The Holidays are Always Sunny in Arizona

The holiday cookies of yesteryear, courtesy of Dr. Doux.

Are you guys feeling the spirit?

It seems like everybody is falling to one side of the fence or the other — a dogged, defiant insistence on making this year just as festive if not extra special, versus a kind of tired, listless, let’s just punt, turn it over to the defense and save it for next year kind of resignation. Not a lot of folks inhabiting the middle of the field.

I guess I’m getting kind of a Charlie’s Mom vs. Mac’s Mom vibe here.

Personally, I'd like to say I'm Charlie's Mom, but if I'm being honest, I'm kinda listing towards Mac’s Mom. But hey, there’s time. We’ll see if I can scrounge up a little cheer.

Good food always helps.

Whither the Wafu?

Crossing an item off your wish list is certainly in the spirit of the season.

This particular obsession was born in the early ‘90s — a breeding ground for some of America’s more... dubious culinary creations.

Sure, sure, the distinguished Dr. Ian Malcom was *ostensibly* talking about amusement parks populated with truck-sized resuscitated lizard monsters. But this was 1993, and any thoughtful viewer considering the context of the era would recognize that the film’s obvious subtext was a swipe at the folly of ill-advised fusion cuisine. 

I mean, which would you rather stare down? A pissed off T-Rex, or a plate of Cajun salmon dumplings with mango salsa, hoisin cream and parmesan tuille?

Anyway, in contrast to American culinary shenanigans, as happens so often, Japan had this thing figured out long before we did. And as far as my 16-year-old self was concerned, Itameshi-Ya was the shit.

Itameshi-Ya, to the extent my adolescent memories can be relied upon, was a restaurant concept with two or three locations spread around Los Angeles, and my family stopped in a couple of times while on vacation. It was essentially the Japanese equivalent of Italian-American cuisine — Italian food, adjusted for Japanese palates, served up in trendy L.A. neighborhoods.

I wish my memory of the details were better, but I’d visited Japan a couple of times at that point, and I remember finding Japanese pasta equal parts hilarious and captivating. Where America went heavy, meaty and loaded with garlic, Japan went light, clean and splashed with bright accents.

I trust you’re all appropriately shocked.

Spicy mentaiko spaghetti with mayonnaise at Spajiro in Tokyo.

In any case, I decided that I loved wafu (a term for Japanese-Western fusion), and I about lost my mind when I discovered that the sub-cuisine was making inroads stateside. Itameshi-Ya was a light, nimble, bullseye take on the East-West fusion I’d tried in Tokyo, and it was wish fulfillment stuff for anybody who geeked out on creative, contemporary Japanese food culture.

Of course, this meant that it was about two decades ahead of its time, so when I moved to L.A. just two years later, they’d all shut down. And man, aside from a fix or two while traveling to Japan and the occasional homebrew mentaiko spaghetti, I’ve had to keep that yearning tucked safely in my back pocket for two and a half decades.

Enter Umami Tokyo Curry.

I’ve already written about the namesake specialty, prepared by Nobu Kobayashi, who is grossly overqualified to be running a curry shop out of a Tempe ghost kitchen. And as much as I’m trying to spread the love around rather than revisiting stuff I’ve already covered... I mean... I just couldn’t pass on this. Yeah, you could always get some Japanese-style pasta at Cherryblossom, though they’ve never quite hit the mark for me. And I heartily endorse the wild, over-the-top East-West pastas over at Katsu, but that’s a beast of a similar but far more rambunctious breed.

Kobayashi’s pastas, OTOH, feel *exactly* like the ones I’ve had in Japan. He’s added three wafu pastas to the menu at Umami Tokyo Curry, and I just love ‘em all.

Clockwise from top left: mentaiko spaghetti with spicy pollack roe, chives, nori and garlic chips  |  elbow macaroni with beef, Hakima's special tomato sauce, onions, parmesan cheese and lime  |  Neapolitan spaghetti with Kurobuta sausage, white onion, green bell pepper, chef's special sauce and parmesan cheese

Okay, okay, the naked macaroni gives me hives. But in this case, I’ll allow it. It’s sort of Bolognese-esque, with a non-canonical spicy background hum that I can’t quite identify and a squirt of fresh lime. If you can reprogram your expectations and wrap your head around it, man, it works — sweet and meaty and satisfying, but it plays very light.

