I’m on a bit of a vacation, barbecue road tripping through parts of North and South Carolina through Labor Day.

My New York column (and a South Carolina barbecue series on Serious Eats) will resume after the holiday!

Four glasses of wine into a perfectly warm Oahu evening, as I finished off my cousin’s barbecued flank steak and extra spicy caesar salad, his girlfriend regaled us with the paragon attributes of Kona peaberry coffee, a speech she learned from one of her employers. That employer is Alan Wong, a man with enough opinions on coffee to make Marin County wine snobs seem open-minded with merlot, and the speech boasted that Kona peaberry might just be the best coffee in the world. Meanwhile, my cousin was dual-wielding electric grinders at the marble counter where we sat, trying to temper expectations while trying not to overgrind either the coffee or the marijuana.

Maybe it was the beautiful breeze from the rainforested Kalihi Valley beyond the open door, or being able to spend time with my cousin whom I rarely see, or the fact that I was in Hawaii, immersed in the environment, experiencing something made local, cherished by locals and with locals. Maybe it was the speech, or the wine, or that it concluded a great meal. Or maybe the coffee really was that good, because in that moment I believed all of Kona peaberry’s accolades.

I know that I like light roast more than dark roast, but that’s about where my coffee knowledge falls off. Months later, I couldn’t tell you if that specific variant of Kona coffee I tried on Oahu was better than this house brew I’m drinking now in San Francisco, and I don’t particularly care. Enjoyment is fickle, contingent on the moment, and perception is everything. Taste is no different.

After the most geographically antsy year of my life, I’ve come to expect that food consumed while travelling just tastes better. If I’m making comparisons to meals back home, the contest is rigged, because even if I discount hunger caused by long days of new experiences, I can’t discredit my hardwired desires. When I destination dine, I want to have something to boast about to my friends back home, I want a reason to justify the costs of travel to myself, and I usually find enough to convince myself of exactly that.

So I can’t tell you if the Loco Moco at Big City Diner was better than that four-dollar Loco Moco combo special I lived off of for months in college. Sure, that Shattuck Blvd discount dinner was saltier than bad crack seed, but the spam haikus on the walls were adorable, and did I mention it was four dollars for rice, mac salad, a meat patty and two sunnyside-up eggs? At that time in my life, there was no tastier meal.

In the end, Big City Diner wins, because even though the meat was overcooked and the gravy underwhelmed, loco is slang for local after all. There I was, in a Kaimuki diner, and that counts for something. The Loco Moco was five dollars more, but it was a million times more satisfying because it had “Aloha”.

I don’t want to suggest that Kona peaberry coffee might not be the best in the world, or that food on Oahu can’t be amazing on its own. I just feel that when travelling, that isn’t the point. One thing I’ve learned in what travelling I’ve done is that the fun part about being in a different place isn’t the museums, the monuments, or even the wacky waxy Lenin corpse. Likewise, the most rewarding meals aren’t found at the most famous restaurants or the tastiest local hotspots, but at some ordinary diner where the food is usually unspecial and rarely story-worthy, because that’s where the line that separates a tourist from a local becomes weakest.

That isn’t to say that mundanity requires blandness. After all, vibrant Hawaiian papaya enhanced with lemon is an unspecial breakfast… to Hawaiians.

On Oahu, there is no diner more ordinary than Zippy’s. It’s the common denominator for Hawaiian-American food, normalized across the islands like Denny’s or Waffle House across the mainland. The food is just as ordinary, but not in a bad way. There is a fine line between comforting familiarity and boring repitition, and Zippy’s tends to stay on the positive side. The same old waitress takes your order and that same old meal tastes just as good as always, whether its dependably standard noodle soup or a perfectly acceptable omelet.

That comfort in familiarity is what drives my Hawaiian-born girlfriend Mele across Mainland towns in search of diners that serve rice with breakfast, like the aforewritten upon Tokyo 7-7 and Benice. It’s also what causes her to order Fish and Eggs over and over during her trips to Hawaii, because it’s just one of those things that is taken for granted as normal on Oahu, but relatively absent in California. Zippy’s fish and eggs in particular strikes a comforting chord with Mele, and it’s for that reason that she prefers Zippy’s over others that might be better. The setting just matters more.

