It's a well-known fact that alcohol dulls the taste buds. When I don't abstain, I'll have one drink max with sushi, and I'll have two once in a while if the steak is really good. I find that avoidance is often wise, unless I'm going to Issen Yokocho. I'll probably have to have ten before Issen Yokocho.
You don't walk into Issen Yokocho for the Okonomiyaki, you stumble or you crawl. Their hot-mess preparation of green onion, egg, dried shrimp, grilled fish paste, flour, dried bonito, beef, ginger, tempura batter, konjak jelly, dried seaweed, and Japanese sauce is as much of an unappetizing hot mess as it sound. This mish-mash hodge-posh of stuff scattered carelessly on a grill is made for the post-pub stagger-ers who don't know or care what they put into their mouths. The final product is an all-out assault, non-cohesive ingredients in hastily thrown-together proportions, meant to be washed down immediately with a very large beer.
The Matcha Ice Cream was an afterthought, a last-ditch attempt to remove all memory of Okonomiyaki from my mouth. It was a small band-aid on a gaping wound, a scar I won't soon forget.
An afterthought-footnote on their menu concedes, "If you need to get rid of these items, please tell us." Yes. I need to get rid of all these items.
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