There’s also a straight-up classic mentaiko spaghetti, bathed in a light, creamy sauce that’s infused with spicy preserved pollack roe for a layer of rich, seafoody funk that’s brightened up with a touch of citrus and crispy fried garlic chips.

And though it’s a tough call, I’m toying with the notion that the “Neapolitan” is my favorite. It’s spaghetti lightly dressed with an ultrasmooth touch of oily tomato that’s bolstered by the natural sweetness of sauteed onions and peppers (plus a bit of a sugary boost, I suspect) and studded with resilient chunks of kurobuta pork sausages that basically play like upscale hot dogs... and I don’t for a second mean that as a pejorative.

This is casual, fun food. I don’t mean to play it off as a grand culinary achievement. It's just so darn likable. And more than anything, as it is with Kobayashi’s curry, these dishes feel correct to me. I don’t mean that as a value judgement, but simply to say that if you’re somebody who has a soft spot for wafu pasta, this stuff will light up your nostalgia circuits like Clark Griswold’s Christmas display.

See? Cram in a cheap pop culture reference and you can make anything seasonally appropriate!

Every Facebook Food Group Ever

Sorry, guys. Gotta vent this somewhere.

Not sayin' that this stuff has been on my mind a lot lately. Just sayin'.

Hang On, Hush

If I start going ham on all of the restaurants and dining experiences I miss, this will cease to be a newsletter and we’re going to need a hand truck to wheel in the 23-volume set.

But if I rewind just one year and recall some of 2019’s best moments, a disproportionate share of them happened while snuggled into the depths of Hush Public House, next to that banging galley kitchen, a scant few paces from where (other) Dom stands post, thick tatted arms folded across his chest, keeping one eye on the room and the other eye on every dish that flies through the pass.

Let’s just say that a curbside trunk drop doesn’t replicate the experience. I tried playing Stone Temple Pilots on the drive up and Nirvana on the drive back, and still... just not the same. The food, however, is freaking ON.

These early sunsets are really messing with my photography this time of year, but since I’m loath to take this seriously enough to set up a studio, here’s hoping a living room alcove will do.

No wheat was harmed in the making of this pasta.

Natural light rules, but c’mon... that’s pretty, right?

The menu is still mostly old favorites, and I ain’t mad, particularly because that means I can still get my mitts on the hush puppies — steamy and tender, filled with threads of sweet crab and sent for a dunk in a sweet corn sauce.

Dom’s still flexing the butcher skills, and chicken liver pate with boozy cherries is just as smooth and silky as I remember. Though if we’re judging on appearances (spoiler: we aren’t), the country pate is the more instagrammable of the two — skillfully bound and barded, served with some simple pickled veg, grilled bread and a dab of mustard.

Clockwise from left: Sonoran Pasta Co. bucatini with 'nduja cream, crawfish, Parmigiano Reggiano and basil pesto  |  butcher's country pate with house pickles, beer mustard and grilled Noble bread  |  chicken liver mousse with drunken cherries and grilled Noble bread

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve only just now had my first crack at Sonoran Pasta Co.’s wares, and I’m awfully pleased so far. This bucatini’s got bite. It’s a messy little pasta dish, and in this case I mean that as a compliment — butter(?) and cream and a bit of funky ‘nduja spice, littered with sweet crawdad tails and dabbed with a slurpable basil pesto.

The madeira chicken — one of my favorites in-house — travels pretty well, but not as well as the Italian beef, which is still a titanic mound of Chicago-inspired meatery. Good god, it might even be better when the thick slab of brioche has had a little time to hoover up all of that silky thick jus. I’m doing my damndest to limit my late night snacks to leafy greens and crudité these days, but if this were available for curbside pickup at 2:00 AM, I’d be in deep, deep trouble.

'Italian Beef' with braised oxtail, smoked provolone, Chicago-style giardiniera and brioche

The date cake had seized up just a touch, but a quick shot in the microwave set it straight — sultry spice, soft and warm, bathed in that boozy bourbon toffee sauce.

Hang in there, fellas. Believe me, I’ll be visiting as soon as I can.

No Wit, Just Nerves

Sorry, all. Part of what has me feeling so edgy is watching the political landscape and knowing how dire things look for restaurant folks. I know I’ve been banging this drum all year, and I know you’re sick of hearing it, but it’s only getting worse. The finish line is in sight, but a lot of people aren’t going to make it there.