I'm a bit of a marketing geek, so I'm fascinated by the study of consumer behavior. It's a subject I think about a lot as I walk around my neighborhood, which is oversaturated with restaurants. How do people choose? Why did that crowd of salarymen pass up a bunch of izakayas in favor of an identical izakaya? How did the well-dressed couple decide between overpriced French, overpriced Italian and overpriced Korean? How does a tiny sushi shop in a basement on a side street draw customers? Why is Zest still in business?
So how did Teri and I choose Old Vine for happy hour? In this case, it wasn't some intangible combination of ambience, decor, reputation, or any of the other hundreds of factors that drive consumer behavior. We chose Old Vine because it was open. Specifically, it was 5:30 p.m., and most restaurants in this neighborhood are closed from 2 to 6. Old Vine opens at 5. Sometimes choices are made for you.
Old Vine boasts of having one of the most extensive wine lists in Tokyo, but for an after-work drink, we were more intrigued by the 500 yen glasses of champagne. The waiter brought small dishes of salami (about three bites apiece) meant to offset the 500 yen table charge. I can't drink on an empty stomach, so I ordered some bread and a dish of crab, scallops and mushrooms in white wine sauce. (I hate mushrooms, but Teri likes them, so we split the dish oddly.)
I feel too uninformed to write much about this place, because we didn't sample the wine nor the teppanyaki menu, which is somewhat like attempting to review a steakhouse after having a soda and pretzels at the bar. All I can say is, the sparkling wine was good, it was cheap, and Old Vine is a 90-second walk from my apartment. All of these are good things.
http://oldvine.jp/old_vine/
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
#11: Homework's, Feb. 25
I enjoy life in Tokyo for a lot of reasons, ranging from the major, life-altering ones (unlike in D.C., no one has been fatally shot on the street in front of my house) to the extremely minor (wide availability of iced jasmine tea). Another one on the minor end of that scale: minimal chance of encountering American cheese.
I have to explain here that I LOATHE American cheese. Not merely in the way I dislike, say, cauliflower, which I don't eat but don't actively hate. No, my abhorrence of American cheese rises to the level that I can't think about it without feeling queasy. And I simply cannot take the chance that I might eat it by accident. I won't eat any dish that lists "cheese" as an ingredient unless the waitstaff can assure me it's not American. I once sent back an omelette because both cheddar and American were options, and I thought the cheese looked suspiciously shiny. I will not eat it in a box; I will not eat it with a fox.
Most Japanese cooks either feel the same way, or see no need to import slick, oily slices of plasticine "cheese product" when there's already so much good cheese available here. In nearly three years, I'd never come face to face with my culinary nemesis. And so I've let my guard down, ordering food without interrogating waiters and biting into sandwiches without first whipping out a jewelers' glass to examine the cheese for telltale sheen.
I didn't think I needed to exercise such caution at the Hiro-o branch of Homework's, a popular burger and sandwich chain, because American cheese wasn't even on the menu. But one bite into my bacon cheeseburger, I knew the awful truth: this cheddar wasn't cheddar. It was too pale, too slick, too reminiscent of the McDonald's bacon, egg and cheese biscuit I ate for breakfast every single day when I was 19. (My American cheese aversion didn't kick in until age 23, the same day my McDonald's aversion kicked in, both courtesy of a terrible Filet-O-Fish.)
And here we enter the Discourse On The Differences Between American And Japanese Culture.
In America, I would have rejected this burger on the spot. I hate sending food back, and I'd like to think I'm never a bitch about it, but I would have politely explained that the cheese wasn't what I'd ordered and asked for a new burger with a non-orange cheese, partly so there would be no chance of a second mixup and partly because even if cheese #2 WAS cheddar, my brain would nettle me with taunts of "It's American, it looks American" and I wouldn't be able to eat it without gagging.
But in Japan, I just don't feel right doing that. Part of it is the language barrier -- I can order food fine, but I don't speak well enough to engage in a lengthy argument over varieties of cheese. Part of it is that I already feel I'm causing hassle for the staff by my mere presence, with my first-grade-level reading skills and my general ineptitude at understanding spoken Japanese, and I'm loath to cause any more by sending back food.
