Lebanese Lethargy

So imagine you've booked a farewell function at a Lebanese restaurant near Daikanyama for 20 people. Not so difficult to think through, and surely not something to waste too many brain cells on, right?

Now let me say up front that I love good Lebanese food, and that I'm at my most pleasant at social gatherings. But our recent experience at a well-known place on Komazawa-dori was amongst the worst I've ever had the misfortune to suffer through. The food was poor - I could tell it was fresh dung because it was still warm - and the service worse.

The construction of the party plan menu was reminiscent of a Picasso painting - all the pieces were there but they bore no resemblance to life as we know it and require one to postulate dimensions outside of rational existence. Torn between culinary Cubism and Realism, the cook chose Minimalism so that all were left hungry after the mandatory 120 minutes. Now I know what Purgatory will be like: I will be in a restaurant, there will be the promise of good food, there will be plenty of good company, ... and I will find myself back in this tiresome and paper-mache slice of egotistical nonsense.

I'm thinking that small restaurants don't get bookings for 20 all that often in Tokyo, so the fact that drinks were not included in the price at first, then included, then un-included, and finally re-included convinced me that the venue is not really in the business of meeting let alone exceeding customers' expectations. In my mind, we needed one of those large kane bells you find at Japanese temples to attract the attention of the staff who were obviously bound up in one another's scintillating presence rather than worrying about the herds out in the dining area.

While the wait staff spoke Arabic and French, no-one had apparently thought to make sure there was an English speaker or - wait for it - a fluent Japanese speaker. Orders and requests seemed to vanish into a haze perhaps caused by the overwhelming odour of disinfectant that pervaded the establishment. I like "clean", and perhaps there was a sensible reason for the Pinetarsol but it really was discomforting and distressing.

A word on Lebanese wine - I am sure that there are some excellent chateau, but none of them were represented at this restaurant. Colored grape juice with a mild hint of alcohol, awful on the front and the back of the palate served in glasses that were probably made from bullet-proof fiberglass or kelvar.

Unless you're looking to court favor at a major Japanese/French auto maker, you could best serve your own interests and Tokyo gastronomy by avoiding this place. Then perhaps it will go bankrupt and painlessly vanish.

Mexican and Cuisine - 2 words that don't go together

My other blog, Dining Out in Tokyo, is reserved for good restaurants. That's admirable, but it means that I can't let rip a few choice words when something doesn't meet expectation - or is just rubbish. Therefore, Rude about Food!

A couple of friends recently removed to Tokyo from Michigan have been pushing me to try Mexican food. Living so close to the Canadian border, they are obviously experts on this sort of thing so I swallowed my pride - and a large mouthful of bile - and gave into the madness of the crowd during a recent trip to San Diego. After all, it's only 30 "miles" from Mexico so it's gotta have a higher chance of success than Grand Rapids, doesn't it?

Nonsense! Starting with a Margarita that tasted vaguely of kerosene and kicked harder than a burro, this meal was destined for failure from the moment we walked in the door. While the company was excellent (The Child Bride, The Expat, and Mrs Presidente), the whole episode was a screaming gyre into food insanity and helped me understand why so many real Mexicans are so thin. They don't like the food either!

John says that Mexican doesn't migrate "upscale" - he's right. Spices and peppers that wrestle any real flavours to the floor and then stand on their throats. Corn chips that taste more like the box they came in rather than anything resembling maize. Beans, re-fried, and slapped on a plate in a paste that resembles body wastes from a Chihuahua with gastric. Chicken suffocated to death with bitter, turgid chocolate. Oh please!

The only thing authentic about the whole 2 hours of Purgatory were the waiters. They didn't speak any version of English that I understood, and were able to ignore our table with excellent Latin flair. The food did provide one lasting flavour - acid from the reflux I suffered all evening and the next day.

I've tried Mexican in Tokyo as well at the foodie magnet Midtown. It was only slightly worse than San Diego, and far cooler as we were seated out on the deck in the chill November air. Perhaps the food was supposed to warm us up ... Tried Mexican food in London, where there was little to distinguish from a pub curry and where some-one had worked the miracle of turning wine into water.

No doubt about it - Mexican and cuisine are two words God never intended to be used together. Aghhh! So 2 thumbs down, and death to the revolution!