In the course of seven days, tonight was the second time I ate at Akiko, a Japanese restaurant in the Victoria Plaza compound. It's always reassuring when one enters a Japanese restaurant and sees Japanese people eating inside. It's that seal of authenticity; it must be good. It must be real.
Akiko is not a new restaurant, but it was only last year that I ventured in. I don't remember much of that first meal. Last Monday, hankering for some Japanese food,
Mr. Fun and I went for a pre-Valentine lunch. There was only us and another group. The owner, a Japanese man in his late 50s or 60s, was seated beside the door, reading a newspaper.
We ordered California Roll and Miso Soup. Mr. Fun wanted Katsudon again, while I decided to try Oyaku-don, chicken strips in a special sauce. The California Roll at 12 pieces was a lot for us, but we finished it. The miso soup was comforting, even on that hot afternoon. But it was the Oyaku-don that made me fall in love. It was served in a medium-sized covered bowl. When I took off the lid, the smell promised delicious food. Chicken strips, caramelized onions, and rice bathed in a special sweet sauce. A taste, and -- memories came rushing. Of the Japanese food that I loved in Beijing 11 years ago when I was studying Mandarin. One of our favorite restaurants was usually full at lunchtime with students appreciative of the Japanese restaurant's rice toppings. My favorite back then, when I still ate beef, was the gyudon.
In the animated film "Ratatouille," the discriminating food critic is won over when he tastes the simple ratatouille, for it takes him back to his mother's cooking and the warmth of his childhood. That's how I felt when I ate the Oyaku-Don. It brought me back to the bubble of happiness I felt in my year of Beijing.
It was an excellent meal, and I looked forward to returning.
So when my friends and I got together tonight, they chose Japanese food and I said "Akiko." For a while it looked like a slow night for them, which worried me because I like businesses to flourish, but after a few minutes, the place was almost full. I ordered once again the Oyaku-Don to satisfy my craving. I had to wait, and wait longer than usual. My two friends had almost finished their meal (even trying to slow down) when another friend's and my order was served. The Oyaku-Don of my dreams wasn't perfect anymore. Instead of chicken strips, I got almost ground chicken. And the rice was a little less. But it still tasted good, and I finished my food. Good girl.
When we left, the owner bowed and said, "Arigato," as he does to his customers. Thank you too.
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There are other authentic Japanese restaurants in Davao City. There should be, considering that Davao is "Little Tokyo." Before Akiko, we frequented Tadakuma in front of Central Bank. The food is also good. The Tadakuma branch in Damosa, though modern in look, doesn't seem to have that authentic taste.
Also in Central Bank, not far from Tadakuma, is another Japanese restaurant that specializes in sushi. As I don't eat sashimi (raw food upsets my stomach), I make do with maki. When Mr. Fun and I ate there a few years ago, I remember liking the california maki and a soup. The soup was served in a teapot, and we poured it onto two tiny cups, like you would tea to little girls. It tasted of the sea, of fish fresh from the water.
There's also Nonki, a restaurant that originated in Cebu. The food is good as well, but serving time takes a while.
Tsuru is a reliable Japanese restaurant, but I'm not sure if it's authentic. Most of my family likes their chicken karage, though it's too salty for me.
The malls have Japanese restaurants: Teriyaki Boy and Sumo Sam in Abreeza, Ramen Boy in Damosa, and Rai Rai Ken in SM and Robinson's Cybergate.
***
I realize it's been more than a year since I last wrote here. It's not that I haven't been writing. I have -- for work -- which is also why I have less appetite for writing as a hobby. And then of course there's the matter of actually sitting down to write, as opposed to taking the easy way out and reading a book or magazine, as I usually do.
But the desire to find a creative outlet is reaching the boiling point, and so I write again. Baby steps, baby steps.
