FRI 09 JUL 99

The Big Picture at the Big Udon

I start the morning, the significant part of the morning, that is, by calling Tony to reaffirm my unavailability for relocation. So—that ends that chapter. I’m shuffling about, pen in hand, trying to figure what to write in the next chapter. At least the covers of the book are still open.

When all else fails, go from the momentous to the mundane. If not, it will come to you anyway. So, I go meet with the GCs for the rest of the morning, and return to the further mundaneiety of the commissary at lunch.

I’m gonna miss this food. I’m gonna miss it real bad. I settle for a croissant: as crisp as a marshmallow, as buttery as beach sand, as fluffy as a wet furball. Add to that a salad with shaved this and that and some shave egg in it as well. The egg gets to permanently visit the face of my tray. For an entrée, I have the spaghetti with marinara sauce and bacon. I gargle it all down with a ginger ale.

I get a spot of marinara sauce on my white shirt. I wipe it with my paper napkin. I didn’t realize it, but some of the marinara sauce had spilled over the edge of the bowl. The edge of the napkin had been soaking it up. My wiping had painted a good portion of the front of my shirt with marinara sauce. I feel really good about myself right about now. I may not have a rosy complexion, but my shirt sure does.

I go back to meet some more with the GCs, dyed shirt and all. I cut a really respectable figure. Thank God it’s Friday and I won’t have to hear that laughter for another three days. Maybe.

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The day ends and I head back to the hotel, change my shirt and head out to meet with some others at the Kirin Plaza Building where Shinsaibashi-suji shopping arcade crosses the Dotombori River. I had suggested a Thai restaurant near there. Others had suggested Baskin & Robbins as a meeting place. I thought the Kirin across the street would be more relaxing. Besides, why start dinner with dessert?

I go into the Kirin and ride up to the second floor where their restaurant and bar are located. They tell me that it is booked for a private party. So I take the elevator on up to the sixth floor. I had noticed on the way in that a portion of the ground floor, and floors three through six are a gallery that currently has a sculpture exhibit titled “The Brain of Fern.” The pieces appear to be life-sized figures made from driftwood. I learn that tickets are available on the third floor for ¥500. I stop on the fifth floor for still another peek before heading all the way down. I figure I’ll propose this to the group as an appetizer; as a prelude to an in-depth discussion of the arts; as a counterpoint to the meaning of existence itself.

Meanwhile, as the first one there, I decide to wait it out in the ground floor Cafés Suavor with a beer. As I seat myself at a window table, I notice that there is no window. The entire south wall of the building has been rolled away, making this an outdoor café, separated from the Dotombori River by only two or three meters of planting. A steady cooling breeze blows in from the river. The falls and the fountains mask most of the city sounds. There is perfect people-watching of the multitudes crossing the Dotombori Dori (bridge). Only two other tables are occupied—and it’s past 6:00 PM on a hot Friday evening. This has got to be the perfect place for urban relaxation in Osaka.

Just before I get to my second beer, along come Greg, Susan and Sundeep. Shortly behind them come Andrea, Patrice, and Patrick. After a while we get up. I suggest a tour of the gallery but no one wants to expose themselves to the arts. And here, I thought, creative people were exhibitionists.

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From the Kirin building we head north, cross the street and turn east after one block. About four blocks down, the restaurant is in the middle of the block on the north side. There is an illuminated signboard shared by a number of establishments among which is Indra (06 214-1536). We ride in two loads up to the fourth floor in a tiny elevator that faces the street. We exit into a tight hallway. After turning right, we see a sign for some club named Lucifer. Another door might have said “Mafia,” but I can’t read Japanese.

But there along the corridor, crowded even further by a beer sign, is the entrance to Indra—except that it is closed. Not open until 7:30. One of us knocks on the door, which is answered by Adun, the proprietor. Persuaded by our friendly faces, he opens early, “Just for you.”

We file past a curtained closet, which serves as a playroom for the family’s child. Next to that is a bar all of about five feet long. We turn into the dining room, which has seating for about 24. A 5’x7’ stage faces the entrance into the room. The back wall of the stage is a video projection screen that seems even larger than the stage. Two more giant video screens face each other on the flanking walls. In addition, there are two HDTV monitors, theatrical lights, and an assortment of disco balls.

This has all the hallmarks of offering authentic Thai food.

