Authentic Japanese at Village Yokocho

Ok, so perhaps the use of “authentic” isn’t exactly fair because I’ve never actually eaten in Japan, but having watched lots of Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmer tells me that this place is the real deal in New York City.

Yokocho’s entrance is at 8 Stuyvesant Street, between 3rd Avenue & 9th Street, next to St. Mark’s Bookstore. However, its on the second floor and there’s another Japanese restaurant on the ground floor, so make sure you head up the stairs.

Inside feels like what I imagine the Tokyo equivalent to Brooklyn might be. Its filled with hand-drawn flags advertising the food options. Sadly, they are in Japanese and so I could only guess at things based on the accompanying drawing, if there was one.

Additionally, there is an extensive English-language menu with lots of tapas style choices, including a kind of Japanese BBQ skwere called yakitori, fresh salads, soups, noodle dishes and so on, but no sushi, so if that’s what you’re in the mood for, you won’t find it here.

What you will find are unique selections on every page, including on the sake menu – oh and did I mention its affordable?

For starters, we ordered a Junmai Daiginjo sake, a large carafe for $16. This grade of sake is considered high end. A minimum of 50% of the rice must be polished away before fermentation and no additional alcohol can be added. The result is clean, floral and light, without any morning-after side effects.

Then, we ordered lots of little plates of interesting sounding things off the menu, and by pointing to other patron’s plates and saying “one of those, please.” I had octopus salad, steamed green beans with black sesame sauce, and deep-fried squid legs. We also shared a plate of Japanese pickles, a barbecued rice caked filled with pickled plum, dumplings, chicken liver yakitori and quail egg yakitori.

By the time I ordered the quail eggs, I was full and really didn’t need anymore food. However, when something like BBQ eggs is on the menu, and I know that yakitori involves skewering something, I can’t suppress my curiosity. Three perfect little eggs appeared, skewered through the poles and tea-colored. The eggs had been hard-boiled and brushed with the BBQ sauce before grilling and were a blend of custard and chalk mouthfeel; familiar, yet utterly unlike any preparation I could have imagined for the humble egg. Oh, and the skewer cost $3.00.

The only thing that wasn’t stellar were the chicken livers, not because they weren’t good, but they were unadorned. I might have liked a brush of plum sauce or something to cut the minerality with some sweetness.

We ended with mochi ice cream. Mochi is glutenous rice that is pounded out into a gummy circle or square and wrapped around a filling, like red bean or ice cream. We had chocolate and black sesame and they were awesome, except that you had to order two pieces and when the server told us that only the chocolate and black sesame were available (from a list that also included strawberry and green tea) one of us asked if she could only order one, as her second choice was sold out, and she was refused. I found that slightly annoying but perhaps the byproduct of a complex, computerized ordering and inventory system. 

I will certainly be back and am looking forward to being a little more adventurous in my ordering (beef tongue yakitori!) and also dipping in to the adjoining Angel’s Share bar that is known for an extensive list of specialty cocktails, but was to swanky for my jeans and t-shirt of choice.

Can’t Make it to Beijing? How About Chinatown?

Last night, the Gourmand & I had a genuine date night. Our friend was performing the opening night of his Fringe Festival show, and the curtain wouldn’t rise until 9:15pm. This is usually my bedtime. So, we decided to plan a date night, including the show, which was to be held downtown, in New York City, at Pace University’s theater. (Actually, there are two theaters at my alma mater, and with 7 minutes to spare, M realized we were in the wrong audience and we made a mad dash to the other theater that starts with an “S.”)

Shanghai Café
If you’ve never had a soup dumpling, plan on it for dinner tonight. Seriously. Its a food that I’m not sure I’d ever make myself, for fear of third degree burns from any one of the production stages involving blazing hot soup or steam. Here’s how it goes. Shanghai Café is located at 100 Mott Street in Chinatown, NYC, just north of Canal on the west side of the street. I give such detailed directions because I want you to find the place and because Chinatown can be, well, a little overwhelming.

Take the Shanghai Café. Its decour is like a greek diner (pink and purple neon tubes on a mirrored ceiling) meets the kitchen of the grandmother of your foreign exchange student from high school – can’t understand a word she says but everything smells delicious.

For $8, order the Soup Dumplings with Crab and Pork. The soup comes inside the dumpling. The soup dumpling starts life as a paper thin disc of noodle, then gets a crab-and-pork meatball and a large spoonful of soup. The edges come together and twisted, so the dumpling looks like a little beggar’s purse. The chefs steam the dumplings, eight per order, in a bamboo steamer lined with cabbage. To eat them, use your chopsticks to grab them by the gather at the top, and place in the wide, flat-bottomed spoon. Poke a whole in the side of the dumpling to “let the juicy out” into the spoon and slurp it away as it cools and eat the remaining dumpling.

We ordered some other assorted dim sum, none really worth mentioning. When you come here, come for the soup dumplings. 

Chinatown Fair Video Arcade
When I was a kid, the arcade seemed so cool, like the mall: a place I saw on tv and got to visit on the occasional vacation, but did not exist within the grasp of my dirty, rural fingers. So, when last night we had some time to kill before the show, M mentioned that he knew of an arcade in the neighborhood, I was immediately struck with the familiar butterflies of entering a forbidden, cool-kid domain.

Aside from the fact that I now am the age of a chaparone, the arcade has the same thrilling, loud energy of teenage girls and roaches crawling up the walls while the boys compete in Dance Dance Revolution drenched in sweat. There is no natural light passed the front door, and despite the “No Smoking” signs, there is the distinct smell of late-night rule breaking. A round of Ms. Pac-Man and a driving game later, we reemerged onto the city street.

Monsters in the Wood
Brad is my friend. One of our very best friends actually. That aside, I can say with absolute objectivity: go see this show. Well, let me clarify that. Monsters in the Wood is one man telling the story that will make you reconsider whether your family deserves the label “dysfunctional.” (Mine still does.) Its dark, very dark at points, but I like dark. Its honest and raw and emotional and hysterically funny. Near the end, Brad talks about being a pallbearer for his sister murdered in a drug deal gone bad. “In life she came it a 315lbs, and now, that’s all dead weight.”

Go and see this show to confront your mortality and that of your fucked up family. Brad’s already done the hard part and I left feeling ever so slightly more prepared.