Kimchee, saki and many, many mysterious dishes
Village Yokocho (8 Stuyvesant St, NYC) is a poetic clusterfuck of an eatery. Banging, clanging and crashing. The hot bustling ballet of the wait staff kept a steady flow of food and drink coming. We managed to fit about fifteen people at a table built for ten at most. Ordering food was as easy as pointing to the tapas page of the menu and saying,”Bring all of this.”
Our waitress was amazing. Patient with us even as many bottles of hot saki raised the rowdiness factor. As she brought each mysterious dish, she described every item with a smile. Don’t expect me to remember any of it other than the beef tongue, eel liver and bacon wrapped something. The chicken tail went fast, but nobody ate the straight grilled chicken breast. Probably because they didn’t hear the descriptions and they were just kinda stabbing in the dark. Like me.
My main dish was the spicy stir fried pork with kimchee. It’s strange how closely related the senses of taste and smell work together. Yet, there are two instances for me where their relationship breaks down into bitter deceit. The first is coffee. I grew up in between two major coffee factories. So I love the smell of roasted beans, brewing pot and such–especially early in the morning. The taste however makes me gag. Second is kimchee …
I’ve eaten my fair share of kimchee in my life. My guess is that it was always in larger open spaces. I never realized until tonight just how much this stuff smells like ass. Yet somehow the taste seems completely unrelated to the smell. Thank goodness too because I love this stuff and–despite certain rumors–I do not like things that taste like ass.
Our night ended in typical fashion after a somewhat unimpressive stop at the Cherry Tavern (441 E 6th St, NYC). It’s not a bad place per se. A typical, slightly depressed, dark East Village dive with a drink special called ‘Old Glory’. It’s a shot of well whiskey and a PBR in a can for $4.00. The highlight of my time there was when my friend Karen and I picked a bunch of songs from the impressive jukebox library.
A tiny spec of life was injected as the rest of the guys in the group discovered the nude video match game. Thankfully that didn’t last too long–though it seemed like it did–and we were off to McCann’s (Port Authority Building, NYC). A perfect place to do shots, drink pints, listen to some drunk woman spew on and on about the greatness of Pat Benetar and still make it to my bus on time.
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