Neon Nights and Katsu Curry: channeling your inner salaryman

Heated toilet seats and wet-room showers. Endless vending machines and the cacophonous siren call of shop assistants and storefront jingles. These are the things that remind me of the wonder of Tokyo.

I lived in Tokyo from 1989 to 1994, during it's heyday some might say. As a gloriously carefree expat brat, Tokyo was the ultimate playground - a neon wonka fun factory where the noise never dulled and threats never surfaced. It is a wondrous land of contradiction. It is both the safest place I have ever lived and the most morally twisted. The Japanese are a fascinating cocktail of stoic traditionalism and bug-eyed lunacy. I went back after finishing university in 2001 for a year off, studying Japanese in the mornings, teaching English at night and DJing on the weekends. It was one of the best years of my life, and the city will forever feel like my second home. London is the only other city in the world where I feel as much in my element, and even today there are indelible shards of Japanese culture nestled within my rambling psyche.

So it is with enormous joy and nostalgic excitement that I get to return there occasionally for work. Flippant reports about godzilla and mega-radiation never dampen my enthusiasm for the place, and even though the whole experience is framed within the breathless agenda of a business trip, this is a city full of surprises.

My first stop was an old favourite from when we lived there, a family-run tonkatsu restaurant called Tonki's. Nestled down an alley (like everything in Tokyo), it's as unassuming as they come. When you step through the sliding doors however, you are in for a treat. The sweet, crispy aroma of freshly frying tonkatsu wafts through the air, cushioned by the chatter of the patrons sat at the bar and the hushed awe of those watching the family ply their trade. They are hushed, because they have a bird's eye view of the entire kitchen. Each station is manned by various generations of the same family, and they all work flawlessly in unison: a well-oiled machine with incredible speed and disciplined attention to detail. The best thing about this? They only serve two dishes: pork fillet, or pork chop. That's it. And they haven't changed in decades.

The father greets you as you come in, takes your order and memorizes your face. The youngest guys egg and batter the pork fillets. The elder sons manage the fryers, gently dipping the katsu into huge copper vats. The grandfather awaits the freshly fried katsu with a razor sharp blade, and with fingers like blushing cherries he grabs the cutlet and slices it into perfectly formed pieces. If you've ever tried to slice tonkatsu just after frying it, you'll have discovered as I did that it is a) hotter than hades and 2) incredibly hard to slice neatly. The man is an absolute master at this one very specific task, just like the rest of the family. Each person has a role that they have mastered completely, no matter the significance. Two more staff then plate everything and attend to refilling the diners' plates with steaming rice and crispy fresh cabbage.

Beautifully simple and expertly crafted. 

Like very few other places I can think of, Tonki's has an atmosphere that really is just hard to express in words. You sit at the bar, take a load off, and watch this family craft your meal from start to finish without any drama, fuss or commotion. It arrives on your plate accompanied with a small dish of pickles and the best miso soup you'll never get in London. My colleague who had braved the journey with me, jetlagged to the gills like myself, was entranced by the place and wolfed down his meal with blissful gusto. For me, it was a uniquely surreal experience, finally going back after nearly ten years. Seeing all the same family members attending the same tasks was like stepping through a timewarp to one of the happiest periods of my childhood. Being there with a colleague from my life now, having come so far since my life in Tokyo, was like having the most nostalgic experience ever and then discovering that you can still enjoy it today. I will definitely go back the next time I am out east.

The rest of the trip was a frantic sprint between meetings, hotel buffets and crazed meals around the city. It's incredible seeing how much stuff the Japanese have managed to cram into this dense metropolis. We found a shop that was literally situated in a staircase. We stopped in an underground bar that played jazz remixes of Disney theme tunes. I met up with an old family friend at the smallest yakitori restaurant ever built (eight chairs around a bar). Everything is on multiple floors and basements, with drinking dens, cafes, boutiques, hairdressers and hostess bars all sharing vertical real estate. It is a swarming rabbit warren of activity, with surprises lurking on every floor.

I could write pages and pages on my love for Tokyo and all the strange things I have encountered there. But for me, what I thought would be slightly more useful and interesting would be to put down a recipe for something that will always, always take me back to Japan in a second: katsu curry.

