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At Home in the Emperor's Coffee Salon
May. 27th, 2003 11:50 amI am sitting in Kotei, loosely translated as "the Emperor's Cafe." From where I sit, I have a partially obscured view of Densha-Dori, the Street Tram Street, the main drag through downtown Kochi. Kotei is located in the area known as Ohashi-dori, the Bridge Street, at the head of Tenjinbashi-dori, the Bridge of Heaven Street, and there is a large red arch shaped quite like a bridge over the entrance to Tenjinbashi-dori.
My food has arrived: a chicken karaage (fried chicken) bento, which comes in a round, two-tiered container. The top tier contains the chicken karaage, a tiny salad of lettuce and cabbage with a sesmae dressing, two foil pockets with a pickled scrambled tofu salad in one and two lightly fried cubes of tofu in the other, and a variety pack of cubes of things good for you: daikon, carrot, egg, and konyakku, a potato gelatin. The second tier contains two plain onigiri (rice balls shaped in wedges) and pickled daikon dyed yellow. To top it off, I have a bowl of miso soup and a cup of ocha.
It is my habit to begin with the miso soup and then nibble the rest in turn. The soup is hot and salty, and contains chopped green onions and nori (seaweed) with a few tiny cubes of tofu. One drinks the soup by slurping it directly from the bowl while using the ohashi (chopsticks) to pick out the various elements.
Ohashi-dori is a busy street during the lunch hour. Crowds of uniformed students make their way from Mos Burger to stationary shop to Mister Donuts and back to school.
Coffee has arrived. The odds of finding a decent cup of decaf are nil here, so I'm back off the caffeine wagon for the length of the trip. The sugar packet that comes with the coffee bears the name; Coffee Salon Kotei, or the Emperor's Coffee Salon. What appears to be a Viennese quartet straight out of Emperor Joseph's time appears in sihouette: harpsichordist, first violin, cello, second violin. These are the quirky touches that pop up everywhere in Japan. The logo, the personalized touch, the attention to detail; even the yan-ki rebel working part-time at the Japanese 7-Eleven analog takes a kind of personal satisfaction from discharging his duties faithfully. But the sentence that should follow that observation belongs more in a rant than a travelogue.
I've been in Japan now for somewhat less than forty-eight hours, and in Kochi less than forty, but I've made good use of the time. On my first night, after being dropped off by Yoko's parents at the apartment where we're staying, I headed out for a drink with my good friend Owen. (Yoko, who suffers jet-lag much more than I, elected to go straight to sleep.) After a few too many beers at an excellent izakaya in the main drinking street, we made our way to the covered shopping arcade. We sat on a street corner and drank canned coffee. ("Bottled (sic) by the Coca Cola Corporation" under the Georgia Coffee label. I cannot understand why they don't sell this domestically and beat Starbucks to the punch.)
My Irish friend, John, happened to walk by, and I got his attention by belting out "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." After we talked and he moved on, a Japanese couple sitting nearby came over to compliment me on my singing voice and to ask if I could teach them the rest of the words. Unfortunately, like many Americans of Irish descent, I only know the refrain. A pleasant change, however, from the "How tall are you?" conversation I'm usually approached with.
The next morning, I had breakfast with Yoko and her mom. Scrambled eggs, spicy noodles with eggplant, a gelatinous miso soup, and a tuna-potato salad. Afterward, my mother-in-law, sweet person that she is, made dandelion coffee for me-- no caffeine, taste of chickory root.
More as I settle in.
My food has arrived: a chicken karaage (fried chicken) bento, which comes in a round, two-tiered container. The top tier contains the chicken karaage, a tiny salad of lettuce and cabbage with a sesmae dressing, two foil pockets with a pickled scrambled tofu salad in one and two lightly fried cubes of tofu in the other, and a variety pack of cubes of things good for you: daikon, carrot, egg, and konyakku, a potato gelatin. The second tier contains two plain onigiri (rice balls shaped in wedges) and pickled daikon dyed yellow. To top it off, I have a bowl of miso soup and a cup of ocha.
It is my habit to begin with the miso soup and then nibble the rest in turn. The soup is hot and salty, and contains chopped green onions and nori (seaweed) with a few tiny cubes of tofu. One drinks the soup by slurping it directly from the bowl while using the ohashi (chopsticks) to pick out the various elements.
Ohashi-dori is a busy street during the lunch hour. Crowds of uniformed students make their way from Mos Burger to stationary shop to Mister Donuts and back to school.
Coffee has arrived. The odds of finding a decent cup of decaf are nil here, so I'm back off the caffeine wagon for the length of the trip. The sugar packet that comes with the coffee bears the name; Coffee Salon Kotei, or the Emperor's Coffee Salon. What appears to be a Viennese quartet straight out of Emperor Joseph's time appears in sihouette: harpsichordist, first violin, cello, second violin. These are the quirky touches that pop up everywhere in Japan. The logo, the personalized touch, the attention to detail; even the yan-ki rebel working part-time at the Japanese 7-Eleven analog takes a kind of personal satisfaction from discharging his duties faithfully. But the sentence that should follow that observation belongs more in a rant than a travelogue.
I've been in Japan now for somewhat less than forty-eight hours, and in Kochi less than forty, but I've made good use of the time. On my first night, after being dropped off by Yoko's parents at the apartment where we're staying, I headed out for a drink with my good friend Owen. (Yoko, who suffers jet-lag much more than I, elected to go straight to sleep.) After a few too many beers at an excellent izakaya in the main drinking street, we made our way to the covered shopping arcade. We sat on a street corner and drank canned coffee. ("Bottled (sic) by the Coca Cola Corporation" under the Georgia Coffee label. I cannot understand why they don't sell this domestically and beat Starbucks to the punch.)
My Irish friend, John, happened to walk by, and I got his attention by belting out "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." After we talked and he moved on, a Japanese couple sitting nearby came over to compliment me on my singing voice and to ask if I could teach them the rest of the words. Unfortunately, like many Americans of Irish descent, I only know the refrain. A pleasant change, however, from the "How tall are you?" conversation I'm usually approached with.
The next morning, I had breakfast with Yoko and her mom. Scrambled eggs, spicy noodles with eggplant, a gelatinous miso soup, and a tuna-potato salad. Afterward, my mother-in-law, sweet person that she is, made dandelion coffee for me-- no caffeine, taste of chickory root.
More as I settle in.
