Eat!

A Novelist tagged me. Here goes:

Step 1: Add a direct link to your post below the name of the person who tagged you. Include the city/state and country you’re in.

Nicole (Sydney, Australia)
velverse (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
LB (San Giovanni in Marignano, Italy)
Selba (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Olivia (London, England)
ML (Utah, USA)
Lotus (Toronto, Canada)
tanabata (Saitama, Japan)
Andi (Dallas [ish], Texas, United States)
Todd (Louisville, Kentucky, United States)
miss kendra (los angeles, california, u.s.a)
Jiggs Casey (Berkeley, CA, USA! USA! USA!)
Tits McGee (New England, USA)
Kat (Ontario, Canada)
Cheezy (London, England)
tafka PP (Jerusalem, Israel)
Liza ("Northern" Israel)
Beth (Dublin, Ireland)
Raquel (New York, NY, USA)
Minge (Edinburgh, Scotland, UK)

Step 2: List your top five local eateries.

1 Anstruther fish bar.
2 Izzi.
3 Harvey Nichols restaurant.
4 Henderson's.
5 The Witchery.

Step 3: tag five more people.

1 Brett
2 Bitch
3 Alan
4 Conortje
5 China

I thank you.

Edo

The day before my birthday was spent in outragous style, beginning, as ever, with a fabulous breakfast of coffee et des gateaux! Our former haunt having a genuine lack of custard, we were in search of vanilla, eggs and cream. The end of our odyssey was a fabulous wee bakery right near the entrance to Shinjuku station. European style pastries, bread and cakes of so many varieties were available along with pizza slices, croque-monsieur and croque-madame.

Ian loves to indulge in a bit of croque from time to time, so took advantage of this opportunity. No dead pig can ever enter my mouth, but lots of custardy cakes can! Cake after cake, choc-full of custard, fruits, chocolate...! Heaven on a plate and all washed down with a most creamy cappuccino! The Japanese really know how to create good coffee!

I'm sure the staff in the bakery/coffee shop must have been muttering things like, "Fat, greedy pigs!" under their breath, though, to our faces, they were beyond helpful and polite. The other customers, all exclusively Japanese, sat down to beakfast with a small glass of water and a tiny bread roll. Lord above us! The penny's just dropped. Do you think we were in the midst of a POW camp rôle play group?

Before leaving for Japan, I'd actually hoped we could make it to the Tokyo Edo Open Air Architectural Museum. Like walking into the past, apparently, and they even have a sento for visitors' use! Sadly, it was a wee bit out of town, quite a journey away, so we opted for the Edo Tokyo Museum instead. In a way, I'm glad we did.

The museum was like a journey through time and to my relief and amusement, contained very few pots. I hate museums crammed with pots. Pots, pots, pots and more pots. What is the bloody point? Oh, great, in the fifth century BCE, they drank out of this kind of clay pot with squiggly markings on it. Two hundred years later, the markings were square. Really? How interesting.

There were pots in the museum, yes, but were few and far between. Also, many museums, particularly in the west are more a commentary on leaders, whether they be kings, queens, queens, presidents or prime ministers. The Edo Tokyo Museum dedicated itself to old Edo, its people, their way of life and how they've changed from the days the first people pitched a tent to today. Wonderful, fascinating, enlightening. At points, I felt I was unconscious, in a dream-like state, in a trance, part of the fabric of the building. Everything else faded away, melted beneath my feet. I was in a four hundred year old theatre or polishing rice with a stick or rebuilding my home after earthquake and floods or tuning-in my first portable radio.

Everything was laid out before me. From above, from a reproduction bridge, once could see all of time and space. From below, the journey began... While Anne of Denmark was crowned queen of Scotland, Japan was united by Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Edo's story began.

Totally fabulous.

After our tour of the museum, we took lunch in the Japanese restaurant. Any British museum sees tourists as a foolish and captive audience. They're baffled with numbers, prices and currency conversions and are prepared to pay twenty pounds for a plate of greasy chips. Such abuse does not take place in Japan, at least, it's never happened to me. Ian and I enjoyed a most delicious meal of local delights freshly prepared on our giving the order and at a reasonable price, too.

The maître d' was an outlandish mary with a George Michael style beard. I'm sure there was a wee bit of westerner inside him. And hey, if there wasn't, I'm sure he'd take some. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I have a notion, and Alan thought it too, that if Japanese men are able to grow beards, they do so. Some kind of showing off. Peacocks, as my Mother might have said. But really, dear reader, I don't mean to bitch about the man. He was very kind to us, asked if we needed a knife and fork and showed suitable facial expressions of surprise and delight when we turned his offer down and used the chopsticks provided. A battle of language, though, soon ensued. He was very keen to show off his impressive english skills, we were keen to use what little japanese we did know. Our first lesson of the day came, on leaving, when I said to our man, "Oishii!" which is japanese for delicious.

