Actually, I’ve eaten many things in my life. “But…” #1:

My boyfriend arrived late, everything was already closed and, having no other choice, because “Pacifico” is open until one a.m., we jumped off the cabrio, me in shorts/swimwear, my vis-à-vis in not very much more complicated outfits (thank God we were not wearing singlets!), ramming past the reception, shouting “we’re staying in here!” (what a shame), to the garden near the swimming pool/fountain.

I can’t tell you how terrified the hostess was.

Having left the car in the hotel’s valet-parking (the restaurant’s there), our trio easily overcame the external guard ring, and luckily there was no internal one.

“You can’t go in there! “Nobody with cats allowed!” (c) There are no free tables!” plaintively squeaked the hostess, who is not used to such Russian-style pressure of people eager to wolf something down in a place which they thought to be very regular.

“But we’re staying in here! Basta!”

The waiter, who immediately saw the situation clear, had us seated deep inside the house, far away from posh celebrities/eternal establishment, as it turned out in the end.

And he gave us a very confusing menu.

Everything on a double-spread sheet, the specialties on another double-spread as well.

We randomly order 7 positions. For three people.

We wait nervously and discontentedly.

They bring us a compliment: three marble thimbles again on marble and some stuff made of potato, with flowers.

Here is where the “but…” #2 begins:

First, an explosion. I mean, THE EXPLOSION. The moment the very first sip is taken.

Hot, sour, spicy… as if a wave came over and got away.

Afterwards, long afterwards, probably, even in twenty years, I’ll always start with a mere trying, dunking, licking, biting, swallowing, crunching, drinking and touching with my lips, just slightly touching everything that they’ll ever bring me.

There’s a war in the mouth, at least a revolution.

One side goes on the attack, then the other side defends, the grenades are flying around exploding in my palate, something being sweet rolls along the tongue, and then there comes crowd of instant shots: sour, hot, sour, hot, sweet again.

Each dish is surrounded by “the tiger milk” basis, “but…” #3:

This basis is endowed with attributes that are sometimes sweet, sometimes hot, sometimes spicy-neutral (can you imagine that?), and you drown in it your piece of pork, which initially, without any sauces, looks like a nut pie, so the gradients mix up first on your plate, then in your mouth. Subsequently, there’s an explosion again.

Two nights in a row out of two in Rome, where I naturally knew other places to go, I ate non-Italian food and waited for the night as I waited for Christmas in my childhood.

Jump out at Roppongi Crossing, go towards Midtown, turn right at “Konami”, then go down along the smoothly twisting lane until on your right you hit upon this place.

Korean BBQs are more or less identical but this is my favorite because:

1 — It isn’t as trashy or over luxury as the rest.

2 — They have everything you might want to eat including marbled beef, seafood, etc., and the whole process won’t take more than 90 minutes.

First, you should find yourself a cheerful company – it’s a must because Korean meat dinner is madly funny.

I don’t get why it’s so poorly spread in Russia. Actually, it’s a perfect Russian-style revelry when you can fry meat for each other, and lean across the tables with laughter, and do all kinds of things that go by the international brand “dushevnoe” [i.e. typical for the Russian Soul].

I guess it happens so because the restaurateurs can vividly imagine a drunk company of people who are at odds about something (some stand for Putin, others for Rasputin) so strongly that one of the respectable guests starts to rhythmically press the head of another one into the hissing coals, pressing it the way that …

Ahem… oh well…

We come in.

On the right, there is a fridge with wagyu, with lots of wagyu starting from some scraps up to A5.

Before the bacchanalia begins I recommend to order sour-spicy beef soup.

We sit down, they bring us the hyper powerful coals, and there we go!

“Put the neat’s tongue! Who moved the scallop from the center?! / Whose is this piece of marbled meat? Ok, will be mine! Is someone ordering the chicken?! Lay it down / Lay it down, as it is said in the papers, one, two, three… Do you see the hieroglyphs? Why do you think they’re drawn here?? Actually, for you to do it properly! Gin. Who has thrown the marinated ribs into the corner of the brazier? Gin. It’s a crime! Gin. Throw more shrimps, look how fast they’re getting red! Ohhhhh…. What a drop: look what they’ve brought us! Put, put it on the grill. Gin. Zinfandel. Malbec. Yuzu wine. The last glass, shall we? Sumimasen?!