And there are two bigger factors, that microcosmically represent my entire viewpoint on my life in Japan.
One: I don't want to be that gaijin. I'm grateful to Japan for allowing me to live here, because: they don't have to. America? Has to put up with me. I'm a citizen. I have a God-given birthright to live in America, no matter how horribly or even criminally I behave. (Not that I behave criminally, but I could.) Japan doesn't; they could deport me. Not for sending back a hamburger, obviously. But I feel a responsibility to my adopted home, to fit in as best I can, and to behave like a Japanese citizen, not like an obnoxious American throwing my weight around. It's part of the bargain, you know? You let me live here; I don't get into fistfights in fast-food restaurants.
Two: This is sort of Broken Windows Theory, but: Japan begets Japan-ness. My first time at a movie theater here, I tried a handful of caramel corn and had some leftover kernels, and I was stumped on what to do with them. In the States, I'd have thrown them on the floor along with the spilled sodas and Milk Duds and god knows what else was on the floor. But this theater was sparkling clean; I didn't feel right throwing them on the floor. So I put them in my pocket.
Similarly, service people here are unfailingly polite. They may be saying rude things about me behind my back (or even to my face, I wouldn't know) but -- always nice. I, in turn, am compelled to also be polite.
I was always dismayed, in the States, how quickly so many transactions went to hell. Sometimes it's purely bad customer service, but usually it's a chain reaction of things: the traffic is bad so customer #1 is a jerk so the waitress is upset and then rude to customer #2 who is then annoyed and therefore rude to the barista and so on. It's a roundabout way of saying that in the States, I often feel comfortable being confrontational because the entire transaction has been a confrontation. You ignored me for five minutes and threw my change at me, so I feel entitled to throw a fit about the cheese being wrong. But when I've been offered Ritz-Carlton-level service at a diner, I'd feel like a jerk making a scene over cheese.
So I scraped off the cheese with a fork. The burger wasn't bad. (Again with the tartar sauce.) I'll go back. Non-orange cheese next time.
http://www.homeworks-1.com/
I have to explain here that I LOATHE American cheese. Not merely in the way I dislike, say, cauliflower, which I don't eat but don't actively hate. No, my abhorrence of American cheese rises to the level that I can't think about it without feeling queasy. And I simply cannot take the chance that I might eat it by accident. I won't eat any dish that lists "cheese" as an ingredient unless the waitstaff can assure me it's not American. I once sent back an omelette because both cheddar and American were options, and I thought the cheese looked suspiciously shiny. I will not eat it in a box; I will not eat it with a fox.
Most Japanese cooks either feel the same way, or see no need to import slick, oily slices of plasticine "cheese product" when there's already so much good cheese available here. In nearly three years, I'd never come face to face with my culinary nemesis. And so I've let my guard down, ordering food without interrogating waiters and biting into sandwiches without first whipping out a jewelers' glass to examine the cheese for telltale sheen.
I didn't think I needed to exercise such caution at the Hiro-o branch of Homework's, a popular burger and sandwich chain, because American cheese wasn't even on the menu. But one bite into my bacon cheeseburger, I knew the awful truth: this cheddar wasn't cheddar. It was too pale, too slick, too reminiscent of the McDonald's bacon, egg and cheese biscuit I ate for breakfast every single day when I was 19. (My American cheese aversion didn't kick in until age 23, the same day my McDonald's aversion kicked in, both courtesy of a terrible Filet-O-Fish.)
And here we enter the Discourse On The Differences Between American And Japanese Culture.
In America, I would have rejected this burger on the spot. I hate sending food back, and I'd like to think I'm never a bitch about it, but I would have politely explained that the cheese wasn't what I'd ordered and asked for a new burger with a non-orange cheese, partly so there would be no chance of a second mixup and partly because even if cheese #2 WAS cheddar, my brain would nettle me with taunts of "It's American, it looks American" and I wouldn't be able to eat it without gagging.
But in Japan, I just don't feel right doing that. Part of it is the language barrier -- I can order food fine, but I don't speak well enough to engage in a lengthy argument over varieties of cheese. Part of it is that I already feel I'm causing hassle for the staff by my mere presence, with my first-grade-level reading skills and my general ineptitude at understanding spoken Japanese, and I'm loath to cause any more by sending back food.
