Obviously I did not make this, but I did eat it.
It is very good but I cannot say it is the ultimate. Here is the thing about pad Thai, it is supposed to be everything at once. Sweet, sour, bitter, salty, umami, hot, savory, herb-aromatic cilantro-y, peanut-y, unctuous, proteinaceous, carbohydrate-tastic.
As far as I can tell, this was sweet and mildly hot, mostly sweet, and worst of all, no cilantro! I even asked for it when I noticed its absence and no cilantro! How can that be? There is a Whole Foods directly across the street. I nearly dropped everything to dash over there to get a bundle and donate it. And then I thought, "Eh, get over yourself."
I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest the name Wokano is probably a portmanteau derived from wok+volcano. I did not ask, and they did not say, but I doubt you will find the word in any Asian dictionary for the languages covered by the menu which is considerable. The flier I got in the mail -- and are they not so annoying? -- gave no indication the actual menu would be seven pages and ranged from Chinese to Japanese, to Korean, to Cambodian. I didn't notice any Philippine, Lao, or Tibetan, but I didn't scour all seven pages. And you know, when you try to do everything then you probably do nothing with exceptional excellence.
Although the pad Thai was a disappointment, I do understand that some of the things on the menu there are indeed excellent, so there went that theory. A diner there told me so when I struck it up with her. I asked her one simple question:
"May I ask what you ordered?" The place is so small that by asking all heads turned toward the exchange. Apparently I am louder than I thought.
Note to self: [Stop talking so loudly.]
The woman poured forth on what she ordered, what it is made of, how it is prepared, what it comes with, why she likes it, how she makes it at home when she makes it, where to buy the ingredients when you do make at home what she ordered, how those ingredients come, how some people cannot tolerate what she ordered, and why, and how she feels sorry for those people, what she usually orders, other things that are good at this restaurant, how often she goes there, how long she has been going there, the history of the restaurant, the presumptive business model followed by the owners, the bad years, the rejuvenation, the new owners, the family of the owners, the other restaurants owned by the original owner, other Asian restaurants in the area, their specialities, their qualities, their arrangement in order of excellence, their authenticity, where she lives, where she used to live, how long ago and for how long she lived in those places. How much she likes to go out, how often she dines alone. She was a surprisingly open and fluid talker. Not the slightest bit interested in me. She mentioned her partner five times.
It is a small place tucked in the center of a short strip mall. Parking is tight. Upon entering one is immediately assaulted with a combination of traditional Asian iconography strangely combined with modern Asian kitsch. There is a little bit of everything all at once packed into a tiny space. A large fat Hapi next to a s maller Thai dancer next to a stone Buddha, but largest of all, a maneki neko welcoming cat with a motorized upright arm pawing at the air. A tiny sand garden with tiny rakes for visitors to pass time, a stuffed monkey hanging from a plant. Flat Hello Kitties that form a dividing curtain. Modern lighting suspended from stretched cables. Miniature bamboo arrangements suspending tiny Asian lamp-like ornaments. Some kind of garment hung as textile art. Decent serving dishes and cloth napkins but cheesy girlish pearlescent pink plastic chopsticks, rustic tin water cups.
Service is sweet and pleasant and efficient.
They are serious about not parking in front of the 7-11 because you are warned twice with handwritten signs on cardboard.
They need a designer badly. One who would start by removing things.
From my table in the corner ↓.
I could not help but notice, because I was looking around for things to notice, a couple sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room, both on the same side in a booth instead of facing each other. Both had plates in front of and between them, but the female was leaning awkwardly, twisting over her date's lap, and reaching across her own plate and over the intervening plate to pick things off the plate of her date. So with her body she claimed possession of all three plates. The male minded his own plate, the one directly in front of him being shared with her. Please explain this propensity to me that is seen so often, the one that goes without actually saying, "I will have all of mine and most of ours and some of yours."
1 comment:
Every Jack has his Jill.
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