Afterwards you get outside, into the neon murk of this piece of the City, your gaze confronts a rare inscription in English (though not that rare in this area), the sign proudly says “meat sushi”.

And like that wolf in the animation about the Ukrainian wedding, you slowly plod up towards Roppongi where some absolutely different kinds of entertainment are waiting for you. And there you’ll lose weight.

Rapidly.

P.S. It’s a pity I’ve taken so little photos. Everyone was dead drunk as always in this place, that’s the reason, I guess.

As usual, jump out at the Crossing.

Then follow Google to a side street where Roppongi suddenly disappears and you feel as though you’ve just teleported into the heart of Nishi-Azabu. At once all the neon trash has perished and all of a sudden you find yourself in a kind of dollish, super-luxury place. In front of you there’s something like a Reception House or a wedding agency. It’s all covered in roses and trees, with some lamps at the corner. Right after it there’s a hipster row bar with a wall that is open towards the street. There’re mansions and shops all around, which make you wanna be an elementary particle and enter all of them at the same time, though with a slightly different probability distribution.

Ok, and where’s our client?

Right here! Exactly this concrete wall à la Tadao Ando (everyone’d better fucking learn that it was he who first began to use polish concrete with formwork’s dots for the purpose of decoration – and not any hipsters whatsoever!). The place has a narrow horizontal opaque window, a door and modest small letters of «le sputnik».

We come in and face a lovely hostess, then we proceed to the hall of six tables, one of which can be turned into a separate office — this is Japan, after all!

And here comes the first artifact: an empty round table for four people, located in the corner and fully occupied by an army of the polished glasses. There’re several dozens of them, of all colors and types. Meanwhile the place is packed and you have to make a reservation in advance, long before the visit. “Well, first of all, it is just beautiful (c)” — A very Japanese thing!

A lovely paper on the table explains that “sputnik in Russian…”

“We’re Russians!”

“Oooh… you’re our first Russians!”

ffwd>>> our friends come in a day:

“You’re also Russians, aren’t you? Like that couple yesterday? Please, don’t drink as they did, they’ve drunk almost all our wine.”

Oh, please! Quite not so! You’re a dirty liar! But, of course, we did have some wine…

We get a set and a wine pairing.

And off we go!

It’s general opinion that the Japanese never invent anything on their own; they just pass the object they’re interested in through the filter of their tremendous culture. For example, let’s take Disney animation films: they bring it to the verge of absurdity/perfection, and the result of it is anime.

The same thing often happens to the kitchen: traditional Portuguese tempura has very little to do with the incredible objects that you might come across here.

This restaurant’s actually French… but this is Japan, after all!

The food wins you over thick and fast, throwing delicious compliments and courses at you!

There’s a point in the middle of the dinner, when you have to make a break: a pancake with mushrooms, truffle and fermented egg literally knocks you off the race by an unfair trick because it possesses all the supreme tastes in itself and drives them all into you in one blow.

At a certain moment, the set reveals the Japanese ability to branch out: in this manner, foie gras is divided into a cold signature foie rose and some normally looking hot foie gras.

Then there was some “foodporn” with chocolate fondant.

And some sorbet.

But this all doesn’t even matter. What’s essential is to leave the Station, having launched “Le Sputnik” into the sky, but keeping to yourself the flavor splinters that have appeared in your palate at least until the morning.

Do enjoy!

We speed along a picture-perfect sea, the type that fades from emerald to the deepest blues. Too good to look at. Even makes me sick.

The grass, scorched in the sun, is blindingly bright. In the corner of the eye, there is a faded sign, reading something like: «…di Mare i Ricci».

Whooozhh…we stop.

Turn sharply onto an empty parking. The smells of that grass hit us strong, settled and condensed. Around fifty meters away, the sea lies flat as a pancake. Then the hut, with faded lilac curtains swinging slightly with the draft. A desolate view.

We enter.

Inside there are tiles/wood, empty fish counter, and a funny-looking teenager, with his facial symmetry going wild in all directions. The kid is pleasant-looking, cleaning/shaking around some mussel shells.

