The term "fusion" often means "confusion" in my book. When a distinct type of food becomes intentionally confused with something else, those distinct elements are muddled until they disappear. Shalom Japan may appear to be a "fusion" concept on its face. Nevertheless, we schlepped from the Upper West Side to an intimate South Williamsburg space to decide for ourselves. 

Upon first taste, I instead viewed it as a marriage of two worlds, soul food of the Jewish and Japanese, highlighting the distinctions of each culture and joining them in a comprehensible way.

Chefs Aaron Israel and Sawako Okochi characterize their food as “authentically inauthentic.” To the snooty-sophisticated diner, maybe so. Leaving aside the question of what the real Jewish and real Japanese grandmas are cooking in their kitchens, I found the menu approachable, hosting a manageable list of a dozen-plus dishes I, for the most part, understood and felt excited about. 

We began our meal like a proper Shabbat dinner – by breaking bread. Fresh, braided challah with raisin butter, both elements light and sweet. Now, it takes chutzpah to serve challah, and even more to charge diners for it as a standalone menu item. But the kitchen knows what it’s doing, and this was no ordinary dinner roll.

A terrible dish I ordered on Seamless two weeks ago inspired this gem. I ordered lettuce wraps from a Japanese place that happens to offer several alleged “Thai” options, perhaps capitalizing on the fact that I live in a neighborhood comprised entirely of sushi and hummus. They knew they could get away with it, but that’s a rant for another post. The dish’s diced, fried chicken skin, tossed with minced peppers and uber-sweet goo had me convinced that I could do it better. I’m really going for the hard sell here, right?


I hereby present to you, chicken lettuce wraps, Fat Noodle style.

As an enthusiastic Manhattan chowhound, I will admit that at times, I love a good production. Shuffling through a gourmet hot dog stand to reach a telephone booth, in which a secret door harbors a speakeasy that may or may not afford me the chance to drink artisanal cocktails with hand-crafted ice cubes? Cool. Nibbling on sashimi while carefully peering behind you in anticipation of a ninja-waiter staging your dining demise? Fine. But for the nights after long days, and the afternoons after long nights, I just want great food. That's where this place comes in.

Pure Thai Cookhouse brings authentic Thai "shophouse" style cuisine to an otherwise over-saturated market of greasy noodles and tasteless curries. Situated in Hell's Kitchen, this 35-seat-and-stool spot hails from the folks behind the Land restaurants and the late Recipe, my once-favorite Upper West Side restaurant (sigh). Pure Thai creates little fuss, other than stacking hoards of clamoring diners outside due to its no-reservation policy (which I have worked around, see below). With its tiny wooden tables and specials etched on chalkboards, the only real production must be in the kitchen.

For starters, I always opt for the tangy, spicy, green papaya salad. It’s a combination of green beans, tomatoes, and of course, green papaya, tossed with crushed peanuts, Thai chili, and lime juice, along with itsy bitsy dried shrimp that add dimension to an already exciting mix of crisp flavors. During my last visit, I ventured out and tried a special appetizer, the oyster pancake, which presented as more of a thin, yet fluffy frittata, bursting with juicy oysters encapsulated in a lightly fried batter. If you can move past the unanticipated texture, you’re in for a treat when that bad boy’s available.

Nothing says “cooking with compromise” like beer. It’s the ultimate equalizer. This favorite started out as a bro-tastic request for pork sausage and peppers, and morphed over time into a veggie-packed, turkey-laden, spicy-sauced bowl of goodness. How did we reach such healthful harmony in a contentious debate over encased meat? 

The beer. That’s how. 

Okay, I fooled you.  I am not qualified to teach a lesson on plating. I am not qualified to teach a lesson on plating because of my plates. If you have been following my Fat Noodle posts, you should know this. You have seen them. 

These stonewashed beauties are true relics of the past. They belonged to my stepmother during her college years and made their way up to my first New York City apartment seven years ago, packaged in newspapers. Over the years, they have done the trick. They harbored my Honey Bunches of Oats during law school, sizzled in the microwave with Trader Joe’s teriyaki chicken when that was my idea of a home-cooked meal, and carried more hits, misses, Valentine’s Day lasagnas and milestone cakes than I can count. Notably, they are orange, one of the two important colors in a household of Florida Gators. They have been dropped (but never thrown), and always survive.