January 16th, 2004
107425444480330011
It’s Hana-kin, damn it!
In Japan, in theory, Friday night is a special time, much like in most parts of the world. Everyone supposedly leaves work early to go drink. So in my case, instead of going home to a convenience store smorgasborg for Next Gen at 11, I liberate myself at 9:30 for dinner at one of three favorite restaurants: Pasta Diece, Tanne, and One’s. However, I didn’t feel like putting up with another hour and a half of lost Windows messages and seg faults, so I snuck out in a random burst of chaos at five after eight. Yeah. Damn the man.
Anyway, tonight Mikiko and I are going to Pasta Diece to welcome a weekend of apartment hunting, computer building, and imbibing. I may just even go to Velfarre tomorrow on this DJ high I put myself into last night.
As I’m sure I’ll be talking about music quite a bit in the next month with all the release parties for Yoji Biomehanika, let me tell you about Pasta Diece.
Here’s a place on just about the only thoroughfare to a border between skyscrapers and shrines. It’s in a hole below a private realtor, contains enough space for three tables and two bar seats, and seems to carry business hours of sometime in the afternoon to 10:00 five times a week. Obviously, this guy doesn’t need the money. It’s usually 60% full (that’s two of three tables), and is staffed by one chef, presumably the owner, and a girl who forgets when you ask for water. However, credit to him, it’s probably the best damn food I’ve had in Japan, period**. The wine is good, the gorgonzola pizza is mouthwatering, and the penne arrabiata will make you want to go out in the street and get hit by a car, just so you end your life in love.
I don’t know how he does it, the waitress doesn’t know how he does it (though I can’t tell if she cares), but somehow he does, and it makes you realize the simple things in life are certainly the best. It’s not even expensive, really. The guy must just enjoy making food a couple times a week. I’d pat the guy on the back, or make him a birdhouse or SOMETHING to let him know how good a job he’s doing, and to keep it up. However, this is Japan, and I’ve never even sensed the guy has the _ability_ to smile, much less take a compliment. So I’ll just keep paying the bills and removing every droplet of sauce from my plate.
**my former girlfriend’s mother does indeed make a fried pork cutlet worth fighting a war for, and may defeat iron chef Italia
