Mosburger

Readers of my previous post are probably wondering how we got on the subject of catch phrases from 70s TV shows while sitting in that restaurant in Kyoto. The triggering event was when Daniel said something ridiculous, and Amy responded, “What you talkin’ ‘bout?” I added, “Willis,” and it went from there.

Cut to several evenings later, when I launched into an equally pointless dinnertime spiel at the Mosburger in Tokushima. We had rode our bicycles from the university to the beach and then to the Mosburger. The Tokushima Mosburger is on what they call the “bypass” road, the sort of sprawling artery that is killing off Japanese downtowns as it did in the U.S. decades ago (the decline of Japanese cities is also often blamed, like all of the country’s woes, on the low birth rate). The bypass road has sidewalks and tunnels through overpasses for bikes, making it by U.S. standards hardly a bypass road at all. But the speed of the traffic, the girth of the road’s three lanes in each direction, the relative infrequency of traffic signals and absence of pedestrians make the road uninviting for bikes as well.

Anyway, we made our way there, and I launched into another yet another dinnertime discourse. This time the triggering event was the arrival of the Fanta melon sodas that we all ordered with all our meals at the Mosburger (we dined at Mosburger in three cities). Along with Coke and Canada Dry ginger ale, melon soda is ubiquitous in Japanese fast food settings, whereas some standard U.S. pops (such as Diet Coke) are quite rare. As we sipped the dayglo green elixir (from real glasses, I might add), the children once again insisted that it was identical in both taste and color (though characteristically less sweet) to the apple soda they’d enjoyed at Ed Debevic’s in Chicago. This led to a discussion of the people with whom we’d recently dined at Ed Debevic’s (Joe and Liz Mason), our family history at Ed Debevic’s (our first wiseguy waiter there said “I’ll speak slowly then” when we told him we were from Michigan), my own first visit to Ed Debevic’s (with my cousin while attending the blues festival in 1985), my cousin’s mispronunciation of “Debevic,” my cousin’s habit of mispronouncing words and names he’s only encountered in print, Amy’s father’s same habit, etc.

Something else I spoke about at dinner was the sento at the beach. I had been saving that story for dinner but it was preempted by the melon soda discussion. The sento was easily the most impressive of the four I visited in Tokushima. It had a great many spacious baths of varying temperatures, two hot rooms, long banks of well-equipped showers, and a natural hot spring set among beautiful blue stones. I showered and went into one of the hot rooms, and there was a huge vat of chunky white powder in the middle of the floor, which of course I proceeded to taste and discovered to be salt. A smallish, older, rugged-looking gentleman entered the room and started vigorously rubbing the salt all over his body, so I did the same. Once we were both thoroughly cured I squinted at him through one stinging eye (I’d rubbed the salt on my face too) with a coy look as if to ask, “What now?” He rinsed himself by a spout in the corner, and I did the same. Then he left the hot room and took a more thorough shower, and I followed him. He went in the cold pool, I went in the cold pool … I just figured I’d follow him everywhere. (“Then he called the police,” Amy guessed. “And you called the police,” Charlie added.) Eventually I lost him, and cleaned up and left the sento, pleased to find that, like all the best sentos, it had a machine outside with little glass bottles of whole milk and sweetened coffee milk. The next morning my skin felt smooth as silk.

But back to the Mosburger. Amy wanted a beach ball, and I wanted a “Hamburger is My Life” plate, but they don’t sell stuff like that at the Mosburger. First, you have to buy a “set-o,” or set meal (a term that in Japan encompasses everything from the standard, burger/fries/pop fast-food combo to the 10,000 yen kaiseki banquet). Then you get a scratch card and if you’re lucky (which is not often) you win a beach ball. I had the same problem on an earlier, solo trip to the Tokushima Mosburger in trying to acquire a little Mosburger guy figure. My usual strategy of smiling, offering money, and standing there hopefully until they offered me one did not work. At the moment, on eBay, there are a couple of little Mosburger phone strap figures shaped like burgers and hot dogs but no beach balls as yet.

Things went downhill from there: after leaving the Mosburger we tried to visit the nearby entertainment complex (billiards, ping pong, karaoke, etc.). I lamely tried to ascertain how much it cost to purchase “ka-dos” (entrance cards) and to stay by the “owah” (hour), and not only was I unsuccessful but Charlie stormed off, claiming I was racist. We made our way home and watched a movie to bond, “I Am Legend,” another flimsy-scripted action thriller that fulfills a great thought experiment (deadly zombies overrunning Manhattan, everything else dead but a few wily species and Will Smith) much more effectively than the original “Omega Man.”

Amy retired to bed, and the kids to their computers. They’ve been staying up all night. I don’t know which is worse, the Japanese or U.S. childrearing system. Japanese kids are occupied with some activity every moment of their lives. A friend of mine at Shikoku U. says it reminds him of Plato’s Republic, where kids are stripped from their parents and raised collectively. They end up with many talents but none they have chosen. American kids are relatively idle and free to choose their diversions and typically move through a series of half-hearted projects. Both end up in cyberspace.