Katsu curry is a stalwart of the salaryman. If you've ever been to Tokyo and witnessed the black and white tsunami of downtown rush-hour, you will know what I'm talking about. Millions upon millions of office workers, clerks and attendants, all suited, and all eating in little stand-up noodle bars and curry houses. Katsu curry is a particular mainstay, alongside tempura udon/soba for people who need to eat, and eat well, in a hurry. Outside every train station in Tokyo you will find a handful of these places, where you pop in, get a food token from the cash machine, plonk it down at the counter and receive a steaming bowl of food in return. It is glorious in its simplicity, and the realisation that this is, in effect, fast food. It goes without saying, however, that fast food done by the Japanese is unlike anything you'll ever encounter at the Fast Chicken Cottage in Hackney (speaking of which, Japanese KFC is amazing).

Self-Serve all-you-can-drink bar. Utter carnage.

The nicest katsu curry I have come across in central london can be found at Ten Ten Tei, on Brewer Street in Soho. Wagamama's can probably be attributed with bringing katsu curry to the masses, but I find their version too plasticky and dry, a real low-budget manufactured version. Ten Ten Tei's at least doesn't taste like it's been microwaved in a sachet. Naturally then, I decided to try making it myself at home. Japanese food, by and large, I find rather intimidating due to it's exotic ingredients and incredibly strict cooking guidelines. It's generally a very delicate cuisine, and not one that I've ever found anywhere near as accessible as chinese or mexican. Thankfully however, I can reassure you that katsu curry is one of the easiest and simplest japanese dishes you can find. It's hardly gourmet cooking, but then if you've read this blog before you'll know that's not what I'm going for anyway. The next time you're in the mood for it, grab a couple of the specific ingredients from a japanese/oriental shop, some pork loins and give this a whirl - you will be amazed at the difference.

Katsu Curry at Home
Ingredients:

150 g of pork loin
1 cup of panko breadcrumbs
1/2 cup of flour
1 medium egg (beaten)
Japanese curry sauce mix
+ however much boiling water the sauce mix requires
200ml chicken stock
2 large potatoes, cubed
1 medium sized carrot, sliced
2-3 medium yellow onions
2 tablespoons of garlic
1 green pepper (optional)
2 cups of rice
2 tablespoons of pickled red radish
vegetable oil
Salt & Pepper

For the Curry Sauce mix, you can get packets of this stuff in any Japanese food store - my preference is for the medium hot packets, but there are hotter or milder versions available. If you're not sure which brand to get (they're all pretty much the same), just ask one of the staff members and they can happily assist.

Fry a couple of cloves of garlic in vegetable oil and slice up the vegetables. Gently fry the onions until they have wilted and are translucent. Add the sliced carrot and the potato and cook for a few minutes. Add the chicken stock and however much water the curry sauce mix requires and bring to a simmer. Once the water is boiling, add a packet of the curry sauce mix (usually half of the packet), and reduce to the lowest heat. Mix it well and after a few minutes it will take on a thick, creamy consistency.

Take your pork loins and tap them firmly with the back of a knife to tenderize in a cross pattern. Then season well with salt and pepper, and push the pork loins together as the tapping will have spread them out slightly. This will ensure the katsu is tender.

Prepare your beaten egg, panko and flour in 3 bowls. Then, taking each piece of pork, dip it in the flour, the egg and the panko, then lay carefully in a frying pan with 1cm of hot oil in it to shallow fry.

The oil shouldn’t be too hot – test it first by putting the tip of a toothpick or a wooden chopstick in to see if bubbles form. If they slowly appear, the oil is at the correct temperature. If they appear suddenly and bubble violently, the oil is too hot. Fry the pork loins on both sides until golden. One tip I learned: if you are frying multiple pieces of pork, be very mindful of the temperature. As soon as the first one is looking ready, get the second one all dusted and ready to go because if you leave the pan empty while you are preparing the next chop then the oil will start to burn.

Once the pork is a nice golden brown, remove from the oil and place on a rack in the oven to dry off and crisp up.

If you wish, slice the pork into equal vertical slices and lay on a bed of rice Pour the curry over the middle of the plate and garnish with pickled red radish. Sit down, eat, and think of Tokyo.

Devouring the Meaty Heart of Texas, Part 2

After a couple of days in Austin, you find that you are never hungry. As in, your body is never saying "please feed me, I require sustenance." In fact, it's almost continually whimpering "please, make it stop" from the first meal to the moment you step on to the plane home. And yet, somehow, we manage to find ever crazier justifications for eating quantities that would make older generations weep. The food in Austin is good, in some cases scarily good. So it's not a major leap to then say "how about having two main courses?" That actually happened. Twice.

Random truck selling Po'boys in downtown

While attending the conference last year, one of our great little discoveries was a beaten up old BBQ shack just across from the convention centre called the Ironworks. It's hardly what you'd call the best BBQ in town, but it's right next door and so every lunchtime a gargantuan queue of game developers forms within seconds of the last session of the morning talks. Since then, it's become a bit of a regular thing for us, with some crazed members of my team ending up there on three(!) occasions that week.

