Toyoko Line Love: Myorenji

We made many failed phonecalls, and stopped by whenever it seemed like a table was empty, all to no avail...

 

But recently we finally managed to reserve a table at Booo, a little Italian/French restaurant in Myorenji that had been tantalizing us for months!

 

It is exceedingly tiny, with only 4-5 tables, and the menu is very creative and well-priced (most dishes are 500 yen), which probably both explain why it is so popular with the neighbourhood crowd.

We settled on appetizers of caponata, wonderfully fresh and laced with sweet raisins, and potato-blue cheese packets, which are unbelievable.

Since Matcha-kun is not a vegetarian, he moved on to a salmon salad (and from the cat-like look of glee on his face, I can assume it was tasty) and I had a plate of salt-roasted seasonal vegetables. The chef uses a lot of heirloom and unusual veggies, like star-shaped zucchini and miniature daikon, all of which were top notch.

Dessert was a fresh cherry clafoutis, something I have not eaten since leaving Paris. A real classic of French home-style cuisine, it paired wonderfully with the last of our tart Zynfandel. The bill was another pleasant surprise, especially considering the level of the food and wine options.

In short: Live near Yokohama? Speak enough Japanese to make reservations? If your answer is yes, GO!

Summer Days

One of the most awesome benefits of my sharehouse: free, fresh cherry tomatoes, still warm from the sun. Truly the most perfect food known to man.

Summer has arrived with its usual sudden slam of heat, leaving those of us stuck at our desks in a state of stupor. We lump around like annoyed cats, trying to keep out of the sun, and spend small fortunes on sunscreen and cold tea.

I used to be fine with the heat, but for some reason this year it is getting to me. Must be that one extra year that has just been tacked on, officially taking me over to 'the dark side' of my twenties. Running the same distances I did with ease two weeks ago, when the breeze was still cool, now seems to take superhuman efforts.

 Thankfully the gorgeous Yokohama summer sunsets work overtime to keep my mind occupied.

Soon it will be matsuri and fireworks time, and Matcha-kun will return from Singapore. Looking forward to both things.

Hydrangeas and the time in between

As Matcha-kun goes off for a two hour professional coaching session, I head towards Shinjukugyoen, one of my favorite places in the whole world, to pass the time and ponder.I love this park in every season, as it encompasses several different worlds in garden form.

 My aim is to find some hydrangeas, my spring/summer obsession (to balance the fall/winter obsession with koyo leaves). As I wander there seem to be so few. Slightly disappointed, I head toward my very favorite part of the park, towards the back.

 Two long lanes, flanked by sky tickling trees (which in the autumn turn the most stunning shades of russet) transport me, without having to deal with the trouble and expense of planes, to Paris' Bois de Boulogne. In the middle is a sprawling collection of roses, reminiscent of yet another beloved spot in London's Regents Park.

And I can't help but smile, when I see the familiar clumps of sunset colours. All of Shinjukugyoen's hydrangeas cluster here, in this place which seems to exist to please my senses. My camera loses power after a couple shots, so my phone has to make due to remind me of this happy coincidence.

But all good things must come to an end. The strains of Auld Lang Syne fill the air, an unobtrusive signal that they are closing for the day. I take off my shoes and take the long route back, through the clean, soft grass. It is nice to tread a little more lightly on the Earth, and a reward for my hard working feet, usually battered by hard concrete and asphalt.

Back to reality, and my date :)

Dating in Japan: Distance

Despite striving towards uniqueness, humanity is divided into basic types. Introverts, extroverts, doers, thinkers... those with a drive to explore the world, and those happiest to stay where they were born and raised.

In my experience, and possibly due to my experiences, I get along best with those who wish to see the world, continue to learn and challenge themselves. This, naturally, means that the people I date fit this profile.

My ex has gotten himself to China, after a great deal of effort, and now Matcha-kun is also seeking to depart the Land of the Rising Sun, to move onto Asia's economic Tiger cubs.

I understand the desire to embrace a new country, and am proud of my friends who work abroad and seek greater fortunes. It is a necessity for the Japanese economy and even society, to go out and bring back wealth and knowledge. His desire to work in English, to submit to the different rules of a different culture, as I do every day, is praiseworthy.

But I am torn. Once again the long distance curse, which is perhaps a genetic trait. Nothing is even decided yet, but I cannot help worrying. 

He knows better than to ask me to come with him, as koto teachers of my ryuha are a rarity outside of Japan. I have moved so many times, and want to experience living in one place for more than 4 years. We both can budget for regular flights, and this is certainly not the end of the world... and yet I occasionally wish that he were more tied to Tokyo, gravitationally bound to my own orbit.