He corrected me, with a wry smile, "Oishii kat-ta des."

Obviously, these are probably very poor attempts at spelling, but the phonetics ring true.

A delightful man, really. We left with him smiling, saying, "Good-bye," and throwing a wink. To be frank, I'm surprised he didn't blow us a kiss. I'm really not being rude or sarcastic, he was such a nice guy. His kiss would have been genuine.

Marys have an uncanny way of recognising one another. Don't ask me how or why, and let's not get into the gaydar debate, but a knowing look reciprocated with something similar is all it seems to take, regardless of language or location.

After lunch and a telephone call, we made our way to Azamino to meet up with our delicious friends, Alan chan and Jun Kun. Arriving slightly early, we popped into Tully's (nothing to do with Susan) for a coffee and, quel surprise, a cake. My fourth or fifth of the day, I think. Fat pig!

Smoking is a popular hobby in Japan! I noted, though, that this seemed to be the first eatery in which I'd been where there was a designated smoking area. Most other places, if not all, were crammed with people smoking wherever they liked. As a reformed smoker, I should object to eating in a blue haze, though I actually don't. I don't mind it at all. Unlike most former smokers, I don't whine on about smoking or comment on how unhealthy it is. I'm not trying to blow my own trumpet, really, I'm not, just making a comment. Why it doesn't bother me, I'm not sure. I wondered if all this passive smoking might make me reach out for a packet of fags, but not once was I tempted, though I will admit to considering it, chiefly when I'm looking for something to do. And asking Junya for a draw on his smoke did flash through my brain, though a feel of the scar on my tongue with my teeth put pay to that.

After clearing my plate and drinking down my cappuccino, Ian and I left and waited for perhaps only thirty seconds to a minute for Alan and Junya to arrive. Perfect timing. Off to the sento we went.

Edit - in checking out some links, I came upon this. It's fabulous. The first thing a sento azamino google search throws up is Alan's Travelpod blog!

A taxi to the sento from the station was all of a fiver. Not a bad price and another arrow in my qiver, more ammunition to contradict the, "But Japan's so expensive..." argument. I'd pay the same price for a taxi ride here in Edinburgh, perhaps more.

A sento, basically, is a public bath house, a place where one will go not to swim, but to wash, in the time-honoured Japanese style with strict rules to follow. One washes with soap and water; either running water or by throwing bucket loads over oneself. After the washing and complete removal of soap, soaking takes place in very hot water and in a variety of forms: bubbles, waterfalls and even an electric current passing through l'eau! Sexes are separated, though I have, from time to time, seen young girls in the male areas with whom I presume to be their Fathers. This may be a big deal in the west and although I was uncomfortable with it, the Japanese have a wildly differing opinion to the naked body. Although the genders are separated, the naked form is not seen as something dirty, nor, I think, a thing of beauty. It's just a naked body. No big deal.

Nudism. Yes, and the ability to dispell yet another myth! Japanese men come in many different shapes and sizes, as do their cocks! We saw average ones, big ones, massive ones and tiny ones! In fact, one was so tiny, it looked like a hole! Yes, Alan and I do admit to taking a closer look from time to time. Strictly for educational purposes, of course!

After the sento, we got dressed and took a drink. My fluid intake must, I'm sure, have replaced the ounce I'd lost while bathing. I plumped for melon cream soda (it was strange) while Alan went down the traditional route with a wee bottle of milk. Milku?

From the sento, we returned to the port area of Yokohama through Sakuragicho station, met up with Alan and Junya's pals, Dan and Masumi - then went off for okonomiyaki! My favourite! Delicious! And, antibiotics all finished, washed down with copious amounts of sake!

Dan and Masumi are husband and wife; a very interesing couple and very funny. I loved chatting to them and hearing Masumi's English accent. "Who farted?" and "Home James, and don't spare the horses!" I actually thought Hyacinth Bucket was in the room!

From the okonomiyaki restaurant, we headed out to the water to watch the fireworks, part of the Perry celebrations. Very impressive. Just like the Edinburgh Hogmanay fireworks, but went on for about forty five minutes instead of the ten to fifteen I'm used to.

The colourful display over, we headed to an izakaya for drinks and nibbles. Sadly, I forgot the playing cards. I was very much looking forward to playing Scabby Queen and Cheat. We've had such fun times in Japan in the past, playing cards and drinking sake. I was really up for a repeat. Alas, ne'er mind, with the outragous company and free-flowing booze, cards were not needed for a good time. I really had the time of my life.

