Category Archives: queens food

Chikarashi

Come inside for some fresh Poke Bowls.

PONZU Salmon Bowl.

The wind blowing down Broadway’s halls were fierce, the grumbling in my tummy, more fierce, and it’s noon time — eateries are packed — I know because I walked into – and out of – three of them already. No premeditated decisions, and I’m a bit panicky and am too close for comfort to all the sneezing and sniffling.

I just came from blocks of textiles and perfumes and the eateries ahead are thinning it seems. Turning left, it was a bright red neon sign that grabbed my attention, I gave no thought other than my last chance — I rushed in and I collided with a body on a line just a step inside the door.
Privately cursing my lack of direction and current state of feeling, I shuffle walked to the counter pondering how little I think of the Poke word – not any of it appeals to me. But po(horseshoe character)’kie being the actual made me very happy, it sounds ancient, and nerds won’t irresponsibly flood the streets.

I’ve really never had a Poke(ie) Bowl, fish and rice is nice in theory but I questioned its filling properties. A large Ponzu Salmon bowl before me, I explored with my chopsticks with some prodding, light delicate lifting and moved in closer. I couldn’t identify much and that’s a good thing, so with an unmighty swoop, I began thusly.

The menu reads, Scottish salmon, wasabi ponzu, shiso, kyuri, tibiko, katsuo panko, I’m embarrassed to admit how little I know of this world.
The salmon lightly dissolved on my tongue with a beautiful clean far Atlantic finish, yet strong in structure. How the textures and flavors came together was like a symphony in my mouth, but interrupted each time my sticks ran aground on the buried bowl dividers below, like the separation compartments of 1970s TV dinners, or any meals when shackled.

Much to learn young Jedi, much to learn and I must. But in terms of a proper launching point, I deem this days lunch a success.

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When I Eat Sushi

The slices of Yellow Fin Tuna, Mackerel, Salmon and Roe are served up at my favorite table along with a bottle of Biwa No Choju as it has not arrived sooner as imagined. Rows of piano tuning pin sized scales and slabs that sit erect next to the pickled ginger and wasabi sitting patiently on the trays outer corner sharpening its great breath.

I gaze closely to unravel the briny map that tells 0f the deep dark ocean recently carrying these narezushi to my dish. There’s an echo calling out about the Sushi slices that once rippled through the Southeast Asian currents about a place the fish began, a place I could never find on my own, nor were ever meant to.

Even the plum and the tiny eggplant are no relief. Perplexed and inflamed I continue hoisting piece after piece off my ceramic plate as the fish now seems as diminutive than possible.

My mouth opens for the last piece, exposing the truth it so desperately wanted to keep hidden from you,
and you,
and you,
and you.