In 1987, the North Korean regime began work on what was supposed to become the world's tallest hotel -- the 330 m (1,083 ft) Ryugyong Hotel in Pyongyang; but it was not to be. When work was halted in 1992, it already ranked as the ninth tallest skyscraper in the world by roof height, almost exactly the same roof height as the Empire State Building. Though the superstructure was complete, lack of funding and faulty construction methods forced the abandonment of Ryugyong. For 16 years the mountainous shell of the hollow structure loomed over the North Korean capital, looking more like a jagged, decaying megalodon tooth than a hotel. Construction was resumed in April 2008 for a planned 2012 completion, and recent photos show newly installed windows on the concrete face. Windows and fittings, however, can't hide the fact that while the original plans called for a structural steel frame, that proposal was apparently rejected for its expense; according to Wikipedia, the skyscraper was built entirely out of cheaply made reinforced concrete.
Last night I decided it was time to sample L.A.'s newest gastronomic fad, marinated and barbecued Korean meat wrapped in tacos and sold from a truck. It was actually Dnice, recently transplanted from the east coast, who educated me on the fusion street fare after hearing about it on Good Food last weekend.
As ludicrous as it sounds, I stood in a line of over a hundred food fiends on Wilshire and Cloverdale for 90 minutes. After the first 20 I was committed; I had made the effort to drive out to the Miracle Mile at 22:00 on a school night, and anyway all I had at home was cereal and milk. Luckily I had the latest Radiolab podcast to keep me company, and at around 23:30 I finally got to have my photo taken and place my order for 3 tacos -- tofu, spicy pork, and spicy BBQ Chicken.
The tacos were delectable -- beautifully textured toppings wedded flawlessly with the tangy, spicy meat; the overall mouthfeel was pinguid and yet perfectly crisp. As my friend Tom pointed out today, however, nothing short of ambrosia could fully satisfy after an hour and a half in the cold, but Kogi came close -- it could very well be the late night drunk food of the gods.
I can't wait for the fad to pass so I can get this toothsome treat without the long wait.
Japan's longest wooden building, rebuilt in 1266. Alas, you're not allowed to photograph the 1,001 gilded bodhisattvas inside, so here's the outside. This page has some photos of the inner hall of statues. If you've ever read the Japanese historical meganovel Musashi (or seen the filmed adaptation Duel at Ichijoji Temple), this was where, on a snowy night in 1604, the ronin Miyamoto Musashi (perhaps the most renowned swordsman in history) dueled with Yoshioka Denshichirō.
Denshichirō's feet inched forward. At the tip of his sword, his willpower quivered toward the start of a movement.
Two lives expired with two strokes of a single sword. First, Musashi attacked to his rear, and Ōtaguro Hyōsuke's head, or a piece of it, sailed past Musashi like a great crimson cherry, as the body staggered lifelessly toward Denshichirō. The second horrendous scream -- Denshichirō's cry of attack -- was cut short midway, the broken-off sound thinning out into the space around them. Musashi leapt so high that he appeared to have sprung from the level of his opponent's chest. Denshichirō's big frame reeled backward and dropped in a spray of white snow.
Body pitifully bent, face buried in the snow, the dying man cried, "Wait! Wait!"
Musashi was no longer there.
"Hear that?"
"It's Denshichirō!"
"He's been hurt!"
The black forms of Genzaemon and the Yoshioka disciples rushed across the courtyard like a wave.
"Look! Hyōsuke's been killed!"
"Denshichirō!"
"Denshichirō!"
Yet they knew there was no use calling, no use thinking about medical treatment. Hyōsuke's head had been sliced sideways from the right ear to the middle of the mouth, Denshichirō's from the top down to the right cheekbone. All in a matter of seconds.
"That's...that's why I warned you," sputtered Genzaemon. "That's why I told you not to take him too lightly. Oh, Denshichirō, Denshichirō!" The old man hugged his nephew's body, trying in vain to console it.
Genzaemon clung to Denshichirō's corpse, but it angered him to see the others milling about in the blood-reddened snow. "What happened to Musashi?" he thundered.
Some had already started searching; they saw no sign of Musashi.
"He's not here," came the answer, timid and obtuse.
"He's around here somewhere," barked Genzaemon. "He hasn't got wings. If I don't get in a blow of revenge, I can never again hold my head up as a member of the Yoshioka family. Find him!"
One man gasped and pointed. The others fell back a pace and stared in the direction indicated.
"It's Musashi."
"Musashi?"
As the idea sank in, silence filled the air, not the tranquility of a place of worship, but an ominous, diabolical silence as though ears, eyes and brains had ceased to function.
Whatever the man had seen, it was not Musashi, for Musashi was standing under the eaves of the nearest building. His eyes fixed on the Yoshioka men and his back pressed to the wall, he edged his way along until he reached the southwest corner of the Sanjūsangendō. He climbed onto the veranda and crept, slowly and quietly, to the center.
"Will they attack?" he asked himself. When they made no movement in his direction, he continued stealthily on to the north side of the building and, with a bound, disappeared into the darkness.
-- Musashi, by Eiji Yoshikawa (1935): Book IV, Wind, chapter 7, Reverberations in the Snow. . Translated from the Japanese by Charles S. Terry (1981).