Our journey home was peaceful. Surprisingly few people on the train to Shinjuku. I sat, in quiet meditation, thinking of the day that had been, the day that was to come and wondering what my friends and family might be doing, scattered all over the world. Some sleeping, some going to bed, some just getting up. My birthday was only an hour away, yet at other points on the earth, it was almost a day away. Without going off on a tangent, I would like to say my mind seems, ahem, to have a mind of its own at times. At the most inappropriate times and in the most inappropriate of circumstances, I can sometimes think the most inappropriate things. I began to wonder about the mysteries of time and space, the idea that time does not exist, that it's just an invention by we humans to measure distance between events. I found comfort in that. In my vanity, I realised I wasn't going to be thirty five years old at all in the next hour, and even if I were, somewhere on the earth, I would be thirty four. Perhaps somewhere in the universe, I'd be thirty three. I'd be a time-traveller. If time exists, of course.

Or is thirty five just a number?

Back at the hotel, I took a shower and climed into bed. Indeed, in strictest terms, after looking at the clock, I was thirty five. Though I thought nothing of it and drifted, very rapidly, off to sleep.

Shinjuku

I'm not sure, dear reader, if by insisting on any other carrier than Air France, I shot myself in the foot or made a complete fool of myself. One or the other applies, though which, I'm yet to decide. The vile and disorganised French airline could have taken us to Tokyo and back with a far more streamlined itinerary than Lufthansa, but considering the frogs' past record, I put my foot down. No way was I taking off for France.

On a trip to Paris in the 1990s, Air France lost my luggage, their check-in staff treated me with contempt, a member of their cabin crew spilled hot coffee on my head (yes - my HEAD!) and I found a tissue loaded in snot in the seat pocket infront of me.

Furthermore, I find difficulty in supporting anything with links to a country I often find myself at odds with politically, whether it be the anarchic burning of live British sheep in their ports or the testing of nuclear weapons in the pacific ocean.

Air France might have cleaned up their act in the fifteen years or so since I last used them, but they still fund the machinery of a government which I detest and I wonder if my prospective enjoyment of an eleven hour flight was a worthy sacrifice. Yes, I know, I'm shallow. I am. And if I'd known how awfully Lufthansa were going to be, I'd have willingly funded a French company and the French regime. Clearly, I'm a selfish little cunt with no conscience.

I'm sure my first day in Japan on previous trips was not such a blur as on this last holiday. I felt utterly detached from reality and in some kind of dream-like state. Nightmare-like state, even.

Having left the airport limosine bus, we were greeted at the root of the Shinjuku Park Tower by Park Hyatt staff who whisked our luggage away and escorted us to reception. I felt totally supported, Mothered, even, by the hotel staff. I'm sure, if I'd put one of those trust exercises modern employers' training programmes are so keen on into practice, falling backwards would have resulted in me being caught in the arms of a member of staff.

A lift took us approximately two thirds up the Shinjuku Tower to a coffee lounge with impressive views over the city of Tokyo. From there, we walked, still accompanied by charmingly camp hotel staff to one of four reception desks. En route, I realised I'd left my hat on the bus. My heart sank. After the completion of a registration card, a note of passport numbers and credit card sweep, we were then told, our arrival being so early in the day, that our room was not yet ready, but would be by 13:00.

A brief visit to the locale was, then, in order. Eating in a British train station would be something to be sneered at. But not in Japan. They almost always double up as huge shopping complexes with restaurants and food areas. Eating is always a delight in the land of the rising sun, whether it be Okonomiyaki down a back alley or a banquet in a five star hotel. Our first Japanese meal of 2007 did not disappoint. Almost exclusively vegetarian in the UK, I become a ravenous carnivore in Japan and devour all kinds of delicacies with ardour. Prawn katsu was the order of the day, served with miso soup, barley rice, cabbage salad (it tastes much better than it sounds), Japanese pickles and chilled green tea.

The meal eaten, the time almost one o'clock, we returned to the hotel, window shopping on the way and with the next day and breakfast in mind, keeping an eye out for a bakery/café.

Back to our base... A lady at reception was very sad to learn of the loss of my hat. Her expression was a picture, as if I'd just told her that her Mother had committed hara-kiri. She promised to do her personal best to get my hat back for me after which we were escorted by another member of staff to our room on the forty ninth floor. It was beautiful. The room itself was as large as the entire ground floor area of my home here in Edinburgh, the bathroom as big as the first floor of my house. The beds were beautiful, sumptuous, comfortable and came with the largest and fluffiest pillows. I adore comfort, especially in bed. If the view from the coffee lounge was impressive, a similar vista as seen from room 4909 blew my tiny mind. I spent quite some time looking out onto Tokyo, almost transfixed, hypnotised, before coming to and exploring the bathroom.

