Chapter 27
Chapter 27
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 27
Chapter Title: Foodie Exploration
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It was our second day in Japan. We stepped out of the accommodation into the winter breeze that had already begun to bite.
Unlike yesterday, when we'd arrived late and only stopped by a convenience store, today we planned to dive headfirst into our Japanese adventure.
We started by hitting the famous tourist spots around Osaka. We wandered through Dotonbori, grabbed some street food, and snapped a ton of photos.
These were places I'd visited so often in my past life that they bored me to tears, but sharing them with someone precious made everything feel brand new.
The street food that once tasted awful now seemed surprisingly sweet, and the streets I'd have breezed past alone turned into perfect photo ops.
It hit me again: it's not what you do, but who you do it with that matters most.
Gurgle...
"Getting hungry, huh."
Sister's stomach let out a loud rumble, demanding food. Her face flushed red as she bowed her head. I chuckled and pulled out my phone to search for nearby eateries.
"This place has solid reviews. What do you think?"
"The ratings are good, but people say it's overhyped once you get there. Let's try this one instead."
Sister had scoured reviews for every spot from our lodging to potential restaurants before we even arrived in Japan. She'd flagged a tendon shop nearby as a hidden gem, so we headed there.
Throngs of people...
"I knew it was near tourist spots, but I didn't expect this crowd on a weekday."
"Yeah. Looks like at least an hour wait."
The line snaked down the alley, and judging by the pace, we wouldn't eat on time.
Neither of us was passionate enough to wait an hour just for food, so we gave up quickly.
"No other options?"
"Nothing super close. The nearest is twenty minutes away, but it might have a line too."
Sister frantically searched her phone for nearby spots. But the Korean posts were all from Koreans, and if Koreans were raving about it, it was probably packed.
No real alternatives in sight.
"Tendon, huh..."
I reminisced as I watched Sister, her nose pink from the cold, glued to her phone screen.
Among the shops I frequented in my past life, there had to be a great tendon place.
When I came to Japan, I stuck to Japanese cuisine. I knew restaurant districts inside out, but tourist-area gems? Not so much.
Back then, work kept me closer to fine-dining spots than tourist traps.
"Ah, right. There it was."
"Hm?"
I searched to confirm my memory. An acquaintance chef had run a tendon shop back then, tucked deep in a tourist alley where he lamented the lack of customers.
Luckily, it was still operating in that back alley.
"Where's this?"
"A tendon joint."
"Is it good?"
"Yeah... probably delicious. Way better than the popular spots."
It belonged to someone who'd later snag a Michelin star, so the food was top-tier. Close by, few reviews—high chance of no line.
"Let's go."
"Sounds good."
We followed the map into the alley. Left, right. The deeper we went, the more it felt like a spot doomed to fail.
"This the place?"
"Pretty sure."
Thankfully, no wrong turns.
On the first floor of a rundown building sat a shop with "いらっしゃいませ" (Welcome) on the sign. The exterior screamed sketchy, but inside was surprisingly tidy.
"Honestly, the outside turned me off, but this interior's not bad."
"Right? The food should be good too."
"I'm excited."
After a morning of nonstop sightseeing, we were starving. We scanned the menu and ordered the two shop recommendations.
"One anago tendon and one special tendon, please."
"Got it. Coming right up."
A young chef took our order. It was Daichi, who'd later earn that Michelin star.
His hair almost threw me off—I nearly didn't recognize him. Maybe stress from near-closure caused stress-induced baldness later.
"Know him?"
"Nah, just looks like someone I know."
Moments later, our tendon arrived, wafting an irresistible aroma.
Michelin-star tendon was on another level. The crispy tempura's nutty scent mingled with the rich tare sauce.
"Itadakimasu."
Crunch.
I started with a piece of tempura. Each bite shattered the batter like crackers, delivering perfect crispiness, while the oil's savoriness coated my tongue.
They say anything fried tastes good. But fried food's quality hinges on technique and batter.
Tendon especially demands top-notch tempura as the star.
"How is it?"
"Delicious. Like, really delicious?"
Sister's eyes widened. She hadn't expected much, so this was a pleasant surprise.
I halved the anago tempura and placed it over her rice, then dug in.
