So since everyone else is bragging about what they did on their summer vacation, I thought I should tell you my story. It's a cautionary tale, children. Gather 'round.
My cousin, let's call him Bastard, is raving about this restaurant he discovered. Now, Tokyo is one of the culinary capitals of the world, and I'll be the first to defend our National Heritage, but I didn't come home to eat overpriced food cooked by strangers. I live in Boston, I can do that there. (He doesn't understand this reference, which makes me worry that my Japaneseness is wearing off. Soon my eyes will widen and I'll buy a gun and it's all downhill from there.)
Anyway, after much begging, pleading, and getting on my nerves, Bastard finally convinces me to give up a meal cooked by my mother in favor of this new restaurant he's into. While we're on the train, I ask him what it's called. "Mayokichi," he tells me.
Most of you aren't Japanese, so that may not be properly terrifying to you. So let me translate: Mayonnaise Kitchen. I ask him if I heard him right, and he replies, "Yes! Everything there is mayonnaise! It's great!"
Apparently this place has been around for like, forty years. Without going out of business or killing its customers. You'd think that, when the gods came down from the Heavens, they would have had this on their list of things to do. "Stop the wars, restructure the world, shut down Mayokichi." We live in a cruel and capricious universe.
But I figure, what the hell. I fought ink ninjas barehanded. I've faced down my worst nightmares. I even dated Renee. I could handle a sub-par dining experience. Then I said this out loud, which just goes to show that I deserve exactly what I get: "How bad could it be?"
Ladies and gentlemen:
The Mayogarita.
The moral of the story is that when you decide to give up a home-cooked meal, make sure your bastard cousin is not trying to murder you with gross.
My cousin, let's call him Bastard, is raving about this restaurant he discovered. Now, Tokyo is one of the culinary capitals of the world, and I'll be the first to defend our National Heritage, but I didn't come home to eat overpriced food cooked by strangers. I live in Boston, I can do that there. (He doesn't understand this reference, which makes me worry that my Japaneseness is wearing off. Soon my eyes will widen and I'll buy a gun and it's all downhill from there.)
Anyway, after much begging, pleading, and getting on my nerves, Bastard finally convinces me to give up a meal cooked by my mother in favor of this new restaurant he's into. While we're on the train, I ask him what it's called. "Mayokichi," he tells me.
Most of you aren't Japanese, so that may not be properly terrifying to you. So let me translate: Mayonnaise Kitchen. I ask him if I heard him right, and he replies, "Yes! Everything there is mayonnaise! It's great!"
Apparently this place has been around for like, forty years. Without going out of business or killing its customers. You'd think that, when the gods came down from the Heavens, they would have had this on their list of things to do. "Stop the wars, restructure the world, shut down Mayokichi." We live in a cruel and capricious universe.
But I figure, what the hell. I fought ink ninjas barehanded. I've faced down my worst nightmares. I even dated Renee. I could handle a sub-par dining experience. Then I said this out loud, which just goes to show that I deserve exactly what I get: "How bad could it be?"
Ladies and gentlemen:
The Mayogarita.
The moral of the story is that when you decide to give up a home-cooked meal, make sure your bastard cousin is not trying to murder you with gross.