Big Dinner in Little Tokyo Alley

Tokyo Alley

by Chris Horne

There has never been a single time during my tenure at the paper when a suggested lunch visit to Tokyo Alley has been met with anything less than enthusiastic daydreams of Red Curry Chicken and noodle salad. It was the first meal I had there and I’ve never switched. Though normally not such a creature of habit, I can’t help myself because nowhere else in town makes it so good. The only addition to my ritual has been to start things off with one of their cheese sticks, which contains crabmeat and comes with a tangy red dipping sauce (yeah, I’m from Macon and I have no idea what that stuff is called).

Although I stick to my Red Curried guns, I know, from the testimony of my eating partners, that the Green Curry, the Hot and Sweet Chicken, the Orange Chicken and the Teriyaki Chicken is all delicious. I’ve heard such good things about each of these dishes that I’ve occasionally considered giving them a go.

One of the things I like so much about Tokyo Alley is that it’s cozy but maintains some sense of privacy. Conversations remained hushed but not so low as to require a whisper. And the atmosphere is flexible too. As many times as I’ve gone to eat with friends, catching up and joking around, I’ve also gone on business, and the setting allows each easily—a fine balance between the casual and the proper.

The service has never been a problem either though it is nothing extraordinary. In fact, it works like a good lunch should: with efficiency. There is little if any banter, and better, seldom a long wait. The wait staff mostly stays out of the way, making sure you can get your food and drink, and get back to your day. If you’ve ever had a midday hang-up at lunch, you know how important that is.

Seeing as I was raised thinking that Red Lobster and Shoney’s were the best my money could buy, I’ve had to get over thinking that every local eatery was going to be expensive. It took me years of building nerve and financial reserve before I’d go into places like Jim Shaw’s just because I thought that it had to be fancy. Same with Tokyo Alley. It looks nice to me, and since it isn’t a chain, I just assumed it was for fancier clientele. On the contrary, it’s more than affordable. I actually feel like I’m ripping them off when I eat because my entire ticket comes to less than ten bucks every time.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, considering how universal the praise for Tokyo Alley is, but I couldn’t believe it’d been there since 1992. That’s like forever in independent restaurant time. But like some of our other fine establishments, it does make perfect sense.

THE SHAMROCK

She asked what The Shamrock was and I breathed deep, inhaling for almost a full minute before I said, in my deepest, most mysterious voice, “It is perfect for our purposes this evening.”

The restaurant was packed even at 8pm, which was actually nice because we got to sit upstairs. Just a note here: too few restaurants in Macon have upstairs. In fact, I can’t think of another restaurant that has an upstairs and that’s terribly disappointing. Sometimes, I want to look down on my fellow diners in more than just a metaphorical way.

Anyway, I’d talked up the goods so when we placed our order, we ended up with a buffet. We didn’t mean to, but it couldn’t be helped. Fried Oysters, Irish Potato Soup, dinner salads and our entrees. Neither Jaime or I like onions, and I’d been telling her how good the Shepard’s Pie is at the Shamrock, so she asked if the onions were “bad”, meaning “are there many and if so, how big?”

“I don’t remember them being a problem,” I said. “If I can handle it, they must not be bad.”

So she ordered the Shepard’s Pie. And I’ve been working out lately, kinda. My muscles were sore so I wanted protein and vinegar. I ordered the Fish n’ Chips.

Those Fried Oysters—I can’t stand raw oysters but for some reason, fried is good (it always is, isn’t it?)—were great. With Jim Shaw’s nearby, it was hard to tell where we’d ordered them from. The salad dressings must’ve been homemade because they were unique and fresh tasting. It’s more incentive to eat salads. And the potato leak soup must have been delicious because Jaime didn’t let me have any and practically licked the cup clean. She also drew pictures on her napkin and tried to make me guess who… but homey don’t play that.

As I soaked my three giant fish fillets in vinegar, I began to think back to all the times I’ve eaten at the Shamrock. I thought back through the years, the many dishes, the times I’d been tempted to try the Shepard’s Pie but had been scared off by the promise of onions. Jaime was digging beneath the layer of mashed potatoes, quietly removing the pungent pride of Vidalia. I spoke up—a confession really—“Jaime, I don’t think I’ve actually ever had the Shepard’s Pie here.”

She threw her fork down and picked it up again. I thought she might stab me in the eye. It looked like that was a distinct possibility. In the end, she ate it—most of it—but did so the same way I would’ve, picking out the onions and anything that looked remotely onion in nature. Thing is, we’d filled up on the starters so it wasn’t like either of us were going to finish our meals anyway. I mean, I got a fish and a half down—they were huge! And those hand-cut chips, man alive.

Afterwards, with no room for desserts, we were lucky enough to catch Macon’s own Brother Henry, formerly of Mt. Pilot and now of Nashville. The bar was packed, the seats on the floor the same. As we were deciding what to do, two of our childhood pals showed up—Jessica and Samantha. We all grew up in Shurlington together, and Jaime and Jessica were the best of friends. Good times, great oldies. Beers were had, stories were told, jokes were made about our younger brothers—neither of whom were present to defend themselves.

So who was right about the Shamrock being the perfect place to go? That’s right. I was.