Not more than three hours after posting the whoa-is-me-my-foot-is-sprained entry (see "Busted," below), I found myself sprinting full speed down the street, chasing after a...POTATO TRUCK.
These days, nothing stands between me and a nice potato. Sweet potato, that is. My family may find this bit of news very interesting, seeing as how I am possibly the only human being on the planet that doesn't devour the amazing marshmallow-topped yam casserole that my grandma whips up at Thanksgiving. I mean no disrespect to Grandma, it's just that I'm usually not that into potatoes.
Until Japan.
There is this amazing phenomenon called the potato truck. A couple of nights a week, it cruises around my neighborhood, with a cute old man belting out "oiiiiiiiiishiiiiiiiiii" (that's "delicious," please see blog title, above) from a loud speaker. You can think of it as the Japanese version of the ice cream truck, except it's more like a jerry rigged pickup with, well, a big pot of spuds in the back...
So I was over at The Best Neighbors on the Planet's house last night when we heard the call from the street.
Oiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiishiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii...
Like Pavlov's dog, I started salivating at the very thought of a delicious sweet potato, or satsuma-imo, as they're called here in Japan. They're grilled to this state of not-too-tough, not-too-soft state of perfection and are served warm from the back of the truck. The inside is a sweet, carb-o-licious potato wonder. The perfect food to fill your belly on a cold February night.
A friend and I quickly pulled on our shoes and hustled to the road. We caught a glimpse of the satsuma-imo truck disappearing around the corner. If we wanted our potato, we'd have to hurry.
So, putting the doctor's "no running for three weeks" advice out of my head, I began a full-on sprint in the direction of the chant. The oiiiiiiiiiiishiiiiiiiiiii call got louder as I got closer. It was mesmerizing, hypnotizing, helping me temporarily forget about the pain shooting through my foot. Some things are worth suffering for.
Satsuma-imo. Satsuma-imo. Delicious. Delicious. Yum. Yum.
Unlike the slow, steady ice cream trucks of the USA, the spud mobile barreled ahead at seemingly neck breaking clip. It rounded another corner. We ran faster. We finally caught up to it, breathless, waving to the rear view mirror.
The cute old man -- the voice behind the loudspeaker -- tapped the breaks. The truck stopped. A sweet old woman -- ostensibly his partner in crime -- smiled at us as she opened the passenger-side door and waddled to the back of the truck to take our order. These two were driving that fast?
Futatsu. (I paused to gasp for breath.) Onegaishimasu. Two, please.
Oh, sweet victory. Sweet potato.
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