I burst an egg tempura, mixing it with the rice and sauce. Crispy outside, soft half-cooked yolk inside—sweet-salty perfection.
The holy trinity of tendon—tempura, rice, sauce—was flawless.
"Haneul, try this. Missing from yours?"
"What?"
"Scallop tempura, I think."
Sister offered a scallop tempura piece.
Scallop tempura's rare in standard tendon. Scallops are tricky—fussy to fry, irreversible if botched.
But Daichi's? I trusted it.
Crunch.
"...Ugh."
"What's wrong? Not good?"
I spat the rolling scallop tempura into a napkin. Sister tilted her head at my grimace.
"It was definitely good."
She ate the half I'd bitten, then grimaced and spat it out too.
Good scallop tempura should be crisp outside, soft and moist inside. Scallops hold moisture that becomes juicy.
This one was soggy, oozing oil instead of juice. Chewy to the point my jaw ached—I had to spit it.
"No, it really was good."
Sister protested innocently. I nodded, pretty sure I knew why.
"Why's it like this? The difference is huge."
"Scallops are tough to cook. Lots of internal moisture. Can't serve undercooked, so overfrying happens."
That's why scallop tempura varies wildly between spots.
In my memory, this guy nailed it.
We weren't close, so details fuzzy, but scallop was among his signature tempuras. His shop was known for unique tendons—no way no scallop.
'Maybe not enough time has passed yet.'
I chewed pickled ginger to cleanse the greasiness.
"This doesn't work either."
Too strong. Proper gari refreshes the palate, but this lingered overpoweringly, even after other bites.
Two back-to-back shocks killed my appetite. I set down my chopsticks and watched Sister eat.
"Excuse me for a moment, sir."
Daichi appeared suddenly. His eyes fixed on our napkin clump of rejected food.
"私がたまたま天ぷらを吐くのを見たのですが、もしかして食べ物に問題があったのでしょうか？"
"What's he saying?"
"Asking if something's wrong with the food."
He was polite to a fault.
I hesitated, then decided honesty was best. Feedback helps chefs.
"Everything else is delicious. Veggie tempura's crisp and tasty, anago's full of flavor."
"Thank you. So, where's the issue?"
"Two big ones."
I pointed to the special tendon on the menu.
"Scallop tempura quality drops hard. Some pieces are good, others ruined."
I described the bad one bluntly.
"You probably know this, Chef, hence the strong gari. That's issue two. The gari with my anago was normal, but the special's was way stronger."
Scallops get oily, so strong gari to counter... obvious intent.
Some places sabotage mains to push sides. But gari? Wrong choice.
"Sigh... As expected..."
Daichi sighed deeply, head bowed. Felt familiar—like the jjajangmyeon shop's dongpo pork feedback.
Should I advise? The noodle guy was a stranger, but this chef? Acquaintance. I'd picked up tempura tips from him once.
For old times' sake, some pointers couldn't hurt.
Up to him to use them.
"Key to scallop tempura: doneness and moisture inside. Most chefs overcook worrying about underdone."
"Pardon?"
"Pull it early. Residual heat finishes it. And..."
Daichi started skeptical, but whipped out a notepad, scribbling. Detailed steps overwhelmed him.
"Want a demo?"
"...Yes."
He nodded, pride bruised. Letting a stranger into his kitchen? Not easy.
True to form—the rare past-life person I remembered by name had character.
I tied on an apron and stepped in.
"Score marks on the scallop?"
"Tried for even cooking, but shelved it—didn't work."
"Good call. Scores kill the chew."
I battered a scallop deftly. Tempura-making was rusty, but frying? Routine.
Oil at 180°C. Dropped it in, sprinkled batter, stirred with chopsticks—it clung perfectly.
"Pull now."
"Won't it be raw?"
"Leave one to two minutes."
Daichi fidgeted. Hesitated before tasting—then shivered in delight.
"Delicious. Thought it'd be raw—perfect instead. So tender."
"Apply my tips your way."
Theory's universal; details personal. He had Michelin potential—hints would suffice.
"Your name, sir?"
"Kim Haneul."
"Kim Haneul... Never heard in Korea. New to Japanese cuisine?"
He mistook me for a chef. I corrected to YouTuber, then we headed to the next spot with Sister.
It took less than a few months for Daichi's shop to explode in popularity.