As a tourist, I preferred the setting of Jack’s. A well-known secret in a Hawaii-Kai strip mall, Jack’s is a popular mom-and-pop breakfast joint with an ordinary menu that can get quite special on its own, without serving anything out of the ordinary. All of the food is delicious. The fish and eggs was no exception, and neither was Jack’s (Portuguese sausage) Omelet, but most of all I loved that it was tiny, invisible and run by aging residents who didn’t care who I was or where I am from. I just love diners, no matter what side of the sea they’re on, as long as a blue-collar dedication to efficiency trumps current trends or efforts to put forth something new and different.

When I’m someplace new and different, that’s not what I’m looking for, and when you’re someplace familiar, sometimes familiar is exactly what you want. As Mele took me from diner to diner in Hawaii, I loved all my meals through the lens of adventure and she loved hers through nostalgia, and both of us found the mundane to be rather special.

In shifting from the new-wave New York dining scene in Williamsburg to the comparatively sleepy restaurant rows of Park Slope, I’ve rediscovered the joy of the humble neighborhood spot. Yet, while I was prepared to celebrate a superb New York bagel (at The Bagel Hole) and dig into a historic Brooklyn slice, I had no idea that my new digs would land me five minutes from a quality ramen house.

At first glance, it wouldn’t seem right to think of ZuZu Ramen as a neighborhood spot. With prices similar to those of ramen houses on more expensive real estate in the East Village and a menu soaked in the flavors of fusion cooking, the relatively young ZuZu is a pointed and stylish entry into the world of noodles.

Luckily, the line where style ends and substance begins is refreshing. ZuZu’s clean, wooded atmosphere is as much function as it is form – I’ve never enjoyed sitting in a wooden stool as much as in their softly grooved thrones – creating an elegant dining experience without the cost of stuffy atmosphere or tacked-on Japanese tropes. Like that of Minca Ramen Factory, this low-key ambience stakes everything on food, allowing comfort to follow as a natural fact.

ZuZu’s eponymous bowl of ramen, which features a slightly smoky and surprisingly sweet dashi broth, is easy to savor. The noodles, while not house-made, are firm and hearty. The generous portion of char-siu offers a texture ranging from creamy to seared. The green vegetables are lush, and the pickled vegetables have the right amount of crunch. The soft-boiled egg slipped into the bowl benefits from the most delicate of preparations, its orange yolk glistening through a sheen of barely-cooked white. Although this is clearly not best bowl of ramen in the city, it states just as clearly that being best is beside the point: Zuzu is not here to master the art or send ramen to the moon, but to offer its own take on the simple-yet-sophisticated feel that every new ramen house would like to capture.

ZuZu’s green curry miso ramen exemplifies this approach, trading in intensity for something more direct. Chef Akihiro Moroto’s curry/miso broth, probably the most polarizing item on Zuzu’s menu, is neither Japanese nor Thai. Having expected a rich, clunky mixture of curry, miso and coconut milk, I was pleased to slurp up a soup that breaks down its influences to basic sensations and serves them up in a clean-yet-hearty solution of salt and spice. Rather than harp on the exotic, Zuzu’s green curry miso ramen fuses its influences along the lines of pure comfort.

Not every menu item hits the mark as well. Zuzu’s hot-and-sour ramen, a more overt tribute to Thai and Chinese influences, ultimately falls into the trap that the house’s other broths avoid: novelty. While I find it hard to speak ill of its vibrant and playful broth, I find it hard even harder to order it again on repeat visits. Zuzu’s other menu items, including its delicious beef curry over rice, edge too far into gourmet territory for me to shell out the $14+ required to pay their tab. As with the entire appetizer menu, these specialties demand too much of my pocketbook to capture my admittedly parochial noodle-based interests.