The thing in particular that I love about the place is the fantastically brusk attitude of the staff, which is so diametrically opposed to the standard friendly service you normally encounter in the US. Perhaps it's because it reminds me of home that I like it so much. The food is chopped and served quickly, and if you dally when you finally get to the food counter, the guy with the big knife starts to get antsy. And you don't want that. That's not the best bit though. God help you and all your offspring if you get to the cashier and you mess around. The cashier, a steely prison-warden of man behind grease-steamed spectacles, glares at your food while punching the buttons on the till like the fat kid in school. Show up, pay, move the hell on. Do not waste his time. The greatest thing to witness at the Ironworks is people skipping through the queue to go and ask the cashier a question. These people are noobs, in the common parlance, and they will get the smackdown. I know, I've been there. If you don't have a tray with food on it, the Cashier only has one response for you: "Get in the queue." Want to book a table? Get in the queue. Want some takeaway? Get in the queue. Need an ambulance? Get in the queue. I love it, particularly because you just know what's coming when some fresh-faced woman heads straight past the queue to the cashier trying to sweet-talk a table for her friends. Know what happens? She gets in the damn queue.

A standard lunch in Austin. For two (ish).

And while I've said that the food is far from the best in Austin, it is still pretty damn good as far as a lunch goes. You can get the sampler plate, as per usual with joints like this, but after several trips we've discovered that you're much better off getting a couple of pounds of brisket and sausage, and sharing it with someone. Or not, if you happen to be American. Or Samoan. You also order sides in volume, which is an awesome quirk. Want some potato salad? Want a pint of potato salad? How about a gallon of chilli? A quart of coleslaw? You know you want to. As a colleague remarked, "I could get used to this." You could, although you would end up the size of a Smart car.

These guys put on a hell of a show, every week.

Austin also has a fantastic live music scene, and in true American fashion often declares itself "The Live Music Capital of the World". Now I'm not touching that particular statement with a bargepole, but if you're in Austin then you owe it to yourself to check out a live show. I was fortunate enough last year to be introduced to a brilliant local band, the Spazmatics, who play at the Cedar St bar every Wednesday. They have played every Wednesday night for at least four years, according to my friend. They are a zany 80's tribute band, who put on an absolutely brilliant show filled to the brim with classic tunes. And yes, they play Journey. Now, no doubt their success is due in part to playing a venue that is basically heaving with drunk people, but they are also a well-oiled machine performance wise. There is a twist, however. If you google them, you will discover that they are what's called a franchise band. Not familiar with the term? Neither was I, until I saw these guys. Basically, there is a Spazmatics in every single major city in the USA. And they all do exactly the same act, but they are different guys in each one. The concept is franchised to musicians around the country, who then exectute it flawlessly. When I first learned about this, my mind was blown - surely such an entertaining act wasn't just one in a line of manufactured styrofoam casts of a single concept? I'm hardly one to get misty eyed about the romantic notion of a musician and their art in the age of Rebecca Black and Crazy Frog, but there was still something slightly unsettling about it. So I was curious about how they would fare the second time around, knowing this dark secret. And you know what? They were absolutely fantastic. Colleagues who were there for the first time were blown away, and the band killed it with exactly the same gusto and feverish enthusiasm that they had last year. The one thing I do know however, is that I don't want to see any of the other Spazmatics now. These guys are the one for me.

Before we left Austin, we also made one more new discovery: The Hula Hut. The Hula Hut is cool little tex-mex place down along the river. On the plane over from Dallas the guy sat next to me had recommended it, and Dave had also suggested it as a worthy adventure, so it seemed like a well-vouched place to visit. The place feels like a mashup between Meatballs and True Blood, all tacky hawaiian decor with faerie lights and cute waitresses. They also have a big dining hall outside, which sits above the water and is definitely the place to be when the weather's nice. This is where one particularly brave colleague of mine suggested having two mains (a feat that was then repeated by others). As a note, when an American waitress says "that's quite a lot of food", for god's sake listen to the woman. As it turned out both mains were conquered in the end, but not without inflicting massive damage on the participants. The Shiner Bock beef fajitas were delicious and succulent, and the burritos were suitably massive. They also have potentially the king of all dips: a warm queso cheese dip with chunks of chilli, tomato and guacamole plonked on top. It was heavy duty, but delicious. Among less civilized company, this dip could start a fight. Of all the things we tried however, my absolute standout was the Crispy Shrimp Tacos. I'd never had these before, and they were absolutely amazing, so it was by good fortune that a friend had actually sent me a recipe for them.