I adore Japanese bathroom facilities and was not let down at the Park Hyatt. A walk in shower, huge basin and a bath so deep, the water came up to my waist on standing inside it. Oh, and a telly overhead enabling me to watch BBC World while soaking! A room within the bathroom housed the pinnacle of aquatic entertainment, a Japanese Toto washlet toilet with air-freshener, heated seat, bumwash and warm air dryer! I was sure, the hotel staff being so attentive, that if I'd used the telephone housed directly next to the toilet itself, someone, immediately upon request, would have come to wipe my bottom. But no need! I didn't even have to touch myself, a visit to the crapper being totally automated! Heaven - and something Uncle Harvey would have died for!

A brief lie down on one of the double beds was a mistake. I could feel my eyes rolling back into my head and sleep taking ahold of me. A shower, a change of clothes and a trip back out into Tokyo, specifically the metropolitan government/municipal buildings for the views they afford of the city. Why, with our room on the forty ninth floor of the Shinjuku Tower, we chose to go there, I'm not sure, but I blame our state of fatigue and excitement.

The Japanese idea of security checks is, with their penchant for good manners; being polite and relative lack of terrorist experience considered, still bizarre. Before entering the lift for the top of the municipal buildings, our bags were examined. I say examined, a very zany man in blue uniform and cap gestured to me to open my bag. He took, I'm sure, only for the sake of appearances, the briefest look inside my camera case. He did not wish to see if anything was hidden beneath the camera itself or, indeed, if the camera was actually a camera. The Japanese are either very trusting in these respects or blissfully ignorant. Either way, it's a welcome departure from the suspicious police state I'm used to.

From the municipal buildings, we took a walk around Shinjuku, trying to familiarise ourselves with what would be our home turf for the next few days. On finding a public telephone, we called Alan and Junya's house. Alan was still at work, but Junya was home. Ian confirmed our meeting for the next day. Hungry and tired, we crawled back to the Shinjuku railway station and shopping centre, stopping en route for a photo opportunity on a pedestrian bridge. While snapping the Shinjuku Tower, the bridge began to bounce. Looking for and not finding the jumping elephant, I wondered if I'd just experienced my first earthquake. Subsequently, Alan could find no reports of seismic activity, though I have convinced myself that, for the first time in my life, I felt the earth move under my feet, though the sky did not tumble down, Carole King fans.

Back in the Shinjuku railway station and shopping centre, Phyllis and I indulged in our first sushi meal of the trip, washed down with sake. Our oishii comment was greeted with a surprised smile by restaurant staff.

"Come on, I'm knackered. I want to go to bed," said Minge.

Back at the hotel, I stayed awake long enough to take another shower before climbing into bed at around eight o'clock. Why, I'm not sure, but with Fuck Me Pumps on my mind, I drifted off to sleep within seconds.

The bed seemed to envelop me. So soft. Neither hot nor cold, but warm and verging on ecstasy, I slept through until three or four in the morning. Turning from one side to another, I immediately went back to sleep, relaxed, looking forward to breakfast.

Ah...!

Ah...!!

Ah...!!!

Food

I like food. Look at the size of me. My adoration of all things edible is blatantly obvious.

I say all things, but that's not strictly true. I don't really like eating meat at the best of times and most certainly will not eat offal. As if eating a dead body were bad enough! Many people don't stop there. No. They delve into the body caivty, reach in and grab the poor creature's organs and then proceed to cook and eat them! Oh, for the love of our dear, sweet, Lord Jesus Christ!

In fifteen days, wee Minge will be jetting off with Phyllis to the land of the rising sun. I adore Japan. I do. I love it. It's fabulous on so many levels, as close to visiting another planet as I'm ever likely to get, in this incarnation, at least. However, I have, on previous visits to that most delicious of Asian island nations, had cause for concern.

During a train journey, during 2004, I believe, going from Kyoto to Hiroshima, I opened my bento box to find something which looked not dissimmilar to a grilled mouse. On another occasion, when probing some flesh in a bowl, I heard someone make a, "Miaow!" Not knowing who was making the cat sounds, I was in no position to ask if my meal contained anything feline. On my last visit, while staying in Okinawa, Ray and Susan took us to a sushi restaurant where Ray consumed vast quantities of crab's organs.

