la.foodblogging

I was all ready to go off. I mean, lunchtime is almost universally one hour, so why is it that every state or quasi-government office has to test our patience by using it up completely. In this case it was the predictably inefficient Post Office, which honestly doesn’t need to give one more person a reason to fire a few rounds in their general direction.

So, I was spoiling for a fight, and down the street was the fresh Johnny-come-lately Japanese extravaganza, Kaizuka.

Gezuntheit.

It occupies the space where a rather disappointing BBQ joint used to be, the Santa Maria Barbeque Company. Well, actually they relocated down the street, right across from where Ford’s Filling Station will be.

So, Kaizuka displaced a mediocre restaurant, good, good.
Up-up-upph, the only close parking is at a meter. Bad, Bad.
Ahhp, there’s 17 minutes left, and I had a quarter. 47 minutes. Ok, ok.
I look at the public display menu and it had a few appetizing lunch offerings plus a la carte sushi. Neat, neat.

So, I go stand by the host lectern and look at the guy.

He rings up a check and banters to the waitress.

The waitress looks at me and walks by.

He continues looking down, at his thumb.

Another waitress walks up and he rings her up. They’re talking, giggling, knoodling, whatever restaurant folk do when they’re ignoring a customer standing right in front of them.

Then I think, I’m short. They don’t see me here. So I lean in, grab his nicely pressed collar, and wrinkle it towards myself. My nose is within millimeters of his. Brokeback Mountain close. I snort smoke. You will seat me now.

Every chopstick drops in desperately slow motion. He angrily grits through his teeth, “You have insulted me with your impatience, short fat one, and now you will pay. Hiro-Isha-Tura!!!!”

The Waitress took the form of a jackal. I call her Death-triss.

Death-triss brandishes her katana, sparks showering onto the iridescent marble. A metallic scrape rings interminably, piercing my ears. The patrons all stand up, each chopstick remaining in their hands, a radiant dagger of obsidian.

At this point Hiro-Isha-Tura starts glowing with an eerie shifting aquamarine swirling around him, translucent circuitry growing from his body and casting a shell upon him. Plates materialize and enshroud him as he grows into a 50 foot tall robot killing machine. His voice shatters: “I am Optimus Prime Rib!”

“Sir?”

I was disoriented. Lost. Where was I? Had I lost my bearings in a fit of rage? Had I smote Death-triss…or made her my concubine?

“Sir, would you like to follow me this way?”

I’m in a Japanese restaurant. I’m standing in front of…oh man, I must’ve fallen asleep waiting for them to seat me. I snapped to, and followed her to the table.

Ok, so it was a bit of a wait, I hope I didn’t talk in my sleep. The menu looks promising, hosting the staples of Japanese lunch food. The only thing conspicuously absent is the Bento Box…Hmmm….

The a la cart sushi menu was straight out of “How to start your own Mainstream Sushi Restaurant For Dummies.” But it had all the competent favorites. I teeter on whether to have a sushi blowout at lunch. It’s like, do I do the whole speedball, or save the heroin for the Death Cab concert?

I decided to have the meat combo for $12.50. Here we have the sweet promise of Kal Bi, and the savory health benefits of salmon. I was sold. And for an extra $2.50, you can get a spicy tuna roll. Had mine ice cream cone style.

You know what that looks like? It looks like the Log in Star Trek that destroys planets. This spicy tuna roll is the Destroyer Of Planets.

And it was a damn fine hand roll. Not the five day old bolus of over mayonaised chum you get at Sushi Mac, but fresh, hemoglobin-red ahi massaged with a sparse amount of hot seasoning. Perfect. It is garnished with Lindsey Lohan-thin green onions, and is the perfect appetizer. I drop a couple of soy drops from my chopstick and the salt mingles with the tiny schmear of wasabi to enhance -not obscure- the fresh fish taste.

So…well..maybe this was my mistake, but I used the hand towel. I don’t know if this is a customary signal to run me the hell out of there, but before I could say “I haven’t eaten yet” another waitress came over and gave me the check. I was wondering if what happened before was real…

So I tell her I’m still waiting for my entree, and she quickly scoops it up and shuffles off. Ok, maybe I’ll get comped a bean filled dessert or something. Well, it isn’t long before my entree comes out, and I have to say, I really admire the grill marks.

It looks like Hokusai painted them himself. The Kal-bi are square flags of rib meat, glistening brown from their own juices. The salmon is richly glazed with a deep teryaki…which I’ll admit I could have had a bit sweeter, but it was OK.

So, Kaizuka, if I may take this short interlude, addressed two things I normally don’t like. First, their Kal-bi was meaty, with generous portions of actual meat, instead of gristle surrounding bone. Ever paid $50 for Korean BBQ that was all tendon? Ever had Vietnamese bun with charbroiled pork and pork skin, that was all fat? You know what I’m talking about. These guys nailed it.

And, although the salmon was coated in teriyaki goo, it was a palletable goo. I usually don’t like something cooked ‘teriyaki’ and have thick…gelatinous…gravy dumped on at the very last minute. But, it was toned down, and the salmon flavor really came through, very fresh with the right amount of char. And char is one of the few primary tastes the tongue can detect.

Anyway, back to the review. I found that overall, it is probably having some growing pains. After all, it’s only been there a month or two. They seem to already have a healthy clientele…those Sony geeks really like their fish. The food was pretty good for a lunchtime place, so, aside from the minor delays and incidental miscommunications.

Will I be going there again? Hy! Only next time, I’ll be bringing my santoku.

Kaizuka
9729 Culver Blvd.
Culver City, CA 90232

By Zteve (see more of his posts). You can find more of Zteve's writing at his own website Gastrologica