Andrea takes charge of the menu—a three ring binder circus with pages and pages of color photographs. She makes inquiries with our host, who can speak some English. Andrea, as do most of the group, keeps asking for dishes that they are used to in Los Angeles. Adun has never heard of them. It’s kind of like there ain’t no Chop Suey in China. Adun is pushing the fried fish patties. We keep pushing for things about which he insists: “You can’t eat! Too spicy!”

We start with an appetizer of cashews with fresh chilies. Very spicy, but can eat. Shortly comes a dish with bamboo all slivered up with heaven knows what in a coconut milk sauce with a pungent flavor. Some wonder what the ingredient is. Vegetarian though I am, I know fermented fish sauce when I taste it. Although it is used to season almost all-Thai dishes, LA restaurants do not use it as liberally.

A couple of other dishes of “vegetables” arrive (in deference to moi) in various guises and preparations—one spicy, another not. A small parade of other dishes based around poultry, meat and seafood arrives as well. All are colorful, all seem to appeal.

Seem, that is, because eating is not the main activity in our group. Adun has handed Andrea and Patrice microphones, and left encyclopedic books of song-lists with us. The disco balls are spinning us out of control. The video screens come alive with pulsating life more vibrant than ours as we slouch in our lounge seats. The speakers are pulsing the very atmosphere about us in their booming resonance. Suddenly, my dinner companions, the ones that I wanted to join me in a journey in search of our artistry, our cosmic significance, and our resource value as humans—yes, them—they’ve turned into karaokin’ zombies.

I look around. Maybe I can find some garlic, or a crucifix, or at least a wooden stake and a silver hammer. I don’t need a book on how to speak street Japanese. I need an antidote for the fatal addiction that occurs when American hedonism meets Japanese techno-enabling devices. Don’t believe me? Just try prying one of those super-mini mobile phones from the hands of one of our users. Maybe the antidote is the force-feeding of tofu.

At some point, a group of ladies at an adjacent table (all tables are adjacent to all others in this tiny place) start calling up Thai tunes to sing to. (No, no Tiny Tim tiptoeing through the Thai lips.) The difference in videos is significant. In the ones accompanying American songs, the videos show day-to-day scenes of life in America that have no bearing on the content of the songs. The Thai videos are dramatizations of the emotional turmoil or fulfillment dealt with in each song. The first—which, remember, is addressed to a Japanese audience—attempts to convey a lifestyle or an attitude. There is so much of what we take for granted in our lives that is an incredible luxury elsewhere. The Thai videos seek escape from the realities of their daily life—a life that does not have the glamour of our own. Instead, they turn inwards to ride on feelings, or totally outwards to escape with fantasies.

Eventually we leave. I stop in the toilet. Many toilets now have the Swiss Army Knife seats. This one-holed squatter has but one amenity—a kind of a tea cozy to keep the toilet paper warm. This knitted cover has a little knitted pocket, in which sleeps a little knitted cat. After hearing the kid happily gurgling in his closet cum den, it all seems genuinely touching. I wish them well and hope they will prosper.

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The remnants of our group retire briefly to the Pig & Whistle (06 6213-6911). There is also a branch in the Umeda district, as well as one in Kyoto. This particular tavern is on Suomachi Street, midway between Nagahori-Dori Street (under which is the Crysta Court) and the Dotombori river. It is located not quite one block east of the Shinsaibashi-Suji shopping arcade, on the second floor of a building on the south side of the street.

It’s Friday night and it’s about 10:00 PM. The place is packed—about one third Euro. It’s amazing. Give a guy a Brit accent, and so many people just confuse the rudeness for breeding and intelligence—even the Japanese. Now, Latvians, on the other hand… Nahh—we’ll get into this some other time.

Hey!—but what a place! Music is booming, and people are shouting to be heard over it. And others are shouting to be heard over the shouters next to them. It looks like the self-realizational discussion about art and the meaning of life will have to be postponed yet again. Besides, I’ve just noticed two pints of beer, still ¾ full just sitting there two tables away. The glasses are crying out for someone to take them, to hold them, to give them some meaning, some purpose for being. Some purpose such as being chug-a-lugged. A busboy dashes my dreams as he totes my would-be fellow conversationalists away.

The now vacant tabletop is lacquered and polished. I look more closely at the emptiness that is there. And all I see is my reflection.