate of sesame balls almost as an afterthought. One middle-aged man with rough hands folded and unfolded a Chinese newspaper, and said hello to every bow-tied waiter that sped by. He didn’t order a single dish, but nursed his cup of hot tea while he read.
I had walked into the neighborhood coffee shop, the gathering spot for early morning risers and grandpas out to stretch their legs, or office women needing a quick break in between typing and filing. Sure the food stunk, but it wasn't the main course; the tea was warm and the conversation deafening. Even though I couldn’t understand a word of the language, it was easy to hear the laughter. Next time, I'll just stick to the drinks, and be sure to bring a friend.
LOS ANGELES--I spent Monday morning looking for a new colony of artists’ galleries amid trinket shops and travel agencies on wide streets that border what Angelenos call their Chinatown. The main thoroughfares cater to pedestrian tourists who while ambling gawk at garish yellow and orange lanterns, ceramic dragons, Oriental kitsch. Disneyland knows no borders.
It was 10 a.m. and dim sum time, according to the screaming sign on one restaurant on Hill Street called The Golden Dragon. Small gaggles of Chinese women, older and slightly stooping, huddled outside the entrance to shelter from the wind and occasional rain sprinkle. Two elderly men negotiated newspaper umbrellas as a third spit and walked resolutely inside. Rainy day dim sum is one of my favorite treats, so I scooted in the large tiled entryway and headed for the door.
Local dives are an elusive lot. It’s not often apparent to strangers what exactly it is about a place that has neighbors returning, day in and day out. Perhaps it’s the hostess, who at this early hour is wearing a hot pink shirt that gathers tightly at her cleavage, and pads around in patent leather boots. Perhaps it’s the gust of hot air that caresses patrons as they enter the main dining room crammed with dozens of tables, covered in yellow tablecloths, as cheery as a spring flower bed. Maybe it’s the subtle, elusive charm of the dim sum cart ladies, wrapped in black aprons, hair greasy and falling in eyes as they hawk their wares with mute gestures and the occasional staccato grunt.
At the Golden Dragon, however, it’s definitely not the food. Most Southern Californian restaurants are subject to a rating system by their respective Departments of Health. The sanitation police rate each establishment like a term paper: with either an A, B or C. Any lower and your doors are padlocked until you get that body out of the dish washing system and tell the roaches to find a new motel.
I’ve never seen any restaurant with a rating lower than an A. The Golden Dragon, however, had a C, displayed quite proudly on its greasy glass front doors, right next to its hours of operation. Apparently the Golden Dragon never closes, and, it never cleans. Oddly enough, this didn’t deter me. The old adage always has its place with local dives: Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. At least for me, if I did keel over at least I would with a full stomach. I do have priorities.
I was whisked into the dining room by the lady in pink and showed a table at the perimeter, but along an aisle so I could flag down the bored dim sum cart ladies without much difficulty. Much to my dismay, a tourist family from some pasty Midwestern state was almost immediately seated directly across from my table. One started playing percussion with his chopsticks. I sighed audibly, and clanked the top of my teapot.
Right then the lady with the fryer cart started down the aisle, and I flagged her before the Midwestern troupe had a chance to put down their toys. Instant gratification would be mine, and just in time, as three cups of scalding Oolong tea had already put my nerves on a jagged caffeinated edge.
The fryer lady had an impressive set-up. A griddle on wheels, her cart gleamed with oil and sweat, no doubt her own. Plexiglas shielded nosy diners from sputtering pot stickers, shrimp noodles or turnip cakes as she turned each over to crisp, bathing each dumpling liberally with oil from a squirt bottle. I asked for shrimp noodles and she put some pot stickers on. Not wanting to insult, I sat there not playing drums with my chopsticks while she idly flipped a few porky pot stickers around her griddle, staring vacantly into the hungry crowd that grew larger and louder.
I received my pot stickers on a plastic plate. They looked injured, beaten, burned unevenly by someone’s errant cigarette. The oil smelled of plastic and soap. I looked at the fryer lady and asked her for shrimp noodles again. She blinked, as if waking up, and stared at me clutching her hot spatula. I sank a bit lower in my seat, contemplating what was worth more: shrimp noodles or a forehead with griddle marks. I opted for the noodles and stood my ground. She sighed and started flipping again.
I got my noodles with a side of peanut grease and hoisin sauce. The fryer lady stormed off in a huff, only to be replaced by the lady with-the-treats-under-glass, which you cannot touch. Most are fried balls of dough, or fried sticks of dough, or just steamed dough. One particularly colorful glass bowl of red and yellow Jell-O sported a paper umbrella that wiggled as the cart wobbled. I was immediately offered egg rolls, an understandably safe offering for a non-Asian patron. I shrugged them off, pleading premature artery clogging. She scooted over to the Midwestern group, who collectively ordered three plates without shame.
A liberal application of chili sauce and soy masked most of the oil from the noodles, and warmed the shrimp dumplings long enough for me to swallow them whole. I did shoot one off the table, its doughy skin turned impenetrable from overcooking. I’m sure the staff will find it later; if they don’t, the Health Department probably will.
A pot of tea later and I had swallowed my fill. Two men next to me had thrown a few silver coins on their table and left; their plates were covered in the aftermath of almond cookies. I had barely noticed them eating as their hands spent most of the time in the air, gesturing story after story. Three ladies sat barking and giggling at another table, nibbling on a plate of sesame balls almost as an afterthought. One middle-aged man with rough hands folded and unfolded a Chinese newspaper, and said hello to every bow-tied waiter that sped by. He didn’t order a single dish, but nursed his cup of hot tea while he read.
I had walked into the neighborhood coffee shop, the gathering spot for early morning risers and grandpas out to stretch their legs, or office women needing a quick break in between typing and filing. Sure the food stunk, but it wasn't the main course; the tea was warm and the conversation deafening. Even though I couldn’t understand a word of the language, it was easy to hear the laughter. Next time, I'll just stick to the drinks, and be sure to bring a friend.
