Chinatown

It seems that every major metropolitan area has its own Chinatown. I love the idea that no matter where you go, you can probably find great Chinese food and maybe some mystical remedies to heal the aching body. I’ve been to a few Chinatowns; San Francisco’s was the most interesting to me. I huffed and puffed my way up the hills in my devil-may-care, tourist-chic Nikes and fanny pack while throngs of ancient Chinese biddies pushing carts filled with groceries passed me with ease. There was one bakery that had a line so long that I just had to get in it to see what was so good. I left with a couple of moon cakes. Delish!

Japan’s largest Hamamachi (Chinatown) is in Yokohama which is about an hour from Tokyo by train. Miki had been there many times before and offered to come with me to show me the sights.

It was a gorgeous day and even though we were both a little hung over from our night in Roppongi, we made the most of the fine weather and walked all over town. Our first stop was a restaurant that despite an underwhelming description from Miki: “Not clean, no service, but taste is so nice” had a line out the door. The table situation was dire, so we had to share a table with three other pairs of diners. The service, as predicted, was dismissive (“They are Chinese” was Miki’s explanation) but the portions were huge. At one point, the woman next to me started ladling her food onto my plate saying, “It’s too much, too much!” I was horrified, but others seemed to think this was perfectly normal.

My healthy meal, with Miki's healthy cigarettes for scale.

A little queasy after lunch.

At the end of our meal, the old crone at the counter totaled our check using an abacus!