Zuzu’s lunch special, a $9 steal, corrects for all flaws with pure and tasty economy. The lunch menu offers three choices of broth – green curry miso, garlic shoyu and double chicken – and fills a large bowl of your selection with thin, springy wonton noodles that seem meant to make you question whether or not top ramen is an essential life experience. The usual ramen accoutrement are present in full force, and in place of char-siu sits a terribly flavorful hunk of pork shoulder, richly marinaded in soy sauce and braised to its delightful melting point.

ZuZu’s double chicken broth, a lunch-only affair, is mild, sweet and savory in the most satisfying way. The accompanying sampling of gyoza – in case you’re confused, you should choose pork – are the perfect primer for your meal. And the bowl of rice on the side, begging to be splashed with broth, serves no better purpose than to be the final resting place of a fragile, soft-boiled egg yolk.

I’ve heard detractors contrast ZuZu with Momofuku (supposedly a better example of culinary fusion) and with Ippudo (supposedly a more pious practitioner of ramen religion) to get their points across, but neither comparison is fair. Ambitious and inventive without stealing the naturally subtle show that is a bowl of soup, ZuZu at its best (and most affordable) is what it is: everything I want in a neighborhood noodle stop.

Now, if only that American Chinese joint around the corner were a hand-pulled noodle stall…

ZuZu Ramen
173 4th Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11217
718.398.9898

This is Tyler Luiten’s final post as correspondent in Bonn, Germany.
Tyler will continue to blog for The Eaten Path as a contributing writer from Madison, Wisconsin.

Hindsight is what forces us to look back on an experience and understand or appreciate it with a clearer perspective. I can’t say that’s the case with my stay in Bonn: I knew upfront that I was there to experience something great, I knew to appreciate everything the city and country had to offer, and I knew that it was my duty to enjoy all the things there that would not be readily available back in the U.S. Though my return home has already involved missing all the great foods of Bonn, I’ve known this was coming from the day I arrived.

I will admit that I didn’t waste a minute getting some much missed Mexican food upon my return to the US. But as I bit into my first burrito after almost six months, I reflected upon all the other foods I had enjoyed abroad. Bonn left me with the impression that it is enjoying its growing internationalism, that it is embracing its role as Germany’s former capital but is also eager to take on a new identity. This means that it will have to confront the hard task of losing traditional German familiarities to make way for newer ways of life and cuisines. Are schnitzel, pretzels and sausages endangered German greats as Germans continue to discover couscous, dim sum and bulgur?

I feel that despite change and a move towards more international flavor, certain things will remain unchanged – or so I hope. The Germans’ love for bread will always support Bonn’s abundance of bakeries, and the fresh bread tradition will never die. The age old custom of preparing cured meats and sausages will mean that butchers will always have a place in the German diet. The döner kebab will forever be a staple; in fact, future generations of Germans may not even associate it with its own Turkish roots. And of course, German beer will forever be the pinnacle for those of the beer drinking persuasion. No amount of internationalism could ever force the beer garden out. Thus, despite a move towards abandoning certain German values as a result of becoming more international, there will always be those basics that will keep Germany, well, Germany.

I had envisioned a long itinerary of food experiences in Bonn, but after my six short months there, many of these experiences remained untouched. This to me is a sign that Bonn still has a lot to offer, and the possibilities will only continue to expand. Although my stories may have not touched upon all the other amazing German and international cuisines available in Bonn, I know that my experiences highlight the start of a long and rewarding journey that any hungry appetite can embark upon while in Bonn and in Germany.

For those with an adventurous appetite, a curious mind, and a propensity for experiencing foreign ways of life, Bonn is a great jumping-off point from which to embark on your own German eaten path.

The Jamaican Patty was more or less foreign to me until a couple of months ago. I had passed by Golden Krust plenty of times en route to Popeyes, and I had heard tales of dried-up, unsavory offerings from deli counters and carts, but I had never felt the urge to seek out an authentic patty experience until I began living within walking distance of one of New York’s primary sources on the topic.

