Lingbo Li
Genki Ya in Brookline: the worst Japanese restaurant flub ever
Hell is not bad food.
It’s other people. Specifically, hostile servers. After an atrocious experience at Brookline’s Genki Ya, I’m trying to pick apart the mess.
When I was 16, I was a cashier at my local A & P. Old ladies with tubes in their noses would squawk if a box of crackers rang up 20 cents higher, demanding that I follow them into the aisles to see the price sign. (They usually had misread it.) Soccer moms would mutter mild abuses about my incompetence as if I was wasn’t human. I was there once too. I sympathize.
But some servers have made me cry with frustration. There was pimply-faced one who worked for Western dining chain Wagas in Shanghai (Wagas Citic Square branch, August 8th 2009) who outright lied to escape his screwup, capping off a troubled relationship with China’s service culture. I wrote an incensed email to the chain but never received a reply. Some servers are merely incompetent – forgetting, dropping, blundering – and I tend to just feel sorry for them.
But sometimes there are spectacular front-of-house failures that deserve a writeup all their own. These require repeated, concerted level of incompetence that is really just embarrassing for everyone involved.
There’s a “normal accident” theory that arises in trying to explain tragedies. In these cases, there are many small mistakes. Each of these mistakes alone are normally not a big deal, but it’s the coincidental alignment of them that spells a lost customer.
So let’s explain my disastrous meal at Genki Ya, a small sushi restaurant that bills itself as all-organic. I’d eaten there before and enjoyed the food, so returned with boyfriend in tow.
We wandered in on a Friday night. It was busy, but not so busy since we were seated within two minutes at the sushi bar. I was faint with hunger; he was inured to the world after a week of hell and insomnia. We planned on ordering omakase – sit at the sushi bar, give the chef a budget, and let him/her pick whatever was fresh.
I swear I’m not making ordering omakase up.
We ask for omakase at $50 for the two of us. Blank stare from the waitress. We explain in plain English what it means. Outright refusal. “They’re too busy,” she says.
“Too busy? All they have to do is choose something,” I say.
“They’re too busy,” she repeats, as if we’ve asked for something particularly distasteful.
Desperate with hunger, and somewhat stubborn, I have an inkling she is not Japanese.
I speak to her in Chinese, explaining the concept of omakase in our secret-Asian-people-language-club tongue. I’m right, but am met again with cold refusal.
My dining partner and I look beseechingly at the men making maki behind the counter. They seem friendly. We try to undermine the servers. It’s beginning to feel like a CIA mission. No luck.
Meanwhile, I’m lightheaded with hunger. Our waitress has abandoned us. We finally get another waitress, who we repeat the same request to. Refusal again.
We’re floundering. Finally, after more hand wringing, the manager comes over, who nods several times, and says he’ll send over miso soup. We rejoice since we’re finally going to get the meal we asked for – or so we thought.
Russell House Tavern in Harvard Square is here to stay.
Harvard was built in 1636. As another transient moving through these classrooms and dorms – every spring, boxing my pathetic belongings and thinking towards a shrinking timeline – it’s easy to forget that the Square is transient as well.
After all, it seems that Spare Change man has been hawking his newspapers in front of Au Bon Pain forever, and ever, calling, “Young lady! Young lady! Won’t you have a heart?” And the Asian tourists spill eternal over the Yard, clutching their cameras like stunned mice and groping John Harvard’s storied foot. I remember freshman year, dodging and weaving through the tourists to breakfast, I’d feel superior to them. I lived here; I was real. But now, I think that I’m just as much a tourist as they are.
As an admitted high school senior, a freshman introduced me to the area. I remember one venue: Z Square, where the newly opened Russell House Tavern now stands. “This is where you take someone when you’re getting serious,” he explained, and it seemed like an institution to me. The unholy trinity of the Kong, ‘Noch’s, and Felipe’s seemed cast in stone. It was only years later that I found out Felipe’s had only been around for a few years, as had Z Square.
I’ve long stopped talking to that freshman after a mysterious tiff my first semester, and I never visited Z Square while it was open. So when I heard a new restaurant was opening, I was curious.
I’ve now visited Russell House Tavern three times in the past few weeks, more than any other restaurant. This has been purely by mistake. But I can see why I keep getting drawn back. They’re not perfect, but they are very good, and more ambitious than I would have expected, or need be.
Russell House is owned by the Grafton Group, which also runs Grafton Street, Redline, and Temple Bar, where chef Michael Scelfo still works.* Their promo blurb of “seasonally changing, classic American fare” did not excite me. But I eventually got dragged along anyway after a viewing of Top Chef Masters at Rialto, where I somehow sat at a table with Christine of Citysearch and Leighann F. of Yelp. (They’re friends!)