And there are two bigger factors, that microcosmically represent my entire viewpoint on my life in Japan.
One: I don't want to be that gaijin. I'm grateful to Japan for allowing me to live here, because: they don't have to. America? Has to put up with me. I'm a citizen. I have a God-given birthright to live in America, no matter how horribly or even criminally I behave. (Not that I behave criminally, but I could.) Japan doesn't; they could deport me. Not for sending back a hamburger, obviously. But I feel a responsibility to my adopted home, to fit in as best I can, and to behave like a Japanese citizen, not like an obnoxious American throwing my weight around. It's part of the bargain, you know? You let me live here; I don't get into fistfights in fast-food restaurants.
Two: This is sort of Broken Windows Theory, but: Japan begets Japan-ness. My first time at a movie theater here, I tried a handful of caramel corn and had some leftover kernels, and I was stumped on what to do with them. In the States, I'd have thrown them on the floor along with the spilled sodas and Milk Duds and god knows what else was on the floor. But this theater was sparkling clean; I didn't feel right throwing them on the floor. So I put them in my pocket.
Similarly, service people here are unfailingly polite. They may be saying rude things about me behind my back (or even to my face, I wouldn't know) but -- always nice. I, in turn, am compelled to also be polite.
I was always dismayed, in the States, how quickly so many transactions went to hell. Sometimes it's purely bad customer service, but usually it's a chain reaction of things: the traffic is bad so customer #1 is a jerk so the waitress is upset and then rude to customer #2 who is then annoyed and therefore rude to the barista and so on. It's a roundabout way of saying that in the States, I often feel comfortable being confrontational because the entire transaction has been a confrontation. You ignored me for five minutes and threw my change at me, so I feel entitled to throw a fit about the cheese being wrong. But when I've been offered Ritz-Carlton-level service at a diner, I'd feel like a jerk making a scene over cheese.
So I scraped off the cheese with a fork. The burger wasn't bad. (Again with the tartar sauce.) I'll go back. Non-orange cheese next time.
http://www.homeworks-1.com/
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
#10: Chinese Cafe 8, Feb. 20
My expectations for Chinese Cafe 8 were high, not only because my friends love it (the food AND the giant gold penis hanging from the ceiling) but because I had to sit through "Avatar" before dinner. By the 120-minute mark, I was starving, and wishing the movie would hurry up and get to the ending we all saw coming so I could eat already.
Adding to my anticipation: the promise of Peking duck. I'd never eaten this, primarily because of the requirement in many stateside restaurants that the dish be ordered in advance. To me, Chinese food is not something you plan to eat; it's a meal of last resort, when the cupboards are bare, the nearest takeout joint requires shirt and shoes for entry, and you just had pizza for lunch. It's what bubbles up from the bottom of a dwindling pool of options.
There's no such requirement at Chinese Cafe 8, a crowded, lively place popular with tourists (thanks to that golden schlong) next to Roppongi Hills. A window between dining room and kitchen displays row after row of ducks on spits, reassuring fellow procrastinators that no matter how last-second our dining decision was, we won't be denied our duck.
We ordered a bottle of apricot wine for the table and what turned out to be way too many appetizers -- salmon dumplings, spicy beef, fried rice, a hot pot. I was already getting full when a chef wheeled the glistening duck to our table, held it up for our drool/approval, then deftly sliced it. He somehow managed to wedge the platter of duck onto our crowded table along with plates of its traditional accompaniments: steamed pancakes; sauces, including hoisin and a honey sauce; vegetable sticks; and crispy chunks of fried wonton.
From my first bite of duck, I regretted the appetizers. Don't get me wrong -- they were fine -- but I wanted to go 20 minutes back in time to when I had an empty stomach, the better to fill it with slice after slice of crisp, juicy duck. This was doubly true when it became apparent that, despite our best efforts, we weren't going to finish it. Wikipedia (which is never wrong, it's on the Internet!) informs me that traditionally, the leftovers are sent home with the diner. But doggy bags are outlawed in Japan, so we had to abandon everything we couldn't cram into our bulging bellies.