A Sunday of Nostalgia: Bashamichi and Nihon Oodori

Yokohama is still something of a grand dame. Perhaps no longer the celebrated talk of the town, but with sparkle showing that, in her heyday, she was a beauty to be reckoned with.

The long wandering walk from Kannai to Nihon Oodori gives a glimpse into the exciting Meiji and Showa days, when this port brought the world to Japan, and viceversa. The sweeping stone buildings, reminiscent of Paris or London, topped with copper that has gone green with age.

Those born and raised in Yokohama are called Hamakko, children of the port. And even now, when in Tokyo more and more remnants of the past are torn down and replaced with conbini, Yokohama still protects her children and her history.

Stained glass, the scenes very different from those I grew up with in Europe, show in their tints the earliest memories of 'gaikokujin', of terrifyingly large ships and palanquins, overseen by the immortal phoenix.

Eventually, tired from walking and finding all restaurants closed for weddings (alas, the scourge of all port towns), we take refuge in the Cafe' de la Presse on Nihon Oodori. The press is quiet, and the sound of heels on wood parquet brings a hint of nostalgia. A very bistro lunch (main, salad, bread) rejeuvenates us, as we watch an omiai meeting unfolding (successfully, it seems) at a nearby table.

Runner's High

Every once in a while, amidst the usual series of runs that range from the quite good to the downright awful, you get a glimpse of perfection.

One of those rare runs that remind you exactly why you lace up, despite the cold, despite the hour, despite the fact that all you feel like doing is curling up in a futon and getting scantily clad Oguri Shun look-alikes to bring you endless cups of Earl Grey tea (anyone?...oh, just me then).

These experiences sneak up on you. The first 10 minutes may feel unremarkable, if anything a bit on the sluggish side, but suddenly something else takes over. Call it what you will, the runner's high or divine grace, it is unmistakable. Your body takes control, each stride smooth, your breath quiet and regular, your thoughts Zen-like in their passing. Your feet flowing seamlessly, effortlessly, as if you could run forever and never stop, into the purple and pink ombré of the sunset.

12 kilometres, over an hour of constant forward movement, pass in an instant. You are almost afraid to stop, a little sad as the memory chips in your calves guide you back home, because you know this state of endorphin-ridden grace will have to end. And you never know when it will reoccur, no matter how you try to recreate the circumstances to catch it again. I can only imagine that the true, ultimate goal of marathon running is to experience all 42 km in this perfect state.

Through the green, tapir-shaped basin of the Tsurumi river, with the wind cooling my face and Brooks Glycerins armoring my feet, I will continue to chase it.

A Sunday in Motomachi

There are some days which are just radiant with simple perfection, blue skies,laughter and tea punctuating the hours instead of a clock.

Sunday started with a sudden bout of inspiration, leading me to a coffee shop two hours before the start of our date, to write and write and write. Walking past the sunset colours of my favorite hydrangeas, feeling particularly pretty thanks to my fresh, bright nails.

A lunch of sushi, my favorite umeshiso and wasabi root rolls melding across my palate. But lunch is quick, as the main event of the day is next: a walk across several of Motomachi's pocket sized parks with a friend of Matcha-kun's and (more importantly) his corgi.

 It has been far too long since I got to play with abandon with a corgi, and his owner seems thrilled that we get along and Kai obeys me so well. Of course the secret is the little bag of puppy biscuits I brought as a gift. We stop for a drink at a little bar populated with sunburned expats, Kai trying to get a sneaky sip of Guiness, to no avail.

We separate, my new friend tired out from all the excitement. Now in two, we stroll down to Ishikawacho, then the long single backstreet of Motomachi until getting to Mutekiro. The restaurant is, unsurprisingly, closed for a wedding, long swathes of unfortunately cheap looking tulle winding up the iron banisters, a pity on such a lovely Showa building. However the cafe' is open, and we step in for a pre-dinner drink. The Fauchon au lait, a strange but delicious combination of chilled milk and tea liqueur, served in a thick chilled glass, enchants so much that my companion can't help but laugh at my blissed out countenance.

Dinner is also courtesy of one of Matcha-kun's varied acquaintances. We enter Hollywood's basement, all beloved film memorabilia and dark corners. Jekyll and Hyde's food is amazing, particularly the 'secret pumpkin', and I am told the omurice is fabulous as well. I sip a Casablanca champagne cocktail, as a neighborhood cat slinks in to say hello. Perfection.

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