Goin' Home

Sitting on a plush Moroccan rug on the floor of Kat’s living room, Korean style with my back up against the couch, in a circle with some of the usual suspects having a large mezcal and throwing my head back, the thought occurred to me to ask myself what the hell I was doing there. After a long and heady dinner service we had been invited the following Saturday to the home of a regular. Kat, I recalled.

I put down the glass and cleared my eyes. This kind of shit happens from time to time. I stopped at Kokoman on the way over and ran into Russell, giving him a hug before grabbing a bottle. “What are the chances?” I thought to myself before realizing it’s just that we drink a lot.

Of all the gin joints in all the world.

“Sake tasting Wednesday.”

Yes.

“Don’t forget.”

How could I?

But now we were on the incredibly plush Moroccan rug and the glass of mezcal was sweating in my hand.

Kat cast her gaze at me and asked, “What made you decide to start Ozu?”

I looked around at the circle, emptying my glass and trying to summon an answer. My life flashing back. Shit. Did I accidentally go to therapy?

I rattled off what remained in my memory. About a casual conversation with Sophie from the Bread Shop. Peering through the window of the empty shop post-move. This would be a cute little lunch counter. “Oh, you have to do it.” The coup de grace from Rachel. “If you want it, it’s yours.” Dotted line. Saying things out loud and having them come true is something I have to seriously be careful about.

I was listening to Albert Ayler on the ride over. It finally clicked for me. For years I never understood his work, but I knew it was cool to like him. The so-called free jazz of the 60s. He would go off on some shred of a melody, squealing, and shrieking in a haunting way. Even though it went over my head, there was something there though that occupied space in my mind. It wasn’t until I read more about him that I began to understand what was going on. There was an article in Downbeat I came across featuring an interview with him and his brother.

He kept talking about New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, and the New Orleans spirit of freeneess and self-expression and joy. Everything else was secondary. Window dressing. He released an album of spirituals called Goin’ Home.

I noticed on Goin’ Home a kind of reverence to his playing. That the old spirituals than he did with his own compositions.

“The thing about New Orleans jazz,” Don broke in, “is the feeling it communicated that something was about to happen, and it was going to be good.”

“Yes,” Albert said, “and we’re trying to do for now what people like Louis Armstrong did at the beginning. Their music was a rejoicing. And it was beauty that was going to happen. As it was at the beginning, so will it be at the end.”

It started to click for me. I think we’re all just trying to go home. We sold the house I grew up in this year in South Jersey.

But not fucking South Jersey. As children we have some experience of a home. And then as adults we try to reproduce it, or perhaps to escape it.

It feels like a dream. With my eyes closed, I can only go by smell and taste and feel and that familiar sound. Ozu came out of that kind of thinking.

I wasn’t the first to think of cooking as Japanese jazz. It’s been our thing for years. Remember the days when every bona fide Japanese restaurant had a copy of Kind of Blue permanently jammed into the CD player? It was no coincidence. Three or four legends running an open kitchen on Pico. On stage, a complete performance.

When we started dinner I tried to remind everyone we were making music with one another. The early days felt like band practice. But we’ve made some fucking music since then.

The line from Ayler captures what I was trying to say.

“It’s really free, spiritual music, not just free music. And as for playing it, other musicians worry about what they’re playing. But we’re listening to each other. Many of the others are not playing together, and so they produce noise. It’s screaming, it’s neo-avant-garde music. But we are trying to rejuvenate that old New Orleans feeling that music can be played collectively and with free form. Each person finds his own form.”

Booked another quick trip to NY. Home for Susanne and Yuichi is now an assisted living. Going home going home going home. My mother’s laugh. The sound of her voice.

Dinner tonight. “Something is going to happen. And it is going to be good.”

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Niigata senbei
Japanese rice crackers, choice of black pepper, uni, squid, nori, or a mix of all 4

temaki
choice of blue crab, maguro, kanpachi namerou, or ikura

sesame miso bagna fredda
local raw vegetables with an umami-rich anchovy dip

oyster on the half shelf
raw Kuushi oyster from British Columbia

owan
rich fish stock miso soup

white anchovy salad with ponzu dressing
marinated white anchovies over local greens with ponzu vinaigrette

tsukune nanban
chicken meatball patties with miso, ginger, scallion, with sweet and sour glaze

seafood ojiya
rich fish stock rice porridge with miso, scallops, & aonori

kanpachi namerou
tartare of kanpachi with white miso, ginger, shiso, over rice

hamachi bento
raw yellowtail with yuzu hot sauce, over Japanese rice with hiyashi salad and pickles

black cod saikyo yaki bento
roasted black cod marinated in miso over Japanese rice, hiyashi salad & pickles

maguro bento
raw bluefin tuna over sushi rice with hiyashi salad, pickles

chirashi
raw kinmedai, maguro, saba, shima aji, scallop, tai, ikura, uni over sushi rice*

basque cheesecake