My first encounter with Christie’s Jamaican Patties Etc. in Prospect Heights made me wonder why it had taken me this long to enjoy the obvious. The Jamaican patty, a savory turnover traditionally shortened with suet and filled with meats minced to the consistency of a fine, spiced mash, guards the price-to-power ratio of the world’s best street foods with a distinctly Caribbean vigor. Like tamales, shao bing you tiao and other street eats that don’t always obey the laws of starch separation, the entire pastry is commonly offered as the filling for a sweet hunk of coco bread, forming a $3.00 sandwich to make New York delis shudder.

The meat-based options – described only as “chicken” and “beef” – make for wonderful standards. The pastry itself is tender, flaky and beautifully formed. The fillings, graced by hints of allspice, scotch bonnet, vinegar and other flavors, deliver a comforting blend of sweet, savory and tangy and finish with a nice, soft burn. Spice can be boosted with the house’s scotch bonnet sauce, but the balance of flavors is wonderful as is. The same goes for texture: Both fillings are incredibly moist, and their generous apportionment lends each patty a plump heft that is nothing if not satisfying.

Christie’s vegetable patties are given their own treatment, possibly made without the use of animal fat and filled with a seasoned mix of cabbage, corn and other veggies that are serviceable if not very exciting. I say this not as an omnivore but as someone who’s had some wonderful curtido, which can put almost any country’s cabbage-based offerings to shame. That said, the vegetarian option is a benefit, but I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who would be just as hungry for a meat-filled option.

Those actually seeking wonderful meat at Christies would be wise to stick to patties. While this New York Times review praised the house’s jerk chicken as a less intense alternative to the genuine, barrel-smoked artifact, Christie’s chicken seems to have suffered a precipitous decline since 2006. Soggy-skinned, marginally moist and mostly bland, the birds here are now little more than abysmal steam table fare. The looks of Christie’s jerk pork, curried goat and barbecue chicken doesn’t inspire much hope for a saving grace.

Fortunately, jerk chicken has found new wings just a few steps away, at a charming bakery called Little Miss Muffin N Her Stuffin. Here, Jamaican patties feature several types of meat-based filling, all of which are packed with much more flavor than their more classical counterparts at Christie’s. Little Miss Muffin’s jerk chicken patty sings with allspice and pepper, and their popular BBQ chicken patty abandons minced texture altogether for heavily glazed chunks of white and dark meat. It may not seem very traditional, but it’s finger-licking proof that meat-filled pastry can rarely do wrong.

I’ve had trouble confirming what exactly is used to shorten Little Miss Muffin’s pastry crust; while a roster of extremely hospitable women take their turns representing the bakery’s namesake at the counter, I’ve been told that three Jamaican dudes bake all of the patties. In any case, the pastry is just as flaky, if not always as tender, as the pastry at Christie’s – and the richer, bolder fillings within make Miss Muffin’s patties a distinct go-to when I have a patty craving.

Any visit to Miss Muffin’s bakery also begs a sampling of cookies, which are sold by the pound (roughly 3 for $2). Cranberry orange oatmeal and chocolate chip pecan are standouts – dense, crusty, chewy and moist, they provide a nice end to a lunch that really shouldn’t have consisted of meat-stuffed, lard-baked pastries. Then again, when it comes to classic handheld treats, walking away with a balanced meal is rarely as easy as pie.

As a newly minted resident of Park Slope, I’ve been asked more than a couple times how I plan to enjoy the alleged boredom of my gentrified milieu. Is there really good food in yuppie land? Can I have a good time without being among the hip, young and tasteful? Do I miss the excitement of living in Williamsburg, the epicenter of ground-breaking ceremonies in New York’s restaurant culture?

I direct much more pertinent questions to my past self: How did I manage to ever live in a neighborhood without an honest sushi bar? On how many of those nights at Lucky Dog did I really feel at ease with my beer? All meals considered, should I have actually considered myself a commuting resident of Greenpoint?

Most importantly: How did I get by for almost two years without access to a truly great neighborhood slice?

This question is the soundtrack backing my walk down 5th Ave. to Luigi’s Pizza, a pizzeria of South Slope’s old school. Serving since 1973, Luigi’s is a true New York classic and home to one of the best slices of pizza in the city – and on June 1, 2010, it became my slice of Brooklyn.

