After an hour-long detour to see cherry blossoms in Mamada yesterday, we went to Tokyo. Both pretty exhausted with a late start and no particular destination in mind, we set our sights on Indian food.
For those of you who don’t know, Indian is my favorite cuisine. French is #2, Mexican #3.
With the help of Bento, a food review website akin to my beloved Menu Pages for NY, Mike found a promising place called Rasoi in Ebisu (read about our previous visit to the area here: Ebisu, Meguro, & Jiyugaoka).Luckily, we had no trouble finding it. Even better, the food was delicious and fantastic and everything I hoped it’d be. I had basmati rice for the first time in four months! We ordered chicken tikka masala, samosas, naan, and chicken biryani, and sweet lassis. The waiter gave us some papadum on the house, and I told him how delicious everything was several times.
I did experience a fleeting moment of culture shock while we were in the restaurant, and it wasn’t because of the Indian gentleman or food. It was the white people. A large group of Americans came in, sat in the back and talked loudly about areas in America and apartments. An Englishman was dining with a Japanese woman across from us, and though they spoke predominantly in nihongo (Japanese language), the man conversed in English with the waitstaff.
It may seem stupid, maybe exaggerated to call it culture shock, but I don’t hear English much in public. I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with being a New Yorker, but I eavesdrop constantly back home. At times I hate it and wish I could tune out everyone’s conversations. That’s exactly what happened in the restaurant. I desperately wanted the table to be quiet so I didn’t have to listen to them talking about middle America.
“Smell good,” said the asshole.
As you can see in the photo further above, Rasoi is located next to the uninspiringly-named The Tavern, a British Pub. We saw swaths of white American tourists coming in and out of the place. And before you say, “how can you tell they’re American without hearing them?” I say to you only this: sneakers, baseball caps, fat, & dye jobs. It’s as simple as that.
My second answer is a bit longer.
While we were quietly enjoying our meal with the yacking Americans in the background, a burly, white-haired fat man in suspenders yanked open the door, poked his stupid, drunken red face in and loudly proclaimed, “smell good.” The waiter stared at him blankly until Tubby went on his way.
First of all, “smell good” isn’t even a sentence. Second of all, WHAT THE FUCK?! As if it’s not bad enough that all these tourists flock to a restaurant full of bland food (Come on, seriously?! You’re in JAPAN! You can’t go a friggin’ week or two, however long your vacation is, without mashed potatoes?), this man went out of his way to be outright rude. What an asshole.