On adulthood and authenticity

My day began at 6:00am as I approached SFO to engage in one of the most trademarked signs of adult activity: the commuter flight. Recently I've been thinking a lot about my own conceptions of adulthood. My twenty fifth birthday is upon me. The quarter century is a landmark; others have said that at twenty five they finally realized that their actions had consequences. So perhaps it's fitting that on the near eve of this significant transition, I attempted to live out a personal dream. Other food writers have covered this topic before. It has been mind opening for many of them: ordering the chef's menu at a reputable Japanese restaurant.

The New Otani is located in Little Tokyo, on a block with very little else (it is possible that the hotel itself makes up the bulk of this neighborhood). I was eating with two co-workers, one of whom was my dining partner a few weeks ago when I had my first taste of Toro. The hotel has a reputation for authenticity and their garden level restaurant Thousand Cranes expressed just that.

I visited Japan as a thirteen year old and it was one of the more memorable trips I've ever taken. I dodged the Aum Shinrikyo subway bombers, had my suitcase rescued from a landslide, and sat on my first self-warming toilet seat. Japan was a land of innovation and possibility. But even more than these quirks was the impression left by its food and its ambiance: elegant and austere.

When I walked into Thousand Cranes I was immediately transported back to my memories of that country. A simple blond wood paneled ceiling reflected amber light around the room in clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a zen-like garden. Shallow pools contained by rolling blue tiles, waterfalls, and magenta bougainvillea. Three private tatami rooms framed the open dining area and were filled with groups of shoeless dinners, legs oragamied around a low table. The dining room was being attended to by older women shuffling about in traditional kimonos. The room was occupied by diners with one identifying characteristic: they were all Japanese and that's all they were speaking.

My romantic vision of how this night of nights would play out involves being lead by the hand to a table and told in a soothing way I would be taken care of. To say the least that's not how it went down. We grappled with the menu and I found myself feeling overwhelmed and homesick in the same way you feel when your tired brain is inundated with the unfamiliar. In its rarity it was refreshing.

Our waitress was distinguished in an elderly way and her English was limited. Each question we asked got an answer that was mostly unintelligible but delivered with such a soft politeness it was forgivable. But it quickly became clear that this was a place where it helped to seem knowledgeable, and not ask questions if it could be helped. When I ordered the tasting menu it was actually a moment of defeat. I didn't feel capable of deciding for myself but also was acutely aware that this was the kind of place that treated non-Japanese as just that. Not to mention that is was Monday and you know what they say about eating sushi on Mondays...

The chef's menu provided eleven dishes in total. And for purposes of length I'm simply going to list them in the order they appeared:
The first tray was brought out with four small dishes. One was a cucumber salad with seaweed, salmon roe, and miso dressing. Resting in that same dish was a rectangle of steamed egg in tri-colored Neapolitan formation: pink, white, and yellow. Another was a custardy square of tofu with a small dab of wasabi in a warm ginger broth. Another one had buttery dayboat scallops with mushrooms. And the last was two single bite teriyaki structures: one with mushroom and chicken and the other with eggplant and chicken. When that tray cleared a small soup bowl filled with a clear clam soup appeared. This was briny and studded with oysters, a clam shell, an enlarged tapioca ball, and sprigs of tender watercress. Following it was sashimi: yellowtail, tuna, and halibut. Then a single two ounce piece of mackerel, flash fried in a splash of soy sauce. Then five single pieces of tempura: asparagus, red pepper, white fish, almond crusted shrimp, and an unidentified colorful cluster which with my best guess I'll offer a blend of white fish, seaweed, mushrooms, and red pepper (but I'll emphasize that that is a guess). When that dish was cleared, four glistening pieces of nagiri arrived, two of halibut and the others of tuna. Lastly another small soup bowl with thin soba noodles, a dark salty broth and sprinkled with dainty light green scallions. The meal ended with green tea ice cream and a single pirouette cookie resting upright in the scoop.

In spite of this being my dream, it wasn't that amazing. The wasabi, although sweeter and grainier than most, didn't seem earth shatteringly fresh. The yellowtail was the hands down stand-out and the cucumber salad was exceptionally interesting. The rest was sort of so-so. Much of it seemed lukewarm, even if it wasn't. We can blame it on a case of Sushi Mondays or that we were stupid white folks, or that the restaurant was having an off-night a theory that is strengthened by what occurred during our meal at a neighboring table....

Across the restaurant idling in a sea of suited business men sat five women spanning three generations. Two were elderly, one was middle aged, and two were probably late twenties. They were an average looking bunch dressed plainly. I hadn't noticed them until I realized that one of them was throwing up into a plastic bag at the table. The Japanese are an understated group and the mere fact that this woman could manage to throw up at the table and not come off as disgusting or offensive was mind boggling. I hate throwing up, I always have. I get upset when other people do it. Vomit has no place anywhere-- let alone in public, let alone in a restaurant, let alone at a table. This woman achieved all three and I continued eating, while watching her. It was a true first. Other people might have guessed that she had food poisoning. Or that she was drunk. Or that she was bulimic. I would wager that none of these were true. I think it was a fluke. And I'll leave it at that.

Needless to say, on the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, I am not prepared to check this experience off the "dreams I have" list. Which perhaps also keeps me from gaining one more notch on the old belt of adulthood. I'm not sure that I'd recommend the place. In spite of the oddness of the experience, it felt real and I really appreciated that. But I want the food to be better and unless I can convey myself as belonging in such an authentic environment, I'm not sure I'll get my wish.