The joint itself can be described as a quintessential den of pizza. Inside, a single counter surface is warmed by faded and dated overhead lamps, which shine just enough light on the cramped, unadorned back dining room to offer customers the most subdued setting for a slice imaginable. Breaching the border of Luigi’s on a weekend day brings me face to face with a rat pack of teenage employees, the most fortunate of whom are learning the art of the New York slice under the supervision of Giovanni, the joint’s owner. Business is gruff but warm (Gio’s enthusiasm and readiness to educate his customers make him a local legend), and it seems like someone from the neighborhood is always lounging with the staff as I look over the rightfully limited choices of pie on display.

Luigi’s plain slice – which, along with every other cheese slice here, sells for less than $3 – is an edible definition of New York pizza. Luigi’s plain crust is crunchy and chewy from end to end, forming a beautifully rolling landscape of dough with a porous, fluffy topside. The tastes and texture of sauce and cheese coat this crust in perfect balance, blended into one delicate layer and crowned by a layer of grease that doesn’t overstay its welcome.

Gio’s “momma” slice, a powerful rendition of the grandma, sneaks hints of fresh mozz beneath a layer of sauce, herbs and crushed garlic. The swirling mixture sits atop what seems like Luigi’s toughest crust: a thin and hefty square layer with burnt edges and a bubbly underside. It’s probably the pizzeria’s weak link, as the strength of the crust borders on difficult; still, the overall chew is a worthy experience, and flavor is nigh in every crunchy bite.

Luigi’s Sicilian improves upon the grandma by allowing that pie’s hearty edge to blossom into a full-blown bed of fluffy, chewy dough. Topped by a layer of the joint’s heartiest tomato sauce and dressed in the golden brown tones of an expertly burnt sheet of mozzarella, this slice is a construction as delicate as it is strong.

The fact that most of Luigi’s pies are as enjoyable as its star, the fresh mozzarella slice, is a testament to the quality of this pizzeria. Still, the fresh mozz comes out on top with pocket change to spare. As with the plain slice, the crust of Luigi’s number one is perfectly taut, its crunchy, uneven bottom yielding to a springy, doughy upper layer and encircled by a crisp, air-pocketed edge. Unlike many of its rivals, Luigi’s slice drapes a full blanket of tender, fresh mozzarella across a generous coating of sauce. Each thick dollop of cheese melts into the next, and all are sprinkled with a homemade basil-based pesto, lending the final product an extra note of flavor and a beautiful splash of color.

It’s a slice worth a cross-borough journey, but what makes this pizza enduring is the fact that it can be it mine for a thirty-minute walk and less cash than it takes to fill the washing machine. Peering into the windows of neighborhood spots – old and new – along the way, knowing that I don’t have to wait in a line for some of New York’s finest, is a heartening start to my tenure in west Brooklyn and a gratifying kiss goodbye to Bedford Ave.

Luigi’s Pizza
686 5th Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11215
718.499.3857

Sizzling bacon, frying eggs, the smell of hash browns and freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air: these scents and sounds epitomize an American breakfast. They’re what I look forward to on a Saturday morning, what I will always associate with starting the weekend off right. The American greasy spoon diner serves as affirmation that I’m not alone is this pleasure, and most American breakfast enthusiasts would agree that the greasier the diner, the better.

When traveling I often find that foods from home don’t properly translate in a foreign country. Withdrawal from what I know and love follows, and any potential substitute leads to disappointment and letdown, simply leaving me craving the things I’ve missed even more. In this day and age I can find almost any product abroad, but there’s always something missing, and it’s not until I return home that I will truly have that Saturday morning experience.

Well, it’s been almost six months since I’ve moved to Bonn, and despite my love for the American breakfast, there hasn’t been a day that I’ve missed it. In fact, I have quite the opposite reaction to homesickness when it comes to breakfast in Germany, because it’s the German breakfast that makes me feel as if I’ve come home. If ever there were a word for the opposite of feeling homesick, my relationship with breaking fast in Germany would embody this sensation. Move over, greasy spoon diner: A new cowboy has come to town.

