Thursday 15 March 2012

踊り海老 - Odori Ebi

Love it or loathe it, raw seafood is a key ingredient in much of Japan's traditional cuisine. I've long had no qualms at all about tucking in to these slippery little morsels of goodness. In fact, in the tired, naive arrogance of the self proclaimed 'seasoned' traveller, I thought myself impervious; unshockable - a veritable eating machine.

I once ate bull's testes, you know. Didn't blink. Cried a little. Crossed my legs all the while. Yada yada.

H's younger sister invited the two of us to dinner one night at a restaurant she had only recently resigned from. A little probing in my best Japanese (read: terrible Japanese) rewarded me with a cryptic non-answer as to why she had left, though she assured me they were on good terms. Encouraged that she had understood my question in the first place, I continued to assail her with a barrage of mediocre grammar and clumsy textbook phrases throughout the night.

And so it was that I sauntered up to the square wooden door set in the wall of the subway down from Nagoya central station. Solid as a rock, prepared for anything.

I paused, blinked. Now, it's my experience that things tend to get larger as you approach them. This door however clung stubbornly to proportions more suited to say, a hobbit, than a human being. I may be on the  tall side even for a westerner, teetering at 6'3", but if I told you this door came higher than my waist, I'd be lying.

Taken aback, I turned in askance to H and mini-H, who stood behind me looking terribly pleased with themselves. They pushed past and casually limboed down, under, through and in. All very well when you're scraping a very Nipponese 5'-nothing! I'd like to say I kept a small shred of my dignity as I contorted the lanky gangliness of my limbs through this entryway, but the raucous laughter that met me on the other side said otherwise.

Not to be discouraged, I shimmied my way to the table beaming my widest Gaijin grin, silently plotting sweet revenge on these twin tricksters. Needless to say, I would not leave with the last laugh that night.

"To the food!" you cry. Patience - first came the Umeshu, plum wine.

Check out those plumptious beauties floating at the bottom.

'Tasty' isn't even the half of it. I'd go so far as to say, 'really tasty'. I'm not going to fumble with any deep and erudite descriptions of this silky-sweet boozy goodness, but if you ever have a chance to try some, jump right at it. It's very much like a dessert wine or fruit liqueur (funnily enough) but with it's own special zing that comes from the unique Ume fruit (plum meets apricot). Too sweet? This particular restaurant also offered a blend of Umeshu and regular grape wine in red or white. Enough said.

Now a lot of the time, Japanese restaurants will offer up a description of each menu item in the easily deciphered Katakana characters. These characters are used for foreign-loan words - take トイレ, lit 'toh-ee-reh'. Yeah, you guessed it - means toilet. Or スケジュール, lit. soo-ke-jyuu-ruh, for 'schedule'. Much in the same way that in the UK, restaurants used to regale in offering up menus written in french, in Japan it's fashionable to write them in Katakana. Imagine my chagrin, then, as I found myself faced instead with a page of altogether more hostile Kanji (chinese) characters. The fuck-you vibe was palpable.

Naturally, I leant back and let the girls take charge. Naturally, this wasn't the week's best decision. After their earlier victory, H and her eager accomplice were determined to milk the evening for all the cheap titters they could get.

They jabbed eagerly at a page of the menu, all smiles, but their eyes glittered with malice. "Odori Ebi!" they exclaimed. Resigned, I shrugged and steeled myself with a generous gulp of wine.

The waiter brought forth an innocuous looking white dish, covered by a small plate which he gingerly set down between us. The girls regarded this with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Jaa, kore wa eigo de nan desu ka?" I prompted. So, what's that called in English? After a quick look at the ceiling for confirmation, H replied:"dancing shrimp".

The plate rattled ominously.

I tentatively removed the cover to find my worst fears confirmed. Two fat Kuruma Shrimps (Japanese Tiger Prawns) squatted in a shallow pool of Sake, feelers wandering drunkenly. Let's call them Samantha and Thomas.

Sensitive readers, go no further.

Under the watchful eyes of H & co, I gripped my balls in one hand, and made a feeble jab at the drunkest looking prawn with the other. Samantha. To our (the prawn and my) surprise and horror, I got her first time. Now fully awake, she twisted to and fro, little legs pedalling manically. I closed my eyes and gripped her head in my other shaking hand, muttered a quick prayer, and pulled.

Murder!

"Fuck this" were the words that most likely went through the surviving crustacean's mind at this point. Time slowed down as I watched Thomas' herculean leap out of the bowl, over the wine glasses, past the menu racks and oh so close to the table's edge. My sluggish reflexes barely saved this delicacy from a final resting place on the restaurant floor. I juggled the desperate fugitive back to the bowl, and unceremoniously dispatched him.

Thoroughly traumatised, I had a long drink before getting to the equally challenging task of taking the remaining shell from the still wriggling corpses before me.

That said, they were so tasty, dipped in a blend of soy sauce and wasabi, that it made the whole macabre episode almost worth it. One small victory - expecting squeals and weeping, my coldblooded ruthlessness stunned the devious duo into silence and reverently muttered 'Sugoi!' (amazing). I'm never usually very modest, but I thought I'd milk that one.

Oh, and if that wasn't bad enough, the chef then whisks away the remains to return a little later with two deep fried prawn heads for our degustation. Charming. Thomas and Samantha reunited, at least.

Finally, I understand why H's sister decided to leave this 8th circle of hell. Night after night of this would take its toll on even the most hardened carnivore. On the upside the waiter, impressed with my mettle, filled my glass to overflowing for the rest of the night.


Predictably, the meal quickly descended into a fog of wine, laughter, more wine and wine. More than that, I cannot tell you. So be warned: always come prepared for the worst. Then prepare all over again, because you're in Japan, and you don't know the half of it!

Thank god there were only two.

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