Throughout my childhood, my family would frequent a now-closed restaurant, Men Bei. The fare was comfort Japanese food with a focus on ramen and rice dishes. I dream of their ginger pork don: thin-sliced, pan-fried pork and veg over rice with a healthy heaping of beni shoga. My cheeks well with anticipatory wetness, reliving the savory dish. Closing my eyes I am there: the sticky lacquered tabletops and the chairs with the worn, black vinyl cushions, the prints of Dogs Playing Poker and a comedic take on Magritte's The Son of Man, but it's Bugs Bunny and instead of an apple, it's a carrot, the cramped shelves stuffed with manga, the teal chair rails, the ceramic emulations of drying vegetables hung from real rope, the off-menu iced tea the proprietress would give you if she liked you. I imagine that heaven looks a bit like this.
For those growing up in the South Bay area of Los Angeles, frequenting this restaurant seems to be a shared experience. All too often throughout my school days, my family would happen upon a classmate, also dining with their family. My mother's eyebrows would knit and purl at different insistences that I go say hi, amused at first, then slowly sloping down as more of the whites around her pupils revealed themselves in annoyance. I guess it's rude not to say hi, but how my face would burn as I marched up to their table, gave a tight-lipped hello. I would always turned to run and bury myself back into my mother, who was always smiling and waving. A classmate named Cory stands out in these memories, our mothers were friends while we were not. I would always begrudgingly say hi while our mothers chatted. My mother will often recall a story in which Cory told her that his mother called him an asshole. This continues to be my mother's favorite anecdote about Cory because my mother loves to call me an asshole as well. I do claim that(being an asshole) as part of my identity and the term is more endearing than not coming from her.
This establishment remains an enigma between my friends and I. The surrounding areas had a lot of Japan-based businesses so the restaurant serviced a number of Japanese business men, who often dined alone. Often they read manga, propped up in one hand, the other independently bringing ramen to their mouth. There were shelves and shelves of manga, of which I would often peruse while waiting for a table (reading at the table was rude, according to my mother). Being a fourth-generation American, I understood zero Japanese, so I could only guess at what was going on based on the pictures. Being a sheltered second grader, I understood nothing of the pictures that I gazed upon, why would someone tie someone up with rope(nsfw)? while they were naked? and why would they broadcast that on a large projected screen? My third-generation parents also understood zero Japanese, otherwise, they would have realized that I was paging through kinky smut. Many of my other fourth-generation friends had this same experience with the manga at Men Bei and we still giggle about our parents never suspecting a thing and remain perplexed by the businessmen who consumed such explicit images while so casually dining.
I will always think about Men Bei,
A true whole in the wall.
what what
what what is a prompt for you, dear reader, that I ask you to indulge me in. let me waste a little of your time.
what makes you (w)hole?
what is your coffee order? what kind of milk do you take with your coffee?
what is your reaction to seeing a cow?
what is your go-to hole in the wall restaurant? your go-to dish?
what food dish always makes you feel complete?