The space is heavy on dark wood, a kind of polished masculinity that’s not too old boy’s club. The dining room proper is downstairs – a sea of high tables and stools, a few padded banquets, a long U of a bar.
Crispy Soft Poached Chip-In Farm Egg 7 Pecorino Aioli, Toasted Brioche, House Pancetta
Danielle of Eastern Standard with the pizzas of the night
I wasn’t particularly hungry, but tried the fried poached farm egg, which was an oozy, bacon-laden, plate licking appetizer. It is a bit pricey considering a full pizza is only a few bucks more, but worth it in inspiration. It led me to attempt my own fried poached eggs, to little success. I also sampled a lamb tartare – a bit too raw/gamey for my tastes – and a cured and smoked lamb belly pizza, with fontina cheese and mushroom, although the intensity and saltiness of the lamb overpowered the rest. The chef clearly has a fondness for the bleating little creatures, and wasn’t afraid to show it.
lamb tartare
I came back again, on a whim, on a busy Friday night to catch up with a friend. I had the crispy poached egg again, and savored every last crumb of the brioche and smudge of the aioli. Unfortunately, service was pretty slow – it seemed that they were short staffed – and my egg was already cooling down. I tweeted my dissatisfaction, and the chef tweeted back: “so sorry!! please let me make it up to u next timer ur in…”
Semolina-yogurt cake with basil
Finally, about a week ago, I dropped by again after one of the worst meals in the past year at Shabu Ya. (Avoid at all costs.) My friends had ordered up chicken liver crostinis – richly satisfying bites, rounded out with a dab of prune-honey jam. The short rib wellington was fine, as was the caesar salad. The centerpiece ended up being a lamb shank, cooked to a melting, falling-off-the-bone tenderness, presented in a black lentil stew. I didn’t get to talk to Chef Scelfo, but the manager sent out a few desserts – a semolina cake (tasting akin to a more complex corn muffin), sorbet (a trio including a nice icy grapefruit), and carrot cake – served in a round pot, with gooey layers. The waiter, coincidentally, happened to read my blog.
Not everything is perfect, but I give the chef points for taking risks with the menu. And even when there were hiccups in service – a forgotten order, say – the staff immediately corrected it and removed the dish off the bill. The prices are about right, with pizzas $10-13, and entrees $10-28. This is not a restaurant that will change dining, but it’s one I could see becoming an institution. Then again, in Harvard Square, that doesn’t take so long.
*Correction appended: Chef Michael Scelfo still works at Temple Bar, in addition to Russell House Tavern.
PF Chang’s food review
I’d never eaten at P.F. Chang’s before, and I never thought I would. There’s no restaurant quite so antithetical to exactly what I look for in a Chinese dining experience – there’s a focus on nice lighting, comfortable seats, familiar, English-competent servers, and Western flourishes like red velvet cake and coffee service at the end of the meal. So, I’m here to tell you that you should skip the coffee (watery, with coffee grounds) and don’t expect spice in your chicken or transcendence in your chocolate cake, but this place is pretty much as advertised. It’s comforting. The food, if you pick and choose correctly, can be fine, if not “authentic”. Which is itself a loaded term.
I was there for an event to launch the chain’s new VINEYARD 518 label, and got a chance to taste the Sauvignon Blanc as well as the Syrah blend. I’m not a wine expert, but I found both pleasant and very drinkable, as did the wine writer, Richard Auffrey, at the table, who deemed it a good value for the price ($7.50 a glass). Interestingly, the wine is packaged in a recyclable cardboard container in the interest of eco-friendliness. (Although deeply less romantic.)
P.F. Chang’s doesn’t really hew to a standard of authenticity. Their PR materials call the cuisine “Chinese-inspired” which is fair enough. Our table sampled the chicken lettuce wraps (fine, once sauced) and orange peel chicken (also fine), then a “VIP Duck”. The VIP duck was clearly playing with the classic Peking Duck dish by including some griddled pancakes (much crispier than usual) and desiccated shredded scallions, as well as cucumber slices. It was short on moistness and flavor; a damn shame when a Chinese duck done right is orgasmic. But on the plus side, Richard’s recommendation of their Northern Style Spareribs was a good one.
(I apologize for the substandard photos. I was using a friend’s camera and had no idea how to adjust it.)
How to crack an egg, with added sound effects
It’s very hard to crack an egg. The gravity of the situation can overwhelm you – what if the shell breaks wrong, and the yolk spills all over? What if your aim is not so good? What if you’re just really damn neurotic and scared to crack an egg on camera?
(Answer: you scream, of course.)
Lana Lingbo Li
I'm a world traveler / enthusiastic eater who's now blogging and producing videos over at HelloLana.com. Visit me there!
As Seen On