Did I mention the duck is only around $40, and can easily feed three or four people? I should. This is a great place to take a group. The staff is used to accommodating large, loud groups of gaijin, the duck is a delectable, filling bargain, the booze is cheap and the sprawling menu has something for just about everyone. Also there's a giant gold penis. I really can't stress that enough.
http://www.chinesecafe8.com/
Adding to my anticipation: the promise of Peking duck. I'd never eaten this, primarily because of the requirement in many stateside restaurants that the dish be ordered in advance. To me, Chinese food is not something you plan to eat; it's a meal of last resort, when the cupboards are bare, the nearest takeout joint requires shirt and shoes for entry, and you just had pizza for lunch. It's what bubbles up from the bottom of a dwindling pool of options.
There's no such requirement at Chinese Cafe 8, a crowded, lively place popular with tourists (thanks to that golden schlong) next to Roppongi Hills. A window between dining room and kitchen displays row after row of ducks on spits, reassuring fellow procrastinators that no matter how last-second our dining decision was, we won't be denied our duck.
We ordered a bottle of apricot wine for the table and what turned out to be way too many appetizers -- salmon dumplings, spicy beef, fried rice, a hot pot. I was already getting full when a chef wheeled the glistening duck to our table, held it up for our drool/approval, then deftly sliced it. He somehow managed to wedge the platter of duck onto our crowded table along with plates of its traditional accompaniments: steamed pancakes; sauces, including hoisin and a honey sauce; vegetable sticks; and crispy chunks of fried wonton.
From my first bite of duck, I regretted the appetizers. Don't get me wrong -- they were fine -- but I wanted to go 20 minutes back in time to when I had an empty stomach, the better to fill it with slice after slice of crisp, juicy duck. This was doubly true when it became apparent that, despite our best efforts, we weren't going to finish it. Wikipedia (which is never wrong, it's on the Internet!) informs me that traditionally, the leftovers are sent home with the diner. But doggy bags are outlawed in Japan, so we had to abandon everything we couldn't cram into our bulging bellies.
Did I mention the duck is only around $40, and can easily feed three or four people? I should. This is a great place to take a group. The staff is used to accommodating large, loud groups of gaijin, the duck is a delectable, filling bargain, the booze is cheap and the sprawling menu has something for just about everyone. Also there's a giant gold penis. I really can't stress that enough.
http://www.chinesecafe8.com/
Thursday, March 04, 2010
#9: Bistro Lyon, Feb. 13
Another busy Saturday, another meal in the Omotesando-eki food court. (I said I was going to try new restaurants, not new locations.)
Bistro Lyon's big business appears to be huge filled crepes, but I wanted a smaller meal. I was just about to order quiche when I saw a sign advertising croque monsieur and changed my order in mid-sentence. (I was sorely disappointed recently to find out that my favorite croque monsieur in Tokyo is no more. Cafe Hana, in Nishi-azabu, is no longer serving food, only drinks and cake. I'm bummed that I'll never again taste that peppery sauce, but Sarah put things in perspective: "They're serving cake? How is that bad news?")
Big mistake. I got the worst excuse for a croque monsieur ever -- about eight bites of sandwich filled with tough, stringy meat that I think might have been pastrami. It definitely wasn't ham, unless it was ham that had been cooked to the texture of leather. The flavorless cheese didn't help to offset the awful meat, either.
It's a good motto for life: when in doubt, order the quiche.
Bistro Lyon's big business appears to be huge filled crepes, but I wanted a smaller meal. I was just about to order quiche when I saw a sign advertising croque monsieur and changed my order in mid-sentence. (I was sorely disappointed recently to find out that my favorite croque monsieur in Tokyo is no more. Cafe Hana, in Nishi-azabu, is no longer serving food, only drinks and cake. I'm bummed that I'll never again taste that peppery sauce, but Sarah put things in perspective: "They're serving cake? How is that bad news?")
Big mistake. I got the worst excuse for a croque monsieur ever -- about eight bites of sandwich filled with tough, stringy meat that I think might have been pastrami. It definitely wasn't ham, unless it was ham that had been cooked to the texture of leather. The flavorless cheese didn't help to offset the awful meat, either.
It's a good motto for life: when in doubt, order the quiche.
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