I must say, though, that these examples of weird food are not the tip of the iceberg, but the full story of vile cuisine in Japan. For the most part, everything is delicious, beautifully presented and gore-free. Indeed, of the many reasons I have to look forward to returning to Japan, the food is very near the top of my list. In fact, second only to seeing my sexymutha. There are many more weird things one might consume outwith Japan's border.

Menudo, often eaten in Mexico to cure a hangover, is a popular tripe dish. Here, in Scotland, haggis (containing heart, liver and lungs) is widely eaten - and in vast quantities. In Wisconsin, animals' bollocks are deep fried and eaten. I kid you not, dear reader. Forget Kentucky Fried Chicken! Wisconsin Fried Balls, according to aficionados, are very tasty!

ELDERON, Wis. (AP) - Around here, it may be tough to pass up anything deep-fried.

Wisconsinites have deep-fried cheese curds, candy bars and Twinkies. They now have deep-fried livestock testicles, too.

More than 300 people paid US$5 for all-you-can-eat goat, lamb and bull testicles Saturday at the ninth annual Testicle Festival at Mama's Place Bar and Grill in Elderon in central Wisconsin.

"Once you get over the mental (aspect) of what you're eating, it's just like eating any other food, and it tastes good," Buster Hoffman said.

Festival founder Nancy Fenske said the festival grew out of her late husband Roger's birthday party 12 years ago. They decided to have "a nut fry" at Mama's Place after bringing back lamb fries from a trip to Montana.

The event grew every year and now they fry up to 45 kilograms of testicles, she said.

"What else can you do in a small town?" Fenske said.

Butch Joubert, 58, likes the parts sandwiched between bread with tartar sauce. They're not so different from regular meatballs also served at the festival, he said.

"After a few beers, you can't really tell the difference," Joubert said.

Forty five kilos of testicles, indeed! Would make any gay man's eyes water, even Jonah Falcon!

My epicurean fears about Japan pale into insignificance.

In just a little over a fortnight, Minge could be eating in any one of these establishments:

Vampire
Alice
Princess
Prison
or
Ninja

Alan and Junya (his beau), have extended to us an invitation to join them for an all-Nippon meal!

Which one would you choose, my little maid?

Graham

Ian's Father, Graham, had his 79th birthday on Sunday, so a trip to The Borders was in order. Strictly speaking, of course, it was his 80th birthday, since ones first birthday is the day of ones birth, but let's not be pedantic.


Having made a cake and some biscuits, Ian, the dogs and I left our home, heading south, just after lunch. Graham would be out most of the afternoon playing bowls, so we took the opportunity to go for a walk around Dryburgh. The footbridge scares me, dear reader. It swings.


After crossing the bridge, we found The Temple Of The Muses. What an enchanted, romantic and mythical place! I half expected to see fairies dancing in the trees. The only fairies there, sadly, were Ian and I. I took a picture of him posing as a muse, though to whom, I cannot be sure. Click here to see it.


From the temple, by way of a twenty minute walk, the Wallace Statue can be reached. I have been there before, twice or three times, and seen William in all his original glory. Can you imagine my shock and horror, my little maid, on seeing blue and white paint daubed all over his shield by some crazed nationalist?

Pure graffiti. Vandalism.

Only proving the point that colouring in is for children or, at least, those with the mental age of an infant.


The Eildon Hills as seen from the Wallace Statue.


My shock and horror, dear reader, were one thing, my delight at finding a Wallace Statue visitors' book was another!


Ian left an entry on our behalf.


Minge, Meg, Mary and William Wallace.


My dear daughters in the woods below the statue, en route back to the footbridge and car.


Our short walk over, we drove over to St Boswells and to Ian's Father's house. With still an hour to spare until his expected return, we pottered about in the garden stealing plants for ourselves. Well, not stealing, exactly. Graham had said we could help ourselves. It's too much for him and he's soon to ask a neighbour to dig all the herbaceous beds up and lay turf. Taking plants from St Boswells and transplanting them into our own garden has proven to be something of a success and seeing the plants which Dot, Ian's Mother, used to tend is a poignant reminder that life goes on, perhaps in more ways than the human mind can understand.

Graham returned to his house an hour or so later. After receiving his card and gifts, we headed straight out to one of Graham's favourite haunts in Earlston for a bite to eat. He had chicken salad. Ian had prawn salad. I bucked the trend and with gay abandon, indulged in the calorie and fat laden scampi and chips.

I took a photograph of Ian and his Dad. If you want to see it, hen, click here.

We followed the delicious meal with no dessert! I know! Shocking, isn't it...!


Instead, we went back to Graham's place for some of the delicious cake Ian had baked that morning. Beautiful. Light. Scented with vanilla. Filled with home-made raspberry jam.

Mmm-muffin