We are not local. The prices seem suspiciously off. A 10,50eur scampi pasta, carpaccio di polpo for 4,50eur, etc. Later we found offers that were EVEN cheaper.

Curiosity took over and we decided to stay.

We took a seat.

At first, avoiding an 8-11 euro pasta seems like a good idea. You fear getting a bowl of pasta with a lonely squid or two. Now we know, that getting a plate filled to the brim with shellfish and mollusks of all sorts is custom here, at the heel of the boot.

Even the pasta itself transforms, as you head towards Sicily. It swells and grow. Huge tubes al dente (sometimes not that huge though) replace penne, and you may even get wide slabs of uncut dough instead of tagliatelle.

Heading south, everything seems to get more voluptuous, vibrant in smell and textures, and that demands attention.

Here, and in simple places like this, is where one could «drop the anchor». Gaze ahead into the flat sea, at those boats, tanning over that scorched grass, smelling the intensity of the summer and the heat. Ray Bradbury — style.

Eternally.

The food here is a reflection of this style. Nothing elaborate. Fresh and bold in its simplicity. So fresh that it’s almost alive, with a price tag that allows you to deal generously in dozens (sea urchins), kilos (fish) and full countertops (of mussels).

You can switch off, in that horizontal idyll.

Is that not happiness?

The local specialty: raw small octopus that are dealt in kilos, I faint-heartedly asked for grill. Otherwise, could not handle it.

Like any other tourist city (Venice, Rome, Paris), Riga has its own laws. The only difference is that as the city is small, so are the laws.

The tourists always are like the herd in NPC games: they stick to the fixed routes of the main attractions. No straying from the path, as if it was a levitating path in Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder”. Seems that they’re afraid to step off even slightly because it’d spoil the future.

But, actually, you can always move three streets away and easily find yourself alone in the light of the day, even though in 150 meters there’s Tokyo metro at peak hour.

The tourist is stupid, greedy and incurious.

So to hell with him! It’s even better for us! We just have to step off the track.

All good Riga restaurants are either hidden or “far away” (for locals it’s 800m – 1km from the central point of the city).

The same is with this restaurant. It’s sealed in a side street, which runs towards the quay. The place is packed only several times a year when there’re fireworks.

“I’d like some Campari, please…”

“Can’t help you. We’re not into such drinks in here…”

This dialogue took place on the fly, right at the entrance with a waiter with a straight back and Nordic habits. And I didn’t feel offended. It sounded so very naturally that this rigidity could easily go for him being “lost in translation”. Besides, at once the guy offered us some tart liquor made of black chokeberry. It came in a beautiful bottle with thick glass bottom.

This is, so to speak, a reinvented Latvian style, the brightest side of which is presented to you. Cunning, tricky servings, which do not actually distract from food.

Don’t expect anything superb, but expect just a tasty, partly strong, lunch.

A beautiful one. On a beautiful street.

Lots of beetroot and rabarber. Some river fish. Extremely light-salted cucumbers (they call them “the one day ones”) with a just mere hint of being put into a barrel, served with pike perch. The partridge’s clawed paw says “hello” right from your plate. Its skin is crunchy. Strangely enough, its meat is juicy, textured and tender. Orange fish soup, which is inevitable everywhere in Latvia. Beetroot again.

Good tartare of local beef. In general, local beef is fucking awesome.

Everything’s at a slow pace and has a Northern taste.

A good place. It’s a pity we didn’t make it to the desserts.

PS: here comes the check for four people.

Actually, this is not an article – just a pin in the map.

This ice cream is severe to such an extent that it isn’t even visible. Truly professional approach. They keep ice cream covered in steel tanks with red figures: there is the “minus” sign and some digits indicating how cold it is inside.

50-70% is made of seasonal stuff — everything’s on the board.

There’re three categories of «healthiness»: sorbetto, creamy and nougat.

In fact, I can understand these guys and their military marketing: despite the poor look, once it gets into your mouth, you’ll never confuse (of course, if your taste buds are still working) wild strawberry for a normal strawberry or white peaches for apricots. It’s absolutely impossible. The tastes are supernatural. As though you ate the initial product with just one difference: this one is cold.

Do enjoy.