When on my travels across that idle matzo ball soup surrounded by oceanic broth that is the island known as O'ahu, I learned many a thing about the history of its people. I am a simple soup connoisseur, but I believe knowing one's history is crucial to knowing one's soup. As the great Karl Marx once said, likely poring over a bowl of disgusting German buttermilchsuppe, history repeats itself first as a tragedy, second as a broth.
When asked by a group of elderly tourists from the land of Japan how many meters it would take to reach the Manoa Falls, I was confronted with the Hawaiian Islands' dark past. Yes, I must parse the archipelago's unholy formation, with hopes not to stir the proverbial pot. It is a difficult task, but one a learned sommelier of soup like myself must take on.
Dare I say, I was taken aback by this question. Not because of the beauty of Manoa Falls; the tall waterfall pouring gently like bisque over a bowl's edge is truly a sight to behold. And no, not even because these tourists were likely to take a "selfie" in front of this waterfall, as many tourists do. Everyone knows photographs should only be taken of food, preferably in the lowest quality possible (please reference above). No, it was because I was asked to estimate the distance in meters.
Meters?! Meters, I thought, what is this? I know liters, cups, pints and of course, quarts: as a soup master myself, I must know liquid measurements. However, I do not know how to measure in the International System of Units. Meters? Surely these geriatric foreigners from the Land of the Rising Sun must have been mistaken. Perhaps they were dazed from the stress of a strenuous that aged travelers should certainly not be doing. Maybe they were confused at the sight of a local mongoose. But to ask a Jewish-American soup expert to measure in meters? Surely, they jested.
I was baffled and stunned like I had just seen soup reheated in a microwave. After several seconds of rare thought that turned from soup to more practical matters, I replied with an estimate of time, the great equalizer, like salt in a broth. Ten minutes, I replied. The Japanese tourists stared at me blankly, then thanked me. Ten minutes, and they went on their way.
Now, I do not proclaim to have knowledge of anything but soup. But after this interaction, I took it upon myself to ask why such an interaction took place and how it inevitably all relates back to soup, as I so often do.
I had always heard the expression "The Day That Will Live in Infamy" and always assumed that it referred to the day when Katz's Delicatessen first started serving matzo ball soup. However, local Polynesians instead informed me that I was mistaken. Evidently, in 1941, long before the tortellini soup was ever invented, the Japanese military ignited war with the United States of America when they bombed Pearl Harbor, a local section of Oahu. Frankly, I was disturbed. Pearl Harbor sounded like a wonderful place: pearls remind me of clams and the harbor reminds me of broth, thus leading to a hankering for clam chowder. But alas, I had to cast off this feeling of hunger to confront the enduring legacies of both Japanese and American imperialism.
The war brought devastation to the local Hawaiian peoples, who already suffered under the yolk of American imperialism, like myself tasting an egg drop soup. Yes, many of you may have heard of the horrors committed by the Dole company, which has forever made me opposed to even considering putting pineapple into a cold dessert soup or smoothie. And this devastation did not stop. Around me, I saw Hawaii as America's failed, forgotten colony merely for the benefit a military base. Local Polynesians had been disenfranchised, while Japanese entered the upper echelons of Hawaiian society, dining on expensive tonkotsu ramens. Japanese tourists flocked to this island paradise, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Islands' famous turtles or whales (two animals whose consumption this soup enjoyer does not endorse) swimming in the simmering sea.
As a result, the roots of ethnic discord were cast and I was asked to measure distance in meters. How could I mend this divide? I knew only one way: try soup.
Yes, I took on the daunting task of visiting a Japanese restaurant in Hawaii. Perhaps I could see the melding of cultures — as I have previously stated, soup is the most anti-racist food, bringing people of all cultures and recipes together as one. This day, a friend and I visited the restaurant know as Hana No Sato, a Japanese establishment known for serving izakaya fare.
Upon entering, I was greatly pleased. The restaurant followed one of my most important principles for determining a good culinary establishment: providing photos of the food on the menu. Not only this, but the restaurant had blown up and laminated the pictures, plastering them on the walls like naan prepared in a tandoor made to seep up the fluids of a rich Indian vindaloo. I salivated with delight. That is, however, until I saw the gozen.
The gozen! Yes, this was a dish I had never seen before, and it soured my soup-ready stomach to its core. For a mere 16 American dollars, one would receive an entree, several sides (including glistening gyoza), salad, miso soup, a frankly disturbing looking pork and shrimp custard, and a bowl of rice. My friend remarked that it was impossible to finish in one sitting. Horrified, I stared at the photo on the wall, half shocked that anyone would put pork and shrimp in a custard. In that moment of discontent, I came to a historical conclusion, just like the aforementioned Marx.
Here was an unholy union of dishes — rice, soup, salad, the entree, pictured as fried chicken, and of course, that disgusting-looking custard. An unholy union, yes, not unlike the Hawaiian islands. Many of the ingredients of these dishes must have come from the great island chain itself. Even many dishes such as fried chicken were international, a favorite of mainland American cuisine. Yet, the were all under the title of gozen, a Japanese word. Yes, soup and its related food once again represented the myriad of ways imperialism subjugates the conquered. The Hawaiian islands were like a gozen, an array of many peoples and ingredients that were likely never to be consumed in a single legislative and culinary sitting.
Out of respect for the diversity of this island and this important contribution to both Asia-Pacific and culinary history, I instead opted to try the shrimp tempura udon soup. Now, the udon noodle is one of my favorites. When dowsed in a beef broth or miso and garnished with green onions, which must be called scallions, it is one of the most sound soups you will find in any eatery. And while I am usually not an enjoyer of shrimp, another non-kosher food my mother would not approve of me eating, its fried texture would serve as distraction for its blasphemous insides. I scorned G-d, resting my finger on the name of the dish. I was to order udon.
I must admit a strange disturbance which came upon me at that moment. My compatriot had ordered the same dish but in cold form; frankly, an affront to my presence. I am usually accepting of any and all soups. However, I, in good conscious, cannot accept the eating of shrimp udon cold. I will not budge. Perhaps my friend was behaving like a haole, a pejorative term native Hawaiians use to refer to people whose complexion is of clam chowder that I previously thought meant soup expert after a local called me by that term. I will say no more of my friend's behavior as I do not approve.
I tasted the soup. Instantly, the miso broth cleansed me of the historic traumas I had just confronted. Shrimp tempura crunched in my gaping mouth, a texture softened by the simmering broth. Udon slurped, meshing well with scallions of a green found on the Hawaiian nationalist flag. The viscosity was nearly just right for an udon soup. And the best part is yet to be mentioned: the soup remained hot for the entire meal. As I have mentioned before in previous blog entries, this is a critical technique that allows me to give a glowing soup review.
Perhaps the Hawaiian Islands were embroiled in constant civil strife. Perhaps their checkered history made for an unholy present with a still uncertain future. Perhaps tourists like myself only exacerbated these serious issues. But in that moment, I knew soup could bridge the lengthy divide. All it takes is a single bowl.
Soup Score: 8.9/10 I liked it
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