In Japan every place -- even the smallest, most unremarkable village -- is famous for something. Hokkaido is known for its rich and flavorful milk, its light-bodied, buttery style of ramen and a crab with freakishly long legs full of sweet, delicate meat. All were in attendance this past weekend at the Mitsuwa Hokkaido Fair 2009 -- all except the butter in the ramen, but more on that later.

My friends Mel and Steve, who went to the festival last year, invited me down to the Torrance Mitsuwa on Sunday during the pre-lunch hour, cautioning that the ramen booth had run out the year before. I got there early and wandered around, relishing the familiar sound of "Irasshaimase!" being belted out by tiny uniformed ladies proffering treats. Between the supermarket and the food court, a strip of booths selling Hokkaido specialties had sprung up and I couldn't resist the rows of golden karei-pan (curry bread) at Pullman Bakery. I also eyed the Yubari meron-pan (melon bread made from a special Hokkaido muskmelon) and shiro-taiyaki (white, fish-shaped cakes filled with sweet red bean paste), but decided to wait until after the ramen.

Mel and Steve arrived and we lined up at Shingen Ramen. Steve craned his neck looking for the miso-butter ramen they had eaten at last year's festival, but only straightforward shio ramen was to be found. I was pretty happy about the prospect of any sort of ramen in my belly, but the more Steve talked about the rich miso broth kissed with a bit of famous Hokkaido butter, the more I started craning my neck looking for miso-butter ramen. But, as the old saying goes, a ramen bowl in the hand is worth two in the bush. I sat down before my bowl of shio ramen with only joy in my heart.

The broth was clean and powerfully salty, the noodles springy, the whole bowl surprisingly free of the usual porky grease. It was like a ramen deconstructed, each component simple but nearly flawless.

I would have eaten it with some butter though, had they offered. I'm just saying.

Dessert number one was my still-warm curry pan, a crunchy-coated roll miraculously filled with rich curry, a study in textures and contrasting flavors. I could write a paper about the synergy of crunchy-soft bread, squishy curry and smooth potato chunk...but I'd rather just eat another curry pan.

Dessert number two was a shiro-taiyaki. Or two actually, because I really like taiyaki. It's my second favorite Japanese festival food.* I once even made a purse with a felt applique of a taiyaki and the phrase "I want to eat taiyaki" embroidered on it in Japanese, so you see how I serious I am about this little pancake fish. But I had never tried shiro (white) taiyaki and was wondering how MJ Shokudo managed to keep their tai so vampire pale, when the first bite made it clear: mochi flour. Freshly grilled, the little fish was addictively chewy with a crisp outer skin and smooth, sweet bean center. Forget mochi ice cream balls, people. Mochi is magical when it's warm. MAGICAL.

The melon pan was unfortunately sold out, so there was no dessert number three. But that's okay. I scoped out the market's candy aisles and ogled the Hokkaido crab for sale before heading home, feeling a little sad my pretend Japan day was over. As my former students would say, it was very enjoy! Shall we do it again next year?

* My very favorite Japanese festival food is jaga-bataa ("potato butter"), simply a well-steamed potato topped with a giant chunk of butter. You salt it to taste and eat it in a bowl with chopsticks. Simple and fantastically satisfying.

Paella pans.

One Saturday soon you may find yourself craving paella and a little day trip. On that Saturday I suggest you get in your car and, with a good and hungry friend, head down the 110 toward Harbor City, home of La Española Meats. You won't be entirely sure where Harbor City is and, during an engrossing conversation in the car, will realize you have not been paying attention to the exits at all and did you pass it? You will turn around, head back toward the 405, realize that no, you did not in fact pass it, turn around again, then resume your drive and the engrossing conversation.

But don't worry about the delay. It will only help build up your appetite for paella.

Cured meat sample!

When you park outside La Española, an unassuming building on a dead-end street, your friend will ask you with some incredulity if you have brought her to a warehouse. Actually, you have: the market supplies many of the upscale food shops and tapas restaurants in Los Angeles. But on Saturdays they make paella. There are tables and chairs outside under a cheerful awning, and giant plates of paella for a mere $8.50. Big families who clearly have been coming for paella on Saturdays for years sit chatting and eating. You hear that sometimes someone brings a guitar and there is music and maybe a little dancing, but today there will be none.

But that's okay because: PAELLA. Your Styrofoam takeout container will be loaded with saffron-tinged rice, the plump grains hiding chunks of tender meat and seafood. On the side, a plate of sliced crusty bread, olives and charcuterie. To drink, an orange-flavored Spanish soda called Kas, because that's what the man inside recommended. You and your friend will get kind of quiet as you start to eat. The filtered sunlight, the briny olives, another bite of paella: Saturday lunchtime bliss.

Yes.

After eating, you will head inside to check out the market and also the sandwiches, because someone at the table next to you was eating a long, narrow sandwich that looked really freaking good. You and your friend will debate getting a sandwich, decide against it -- it really was a lot of paella -- and instead sample the various cheeses and cured meats, striking up a conversation with the man who recommended the orange soda. You'll find out he is the warehouse manager, that he drives all over LA making deliveries to the shops and restaurants which buy the market's imported products. "Wait -- I'll give you something!" he'll say after a couple minutes of conversation. You will wait, hoping he returns with a wedge of sheep's milk cheese or wizened chunk of salume.

Instead he will hand you two thin aerosol cans. You and your friend will look at them. Deodorant spray. Spanish deodorant spray. "I hope you aren't saying we need this," you'll quip and then you'll all laugh. It will seem to mark the end of the conversation and the two of you will say your goodbyes. As you are leaving, you hear him say to one of the women he works with, "That was the only thing I could give them." Cheese and cured meats it is not, but you'll still appreciate the gesture, even if you do end up slipping the can into the box of things going to Goodwill in hopes that it will help out some smelly soul.

And anyway: PAELLA. It will be impossible to not leave La Española happy. I dare you.

La Española
25020 Doble Avenue
Harbor City, CA 90710
(310) 539-0455