Sushi at JUNRYO

We finally went to JUNRYO for dinner. Their seatings are tight. At dinner, it's 5pm, 6pm, 7pm, and 8pm. The dining limit is stated as 'one hour'. One hour. LOL Okaaaay, this is no atas sushi-ya. It's purely for convenience. Can lah. The a la carte sushi menu suited us just fine. I like it because I'm not obliged to tell the chef I don't want maguro in any form. I order what I want to eat. 

I'm also less keen on spending hours out at a Japanese sushi-ya when I'd rather spend this same window of time with my dog. This is why I tell you it's important to eat and do all the things you want, and travel and fulfil many 'dreams' before you anchor down with a dog. Otherwise I would be highly discontented and less settled to stay in-country with my silly Smol Girl. 

Anyway. JUNRYO. The prices are clearly stated on the menu. Yay. No need to wonder 'how much is this meal going to cost me?' It's never about whether I can afford this meal. COME ON. I absolutely dislike being kertok-ed. I don't like going in blind into any situation. When I don't bother with tuna-anything, the sushi-ya have a headache about how to justify my $450-a head portions. 

At JUNRYO, there is no frill. No shoyu (honestly, no need), no chopsticks rest, and no fancy sake. No iced water service either. So there isn't a point to drinking in this joint unless you're an alcoholic. They do have bottled Sapporo beer. I still ate loads. Had one cold beer. I happily ate 19 pieces of sushi. All the kinmedai, madai and shima aji that I wanted. It's protein! It's rough-hewn, but it's exactly the fish listed on the menu. 

The entire joint is run by ONE SUSHI CHEF who doubles up as server too. He also does all the prep. I have no idea how he can do on this his own day after day. There ought to be at least an assistant behind the counter for everything else. 

The only thing about these types of sushi places, there is no soul and no pride. These joints are completely opposite of those small and proud family-owned ones in Japan and those along the coastal regions. These restaurants in Singapore are not run by owner-chefs. Some investors take out money and get sushi 'chefs' to run it, riding on a high of popularity and being able to easily import fresh Japanese fish. The faces you see at these joints are lowly-paid hired guns nagged out to churn out work. It's pretty much a conveyor belt sushi-ya, with a human face fronting it. 

A New Coast Doesn't Mean Hope

I wasn't sure if I wanted to read a post-war story. The author is known for writing about conflict and its effects on people. His books have always been post-war cities and its residents, say in the Korean War and the Vietnam war.

This is a short story, not a book. It's shorter. I might as well have a sense of what it's about. This is 'The New Coast' by Paul Yoon, published in The New Yorker on November 9, 2025.

Two brothers are fighting for survival in a shantytown in a small city that is rebuilding after the war. Their parents have died, but they have a sister that they have stopped searching for. They had been wandering for two years before settling down in this town. They know that stability of a 'normal' life and a home is out of reach for now, and they make do with what they can.

The narrator is the younger brother about thirteen years old. His eighteen-year-old elder brother could write and do some Math. He has been hired by the military to do the job of a census-taker of sorts, surveying the city's population. Money is tight, but they make do. It seems as though the older brother has shielded him from post-war realities. 

Their neighbor Mrs. S seemed kindly enough and acted like their guardian. She was also searching for her lost granddaughter, but she passed away before finding her. There are always orphans leftover in wars. 

The hope that their sister was alive and in an orphanage somewhere died, and they stayed on in the shantytown. The narrator turned fifteen and the brother is twenty years old. One day, the brother suddenly vanished. The narrator didn't know what happened, if he died in an accident, by suicide, or he simply ran off to look for the sister.

The ending is bleak, as post-war stories are. There's death, loss and resignation. I don't know how much hope there is, and if anyone could fight against not having a spark of hope.

The narrator took on his brother's old job, and carried on with living. He returned to the coast and found no trace of his brother. He went back to the village where they were born and didn't find him either. In all these re-tracing of steps in order to make some meaning of life, he returned to the shantytown and the city that has improved somewhat. 

Eventually, I returned to the city, though by then someone had taken over the shanty that my brother and I had made our home. I moved into another, where, to my surprise, there was one of Mrs. S’s bracelets hanging on a nail. I slipped it on, then thought better of it and put it back.

In the morning, I went to the office where my brother had worked and asked if I could have my brother’s job.

I still do that now. I walk the sections of the city that are slowly being rebuilt and collect names and information, and I go out to the new towns on the new train lines and do the same. I try to collect as much information as possible.

I look after my neighbors. I help them wash their clothes. I leave food out for the new dogs. 

Thanksgiving 2025 :: Sous Vide Chicken!!

My aunts are in town. They said they're visiting ME and Choya. LOL They're not technically incorrect. But on a flight itinerary, Singapore is a stopover on their way to their actual vacation in New Zealand. They're also 'stopping over' here on their way home. It has become a 'new tradition' of sorts since Choya came along. I'm appreciative of their love for us. 

I had suggested eating out on Thanksgiving Day. They would not hear of it. They said they would eat my cooking. They didn't mind simplicity. They claimed that they would rather eat my food than any restaurant's items that might be too rich and induce the runs for them, rendering them in agony for their 9am flight out the next day. I was like..... 'and you think MY food won't give you the runs?'

Anyway, I succumbed and agreed to cook them dinner. Very few people can coerce me to cook. Accccck. Now, I'm not a cook. I can provide edible food, and that's it. Chicken it is this year too! It was chicken curry last year. No more of that. I shall do it sous vide. Nobody is that fond of turkey in this home. I most certainly do not want to deal with a slippery butterball that can't quite fit inside the oven. Imagine the cleaning of the burnt grease after. Ugh. 

I certainly didn't mind doing sous vide chicken since I was prepping that for the floofs too. But for the humans, I marinated the meat for a bit and seared it in the pan first before sous-viding. Searing it would lend that brown loveliness to the tenderness of the sous-vide meat. 

I didn't do a whole chicken. I did chicken breast for floofs and humans. All these people like chicken breast. They wanted to tank up on protein as well. To be honest, they can't get 2-kg of chicken breast at restaurants unless they pre-order it. This morning, I had no issues buying 2.5-kg of chicken breasts at the grocer's for tonight's dinner. 500g were apportioned for the floofs. Teheheheheh.

Dinner turned out pretty edible. The easy marinade was lovely — with fish sauce, garlic, shallots and spices, and the meat was sooooo tender. I didn't bother with a salad. I did throw coriander on the side since some weird people like coriander. I made Asian stir-fried greens with store-bought broccoli, homegrown nai bai and shanghai greens, and carrots. I did feed them carbs. Made two pots of rice — a plain basmati, and an autumn-flavored rice with a bit of mushroom dashi, pumpkin, mushrooms and chestnuts. It was an odd little meal that nobody seemed to mind. 

I also quietly heaved a sigh of relief and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving that Choya is okay without symptoms of tick fever. It's been a week and a half since the clean removal of that damn tick. I know clearly that the preventives would work as they are supposed to. But I still worry. 

We had an early dinner because the husband was heading out for a jam session. Suited us fine. The Aunts woke up early and were still kinda jet-lagged, and the earlier meal complemented their stomachs. They stayed on for a bit before they returned to the hotel to pack up. That was a most lovely evening.

May we be blessed by God as we share this food and as we work and live together for the good of all.