The essential of German breakfast is of course the bread, which is nothing short of phenomenal. The indispensible foundation to this magnificent tradition can embody many different forms; however, with every foundation there must be quality building blocks, and in this case the building blocks for the German breakfast are a wonderful assortment of cured meats, probably better conceived by the American appetite as cold cuts.

You see, Germany is blessed with an overabundance of fertile land, which led to an excessive amount of livestock, and the only way to enjoy this abundance of nourishment was to find a way to preserve it – enter the German art of smoking, salting, and preserving meats. Just as bakeries are all too common in Bonn, so butcher shops are fairly easy to come by in this town. It’s in these meat sanctuaries that I have found some of the most amazing cured (and fresh) meats known to mankind.

If you find a gem like Haupt in Bonn’s Altstadt (“old town”), home to butchers who make most of their own cured meats, offer a wide selection of sausages and are more than happy to walk you through their many offerings, then you’ll be hard pressed not to have an amazing meal. From garlic salami to wild boar sausage to cured meats with schnapps like Kirschwasser, these homemade cold cuts and sausages are of top quality and offer a wonderful way to enjoy a true German breakfast. Always sliced freshly to order, German butcher meats are richer, fuller, and more natural tasting than what I’ve had at home. Many hundreds of years of curing tradition easily comes across in a piece of fresh cut salami or summer sausage – always moist, tender and full of vibrant flavors.

If you want to opt out of savory, Germany offers plenty of sweet breakfast options, including nutella, jams and marmalades. You might accompany your breads and meats with a soft-boiled egg, along with a delicious cup of coffee. Cheeses are also essential. They come in hard and soft-spread varieties, and are best enjoyed along with meats and perhaps some cucumbers or tomatoes. In typical German fashion you’d start with bread, maybe spread on some butter, layer that with some nice cheese, and top that off with any variety of cold cut. If you’re truly zealous, you could add some veggies on top of that. Start your day with any of these combinations, and you are guaranteed a wonderful day.

When back in the U.S. I’ve tried to recreate German breakfast, but it never seems the same. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of Europe that’s missing. Maybe the quality of the meats and breads simply can’t match that of their German counterparts. Then again, maybe it’s the unnatural feeling of being homesick in my own country – I may be able to cook up some bacon and eggs, but as long as I’m in the States, I’ll never be able to truly recreate that German Saturday morning experience.

Haupt Metzgerei
Adolfstr. 51
53111 Bonn
+49 0228 / 633616

During my freshman year at college, in the Berkeley student haunt known as “the Asian Ghetto,” Felix, proprietor of a Pan-Asian stir fry joint called The Satay House (R.I.P.), decided on an almost nightly basis to give chopsticks to all of my Asian friends and a fork to me. Every night, I would ask Felix if I could also have chopsticks, and each time he would hand them over, only to forget by our next visit. This was always humorous in a harmless way, and it’s something that I’ve always affiliated warmly with Felix, The Satay House and late-night dorm dining.

Last month, at a family Chinese restaurant in Hawaii Kai, a suburb of Honolulu, I was not shorted a pair of chopsticks, but right there on the lazy susan were two forks, rotating slowly at the center of a table of seven people. Of those seven people, two of us were white, and this was pretty humorous in that harmless way. Then someone commented, with surprise, that I seemed pretty comfortable using chopsticks – might I have used chopsticks growing up in the mainland?

Well, I am from California. And I’m pretty fly for a haole guy, though nobody has actually confirmed this.

Local entitlement aside, California does look pretty bereft of Asian infuence next to Oahu. I’m not saying that San Francisco wouldn’t out-do Oahu for Chinese cuisine, because it would, and nothing can beat L.A.’s Koreatown, no matter what that guy from Lost says. The difference is that whereas these influences in California are delegated to neighborhoods or specialized restaurants, on Oahu, it seeps into every neighborhood and every restaurant. It may shock Hawaiians that I’ve been to Filipino restaurants before, but it shocked me to find pork adobo on a local lunch menu that also included kimchi teri-burgers, mapu tofu and tonkatsu.

