lil-kid
Japan's first biryani specialty store. Moreover, it is a store run by Japanese people, so the buzz has been boiling since before the opening. It is a completely reservation-only store with only 10 seats. Also, reservations can only be made one week before the desired date, making it a narrow Indian gate. Occasionally, I check the designated reservation site on a whim, but it is always fully booked. This time, I was lucky enough to find an opening after seeing a post from an acquaintance who had visited. The scheduled start time for eating was 6:45 p.m., but I was too eager and arrived around 6:10 p.m. I thought about killing time at the Doutor nearby, but I didn't want to put anything other than biryani in my stomach. It is generally best to avoid entering a restaurant before the reservation time when they are busy preparing, but I managed to enter this time because I knew someone and was seated quietly at the end of the counter. The sand beige walls and wood-tone counter in a simple setting. The face of Mr. Osawa, who was cooking, was not the innocent face of a young man I had seen at Biryani House a few years ago, but a truly rugged face, the face of a craftsman. With a huge stove I had never seen before, he heated a large pot of gravy, occasionally shaking it with both hands in a large circular motion, perhaps hitting a piece of mutton bone. It made a clattering sound. For some reason, it reminded me of the raffle at the shopping street. The shopping street raffle may have losers, but only big winners should come out of this large pot. He tempered the spices in a large frying pan and then added them to the pot. He boiled the pre-watered basmati rice, drained it dynamically, and added it to the pot. He also extracted Kewra water with a syringe, added it, covered it, covered it with aluminum foil, and kept it warm... It was like watching a sacred ritual. The joy of watching the changes in the biryani as it gradually took shape, with each passing minute, was a precious time when I could feel the "becoming biryani" through my eyes, ears, and nose. People began to gather gradually, and when the time came, Mr. Osawa began to explain the drinks. Of course, it's a meticulously chilled Coca-Cola, right down to minus 5 degrees. A large pot was brought to the center of the counter, and when the lid was opened, a good aroma was released into the store, and cheers rose from the participants. I had made a regular reservation, but Mr. Osawa asked, "Is a regular size okay?" So I ended up saying, "Oh, then a full size," and when he said, "It's for hand eating, right?" I said, "Yes, hand eating," completely under his control (but that was fine too). The hand-eating and spoon-eating dishes seemed to have different plates, with the hand-eating plate being flat. This time, I was the only one eating by hand. Biryani, dyed in two-tone colors of gravy and white rice, was served on a large flat plate. Time to eat. I stabbed the biryani mountain with my right Goldfinger, which had pleased thousands of women. It was insanely hot. A hundred times hotter than creation. The meat part was a hundred times hotter than that. But I couldn't turn back to the spoon anymore. Due to the counter's C-shape, my eating actions were clearly visible to other customers, so I had to avoid being seen as someone who was trying to be cool by eating with my hands and then switching to a spoon. I quickly lifted it and stuffed it into my mouth. A "shock" that I couldn't understand dominated my mouth, and I realized afterwards that it was an extreme "deliciousness." In other words, my brain couldn't keep up with the deliciousness. Anyway, it's a "dangerous" biryani. I don't think you can find biryani of this level even in India or Bangladesh. My fingers couldn't stop digging into the biryani mountain. I had eaten about 40% of it, and...