By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
Tei Tei Robata bar drives home the point that virtually anything constructed from the building blocks of life can be used as food. It's squeamishness that prevents many worthy nutritious forms of biochemistry from becoming staples on the TV dinner tray. (How many times have you heard that earthworms are 99 percent protein, fat free, and can be had for the price of a garden trowel?)
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I say this--actually write this--while staring at the dish that was just slipped onto our table. I don't know why I ordered it. Perhaps I just wanted to smugly reinforce the notion that I'm gastronomically eclectic.
It's Tei Tei's "specials" chalkboard hanging at the back of the open kitchen in this tiny, L-shaped restaurant that eggs you on. It dares you to put things in your mouth that, under normal circumstances, you would only read about while perusing National Geographic photos of a newly discovered rain forest culture relishing foie gras made from overfed termites.
That board plays on the gumption most of us experienced in college when we slipped the mescal worm between our lips. Only this time we are asked to walk a culinary high wire without the net of inebriation. After a couple of visits, no possible appearance on that board--not tartare of Dallas Gun Club pigeon-shoot squab, nor Ross Perot earlobe sashimi--would shock.
The thing that caught my eye, the one I'm now staring at, is "cristal fish sashimi." Maybe I was thinking of Champagne Cristal, that prestige drink from Louis Roederer. What if these fish had a sparkling effervescence, or even better, a bit of a kick?
Served atop a bed of crushed ice in a roughly hewn bowl, these tiny clear fish have barely discernable black eyes resembling runt poppy seeds. They're assembled in a loose clump, and I hesitate before pinching one with my chopsticks. Did this appetizer once make its home in someone's living-room fish tank?
These are the thoughts that give me pause. But I take a deep slug of sake, snatch one of those little fish, and plop it into my mouth. Its slightly sweet, clean brine flavor and firm, chewy texture are deeply pleasant.
We have a pesky 3-year-old at our table. So we decide to experiment and put a clump of these fish on her plate and gauge the results. Amazingly, she pinches a few in her tiny fingers and sucks them into her mouth like strands of spaghetti. Then she asks for more. I suppose she would eat earthworms too.
The only things more unusual than Tei Tei's chalkboard roster are the clay plates placed on the tables. These thick, charcoal-gray, curvaceous flaps have a deep trough in the center for food, or, as was the case with this 3-year-old, a place to make a pond of wasabi, soy sauce, and Japanese soda for the cristal fish to swim in. I asked our server what these distinctive place settings were, half expecting a brief rant on how the plate is a sculptured symbol representing the elegance of mindful eating. Instead, she pointed to the ceiling. "Roof tiles," she said through a partial smile.
We used those tiles as platforms for other fragments of exotica. Kisu tempura, a fish widely used in Japan for deep-frying because it retains its moist delicacy after cooking, came rolled with shiso leaf (from the perilla plant, a close relative of mint and basil) and impaled on long toothpicks. A trio of picks was placed in a small bowl filled with a sauce made from soy and bonito (a fish closely related to the mackerel and the tuna) stock. The crisp, sweet kisu was given breath by the aromatic shiso, while the sauce broadened it with a sea-washed savoriness.
Octopus sashimi--tender, white strips over crushed ice--was clean, moist, and not overly chewy. Silvery and stiff, grilled smelt were crisp yet succulent with a clump of sweet, pungent pulverized diakon radish to round it out.
But perhaps the most exotic Tei Tei item, Kobe beef, was not available on our visits. Demand for the stuff--an exclusive grade of meat known for its extraordinary tenderness, full flavor, and rich marbling--outstripped projections and supplies. So here we were, munching on sheer minnows, wondering what it's like to eat the perfect steak in steak country.
Produced in Kobe, Japan, Kobe beef comes from the rare Waygu cattle. These pampered beasts are massaged with sake and fed a diet that includes copious amounts of beer, leading a life not unlike your average well-heeled Cowboys fan.
But I wondered: In this era of efficient international airfreight systems, why would Tei Tei have such a lengthy Kobe blackout? (Our server told us a new shipment wouldn't arrive for several weeks). Is there a backlog of Waygu appointments at the Kobe Nordstrom spa?
No. Like all things desperately swell and wonderful--Spice Girls tickets, Quackers Beanie Babies with the tags still attached, face lifts that don't make you look like a ribbed condom stuffed with a bowling ball--Kobe beef is exceedingly rare. Only limited amounts slip into Los Angeles ports (Tei Tei says it snatches virtually every beefy scrap), where it has to survive a lengthy glare by USDA inspectors. (Texas A&M University reportedly has been immersed in Waygu crossbreeding research in an attempt to satisfy growing demand in Japan and elsewhere.)
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