Okonomiyaki

            Okonomiyaki.  It literally means “anything you like, cooked.”

            There was really only one reason I was excited to go to Atlanta…

“Irasshaimase!  How many?” The hostess greets my friend, Heather, and I.

            I hold up two fingers, “futatsu desu.”

            The hostess nods, gingerly picks up two oversized menus and guides us to a table.

            “What would you like to drink?”  The waitress refuses to speak Japanese with me like she did with all of her Japanese customers.

            “Mizu onegaishimasu.”  I refuse to yield.

            “Water, please.” Heather mimics my order in English.

            “Okay, just one minute.”  The waitress walks off to get us our water.

            “So, what are you getting?”  Heather browses through the menu.

            I don’t even need to look at the options.  I know what I want.  “Okonomiyaki.  I’ve missed it so much.”

            “They have that?”  Heather looks at the menu in awe.  “Oh wait, it has pork in it.  Do you think I could get it without?”

            I shrug.  “Might as well try. They don’t call it okonomiyaki for nothing.”  We both laugh.

            “May I take your order?”  The waitress returns, gracefully setting two glasses of water in front of the two of us.

            “Yes, but I have a quick question.  Um, can I get the okonomiyaki without pork?”

            “Sure, but you know it will be just cabbage then, right?”

            “Yes, that’s fine.”

            “Okonomiyaki onegaishimasu.”  I hand my menu back to the waitress.

            “You want pork, right?”  She tucks the menu under her arm as she writes down my order.

            “Hai, onegaishimasu.”

            The waitress walks off to give our order to the cook.

             About twenty minutes later, she appears with our okonomiyaki.  I can hear the sizzling on the plate as she sets the meal in front of me.  The okonomiyaki is contained in a small griddle inset in a wooden tray.  The flakes of bonito appear to dance about the surface as the steam rises past them, making them curl from the heat.  Sprinkles of green seaweed sit atop the meal, waiting patiently to be mixed deeper into the dish. White lines of Japanese mayonnaise crisscross the dark brown sauce that glazes the round surface of the okonomiyaki.  Small pieces of cabbage poke out from beneath the surface, failing to be held back by the egg and flour mixture…

A crisp breeze tousles my hair as something lightly brushes against my face.  My eyes land on a small, silken cherry blossom lodged in the slightly frayed ends of my hair.  Standing tall behind me is a cherry tree in full bloom, swaying in the breeze.  I turn around to a crowded walkway.  Marveled by my surroundings, I stand up and walk along the sidewalk.  Kyoto is crowded with tourists this time of year.  My heart begins to race as I smell the local ramen shop preparing for the lunch crowd.  The smell of simmering pork broth draws me through the crowded street.  Cream colored noren hang down in front of an open door, the wind blowing them inward, beckoning me to come inside.

            A loud rush distracts me as a Kyoto city bus passes by.  I only ride the bus to get downtown or when I don’t feel like riding my bike to Kyoto Station.  The station is filled with escalators carrying people to and from work, school, and play. As I ride down one of the myriad of moving stairs, I overhear a woman talking on her cell phone.  She’s meeting her boyfriend for a date at a popular restaurant downtown.

“Teriyaki suteeki futatsu onegaishimasu.” I order the teriyaki steak at Sancho for my boyfriend and myself for his short visit in Japan.  Each bite is soaked in homemade teriyaki.  The ginger and soy swirl harmoniously together only to be followed by steaming white rice.  The salad that comes with the meal is covered in an acidic vinaigrette and topped with a creamy thousand island dressing made from scratch.  The restaurant itself is tiny, barely seating twenty people.  When you walk in, coat hooks line the left and a bar with about ten seats serves as a wall to the kitchen.  I love sitting at the bar because I can watch the chefs prepare my food from just a few feet away.  Sometimes I talk to them and ask them questions about the restaurant.  We usually just have simple conversations, but sometimes they tell me how they are cooking my food.  Past Sancho, karaoke bars line Kawaramachi, each one filled to the brim with high school girls looking for something fun to do. 

            Jocelyn can’t sing, but neither can I.  Jocelyn always sings punk rock songs.  Jamila usually sings Korean songs while Raven, Laura, and I pick random nineties and Disney songs to make everyone sing along to.  I prefer Japanese karaoke to American karaoke now.  Japanese karaoke lets my friends and I sing in a room alone.  It wouldn’t be nearly as personal in America.  When we take a break, we call the karaoke attendants from our room. 

            “What’s that?”  I point to a glass filled with a fizzy, bright green liquid.

            “It’s melon soda.”

            The soda glides over my tongue as the bubbles pop and leave a honeydew melody on my taste buds.  Melon soda is my go-to drink.  Sometimes I sneak in a melon soda with the Japanese candies we buy at the convenience store.  I usually buy some random candy that has an interesting picture.  Japanese candy isn’t as sweet as American candy and uses more unique flavors.  These flavors of candies, melon soda, and Japanese karaoke are things that are extremely difficult to find in where I’m from.

As I continue walking, I come closer to Jumbo, an okonomiyaki restaurant.  There is a line out the door, just like the day I went there for the first time.  I can hear the scraping and flipping of the okonomiyaki on the griddle.  My mouth waters as I take in the smells of cooking beef, pork, and squid mixed with yakisoba noodles and nostalgia.

I walk into the restaurant with my friends.  The place is alive with cooks shouting orders, customers talking amongst themselves, and small children running back and forth between the water cooler.  I don’t know what to order, so I let my friends choose.  They have been here before. 

“Hey, Brittany.  Is two okonomiyaki, one beef one pork, and one beef yakisoba good?”

“Yeah.  That sounds good.”  I’m afraid I’m not going to like this okonomiyaki stuff.

I’m not paying attention as my friends order.  Instead, I’m looking around and watching people eat.  I’m brought back from my observations by a big bowl being shoved toward me. 

“What’s this?”  I’m a little confused.

“It’s our okonomiyaki.  Stir it up so we can cook it!”  Jocelyn seems impatient as I begin to stir the contents of the bowl.  When I’m done, a cook takes it from me and pours it on the griddle.  The batter sizzles on the hot surface.  The cook flips the okonomiyaki, revealing a golden surface.  The batter continues to sizzle, occasionally popping out at me.  When the okonomiyaki is fully cooked, the cook brushes on a dark sauce.  He then squirts mayonnaise on top in lines that squiggle across the surface.  As a final touch, he sprinkles on bonito flakes that bend and move in reaction to the heat of the griddle followed by ground up seaweed.  I sit in awe of the food in front of me.  Everyone else urges me to dig in with my chopsticks.  Not being able to keep myself from trying this new concoction, I pick up a piece and place it in my mouth.  The light, fluffy texture of the egg mixed with the finely cut strips of cabbage bounce off my tongue and are stopped by the thick, savory sauce that holds them together.  The Worcestershire flavor in the sauce washes off the bonito flakes that are sticking to the roof of my mouth.  And the seaweed gives the dish a small taste of the ocean.

I look up at Heather.  “I’ve really missed okonomiyaki.”