It seems that in Hawaii, local takes on a whole new meaning. Buying local is an obligation, not a trend, and living local is a way of life, the word itself taking on a meaning of laid-back, unhurried, island hedonism as well as a plea for the preservation of Polynesian culture. During my stay, I had kalua pig nachos at a Kailua Mexican joint and the menu at Utage, Honolulu’s haven for Okinawan comfort food, not only includes a regular Japanese section, but a Hawaiian section with saimin, loco moco and teri-burgers.

Despite its variety (according to my Californian and Daoist preconception that one who studies much masters nothing), Utage has a reputation for serving outstanding Okinawan dishes. For its troubles, it has developed a loyal following of Okinawan-Hawaiian families, standing out as a true family restaurant with a keiki menu, children bouncing in diner booths and reasonably priced combo meals. I welcomed the discovery when we finally found the place amidst kona coffee factories and karaoke clubs in an unnattractive industrial sector of downtown Honolulu.

Of course, we only ordered off the Okinawan section of the menu, because that’s what drew us there. I’d previously considered Okinawan food to be the same as Japanese cuisine, but the prospect of trying Okinawan food on Oahu, where there’s a measurable Okinawan community beyond the immense Japanese community, won over my appetite. That led to an order of soki soba, a specifically Okinawan dish that not only defies the greater Japanese language and soba-growers’ association but also involves the use of awamori, an alcoholic beverage unique to the island.

In the awamori stewed soki, Okinawan pork spare ribs which separate from the bone like good oxtail, cartilage included. The soki rested on hand-cut, or at least sloppily cut, noodles that gave the impression of a grandmother charmingly teaching her grandchild how to cook. The taste and springiness of the noodles did not suffer from this, thanks to the homey, chicken-soup-for-the-soul-like ramen broth that filled the bowl. The soup was deeply simple and flavorful, sever with little else in the way of seasoning besides an exuberant amount of pickled ginger piled on top.

A bureaucratic stalemate between Japanese prefects has kept the names similar, but Japanese soba is very different from Okinawan soba, which Japanese culinary purists will notice do not contain buckwheat. The confusion is little surprise on Oahu, though, where even in ethnic hot spots like Kaimuki, the distinctions between Asian restaurants become muddled, regardless of what country or region is represented on the storefront sign. Hawaiian culture is less like a melting pot than a venus fly trap, digesting various Asian influences into one giant menu, leaving no ethnic category unadulterated. Take saimin, a Hawaiian noodle soup that combines udon, mein and pancit. Then consider shoyu chicken, a homestyle Hawaiian meal that closely resembles the Chinese dish Soy Sauce Chicken, and another Okinawan staple, Shoyu Pork.

It tastes as good as it looks. The soy-sauce-and-sugar-stewed pork butt is a gluttonous downward spiral into salt, fat and sugar, and there is nothing wrong with that as long as there’s some palete-cleansing white rice nearby. Keeping the shoyu pork as Utage’s flagship dish, my first impression of Okinawan food is one of extreme comfort. Perhaps Utage’s homey diner lulled me into an Okinawan-Americans’ vision of comfort food. Perhaps a Japanese island is not so dissimilar from Oahu itself, a land of pig meat and living local, complete with island-style hedonism and crossover cuisines.

Oahu, despite its jumbled mix-and-match Asian restaurant scene, has plenty of standout ethnic cuisine. Utage is evidence, as were many of the meals I shared during my week on the island. I will continue to peer skeptically at terms like Pan-Asian or Fusion-Asian in the subtitles of restaurants in California, but when concerning Hawaii, I have to wonder – what do you call Pan-Asian food in Pan-Asia? Thanks to Oahu, I’ll be more open in the future to ethnic variety on one menu. Thanks to Utage, I’ll be less likely to write off one section of a menu simply because there are too many sections. I should have learned my lesson eight years ago, when Felix served me delicious Pan-Asian stir fry on a nightly basis in Berkeley. I didn’t deserve chopsticks then, did I, Felix? How about now?

Utage
1286 Kalani Street B102
Honolulu, HI 96817
(808) 843-8109