Stage 8:
Monday Morning DS: Alright, I'll call you Jane.
Stage 9:
Monday Morning DS: Another one bites the dust; Froome can win just by not crashing out.
Stage 10:
Monday Morning DS: I'm weak as fuck right now. Should change my name to Greipel.
Stage 11:
Monday Morning DS: Fuck Kittel.
Stage 12:
Monday Morning DS: ROFL Froome got Froome-d by Landa.
Stage 13:
Monday Morning DS: Haimar Zebeldia is still racing???
Stage 14:
Monday Morning DS: LOL EBH third, can't make this shit up.
The questionable advertising concepts I’ve recently come across that were apparently approved by a group of people.
1. Pocky Squeeze
I understand they’re trying to suggest that these Pocky snacks taste like freshly squeezed fruit juice, but these resemble ball sack sweat and, well, butt sex.
2. Takara Showroom Commercial
The premise here is that, like using too much shampoo, many homes use too much space in building out their bathrooms, both of which are wasteful. I suppose this is trying to show that Takara Standard, a manufacturer of system baths and kitchens, can use this space more effectively. Unfortunately, this commercial is best described by the words of a friend, who called it “jizz city.”
3. Zexy’s Online Matchmaking Site Logo
A group of people who are paid to brand things apparently decided that the image of a woman bending over would be a great logo for an online matchmaking service.
4. Tyrrell’s Potato Chips
Of all the places they could have photoshopped in a giant, red, phallic object, it had to be in this guy’s lap. At that angle.
5. Maro Hair Products Commercial
Just in case you were wondering how racially insensitive Japan is.
Another Tour, another year of collage postcards with quotes from the Monday Morning DS!
Stage 1:
Monday morning DS: RIP Valverde.
Stage 2:
Monday morning DS: Wish Kittel had slipped in the rain.
Stage 3:
Monday morning DS: From almost-nut-smasher to stage winner.
Stage 4:
Monday morning DS: (on Sagan's DQ) Who's gonna come in fourth in sprints now?
Stage 5:
Monday morning DS: Froome wins another Tour.
Stage 6:
Monday morning DS: Bouhanni is a dick.
Stage 7:
Monday morning DS: Pre-Sagan replaced Sagan.
War is coming.
Series: Game of Thrones (2011- )
Subject: actor Kit Harington as Jon Snow
Materials used: crushed Oreos
R.I.P. Prodigy.
Subject: hip hop artist Prodigy of Mobb Deep
Materials used: graham crackers, butter, canned pumpkin (couldn't find yams here in Tokyo), sugar, and honey, inspired by "P's Sweet Hands Sweet Potato Pie" from his book Commissary Kitchen: My Infamous Prison Cookbook (recipe available here on First We Feast)
After my sister-in-law’s mother came to Japan for a visit, she left us a giant jar of homemade Vietnamese pickles. The mass of shredded daikon radish and carrots rested in their sweetly sour brine in the refrigerator, waiting to be piled on top of everything. I dreamt of banh mi.
I fell in love with banh mi around the same time my sister fell in love with her Vietnamese-American wife. While it would be nice to say otherwise, it was more coincidence than fate; I met my future sister-in-law for the first time at a Tower Records store in Tokyo, and she was not dressed in an ao dai offering me my first life-changing banh mi. By then I’d already fallen hard for the combination of cilantro, cucumbers sliced thin, and perfectly seasoned pickles mounded on top of a protein of choice, all nestled into a crunchy baguette that wasn’t quite a baguette. Sandwiches no longer had to be pieces of bread bookending mounds of meat covered in cheese, the types of faux meals only to be ordered once in a while when you had the time to feel ill later. I believed, and still do, that you could reasonably, and financially, eat banh mi every day. And as if to validate my theory, I commuted to the Saigon Vietnamese Sandwich Deli whenever I was in New York.
The Quad Show. Photo by Kanako Shimura.
If I’m honest, though, those pickles are one reason I so love banh mi. I always order the chicken – no jalepenos – because the “special banh mi” with its smear of fatty pate tends to dull the vinegary crunch of those delicious, julienned root vegetables. When I learned late last week that the Vietnam festival would be held that weekend, I immediately thought of those pickles, that crunchy yet fluffy bread, and cilantro.
Every summer, Yoyogi Park hosts a few cultural festivals centered on a particular country – in this case, Vietnam. There are allegedly some shows featuring traditional attire and dances, but “cultural festival” is essentially code in Japanese for a food festival with some bank remittance stalls thrown in. My sister-in-law had just left to visit family in the U.S. and do all of our American shopping a few days prior, so my sister and I were left to judge the food stalls together. I wasn’t too worried. With taste buds honed by New York banh mi, we were confident in our ability to find the best at the Vietnam festival.
Photo by Kanako Shimura.
We started with a reasonable strategy: check out all of the food vendors before settling on one. Most of the food stalls were hosted by restaurants around Tokyo and featured large plastic signs that boasted giant pictures of pho, banh xeo, and che. With hunger and the heat taking their toll, we settled on a vendor specializing in banh mi, with one of the longer lines extending before it. We inched towards the front, waiting around 20 minutes before being handed our packets of banh mi, disappointingly plucked off a pile of pre-assembled, pre-bagged sandwiches.
The robust sandwich I’d imagined and expected, fat with pickles and garnished with a sprig or two of cilantro, was crush flat as I pulled out something that resembled a quesadilla. There was a generous smear of pate and two slices of the usual mystery meat that usually lurks within the sandwich when you order the special banh mi. A cucumber slice had a brief cameo, along with a few carrots that had escaped the pull of gravity while the sandwich had been propped up on its end. Worst of all, the pickles were cut like fat crinkle cut fries, and most of them lay at the bottom of the bag, within sight but out of reach.
“Oh, oh no,” I said. My sister let out a disappointed wail that quickly turned into laughter as she pulled her banh mi out of its bag and viewed it in its full glory.
I could hear my sister-in-law laughing from across the ocean, then, and blaming our seemingly genetic naïveté, our sheltered upbringing that was certainly the cause of such a blind purchase – a whopping 500 yen! – of a pathetic attempt at authentic Vietnamese food. I don’t blame her – I take it as a personal affront when friends go to sushi places that feature dragon-shaped rolls with tempura sticking out of the ends and/or anything that involves cream cheese – but that didn’t prevent me from praying that she knew, somehow, that finishing that “banh mi” was sufficient punishment.
Photo by Kanako Shimura.
Photo by Kanako Shimura.
I got this awesome pig hat.
We cleansed our palettes and respective memories with coconut and lime gelato for my sister and a slushy, icy coconut drink with tapioca pearls on the bottom for me. Sugar did its work and we went home sweaty and covered in sand kicked up by the wind, but laughing at our banh mi disaster.
As Biggie once said, “if you don’t know, now you know,” and with some knowledge gained and money lost, now I do. Until next year, Vietnam festival. I’ll be back for my banh mi revenge.