Thankfully frozen shrimp are easily obtainable and not too expensive, so it's worth giving this a try. If you enjoy mexican food but can't face any more meat, much like myself after a trip to Austin, then look no further.

Crispy Shrimp Tacos with Peach Salsa
Author: Kristina Wiley
For the Peach Salsa:
6 peaches, peeled pitted and diced (about 1 1/2 cups)
1 medium sized red bell pepper, seeded and diced (about 1 cup)
1 cup loosley packed coriander, chopped
1/4 cup finely diced red onion
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and finely diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1-2 limes, juiced
1/2 teaspoon salt

For the Shrimp:
12-16 ounces peeled and de-veined shrimp, tails removed (about 30 small shrimp)
3/4 cup flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons cumin
2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 teaspoon cayenne (or more if you like extra spice)
1 teaspoon black pepper
2 eggs, beaten
canola oil for frying (enough to cover the bottom of a large skillet)
additional salt

Additionally:
10 small flour tortillas
lettuce, shredded
sour cream
additional cilantro

Instructions

Mix together all of the peach salsa ingredients and set aside until ready to use.

Rinse the shrimp with cold water and pat dry with a paper towel. Now you want to set up an assembly line so you are ready to go! Mix the flour, salt, cumin, garlic powder, cayenne, and black pepper together in a pie plate. In a second dish, place the beaten eggs. Then, have a 3rd clean baking sheet ready / tray.

In a large frying pan, heat oil (just enough to cover the bottom of the pan) over medium high heat. Use the bubble test to see if the oil is hot enough: stick the tip of a toothpick or chopstick into the oil. If bubbles slowly form, you are good to go. If bubbles appear suddenly and bubble violently, the oil is too hot. Get a tray ready by stacking a few paper towels on it.

Dredge the shrimp in the flour (shake excess), then the egg wash, then BACK into the flour and coat well. Gently shake the excess off and place on the clean tray. Repeat with remaining shrimp until all are coated with the flour.

Cook shrimp in 2-3 batches (depending on the size of your skillet). You want them to cook in one even layer making sure you don’t over-crowd or overlap the shrimp. The shrimp take roughly 1 1/2 to 2 minutes per side. Cut one in half to make sure the shrimp are cooked all the way through (You do not want any clear/translucent left – you want it to be opaque and pink/white in color!). NOTE: You don’t want to OVER cook them either, so pull them off after 1 1/2 minutes (on each side) and check them.

Sprinkle shrimp with a touch of salt and set aside. Repeat with remaining shrimp until all are cooked.

To assemble: On each tortilla, sprinkle a little shredded lettuce and top with 3-4 shrimp. Spoon a tablespoon or two of the peach salsa followed by a dollop of sour cream. Top with a sprinkle of coriander. Serve with fresh lime wedges to squeeze over the top, this really brings it to life.

Devouring the Meaty Heart of Texas, Part 1

Austin is a fantastic city.

As part of my work, I am tremendously fortunate to get the opportunity to travel to various parts of the globe for business conferences and meetings. One particular conference takes us to Austin, Texas every October. I first visited Austin last year, and was immediately taken by its charms: the friendly locals, the endless buffet of live music and the veritable tsunami of great food. So my most recent trip, earlier this month, felt like a perfect candidate for a little write-up. While downtown Austin is relatively small by American standards, the greater city area still a gargantuan stretch of land peppered with little outcrops of activity, like popcorn scattered in a field. Most business trips tend to have a very localized centre of gravity (read: hotel bar & restaurant), but Austin is one of those cities that just beckons to you, the gentle hum of activity carried through the city on a flying blanket of booze and grill smoke. So I was even more fortunate to have a local friend who has been living there for a couple of years. On my last visit we went for a little road trip around the outskirts of town, and this time we decided to do the same again.

Our first stop was a pretty well-known barbecue joint called The Salt Lick. It's been featured on Man vs. Food and countless other "Top Ten BBQ" lists as a great place to visit for an authentic Texas BBQ experience. Now the really hardcore purists may argue that Franklin's has better meat, or that the 'holy trinity' down in Lockhart is a more authentic experience, but for simple atmosphere and rustic charm I love the Salt Lick. It's tucked away on an old dirt road in Driftwood, about a 30-minute drive outside of Austin. On the way, you drive past the following sights:

Now I may be a limp-wristed blue-hearted liberal from Great Britain with an exotic accent (according to most Texans), but things like this just make me smile. Dave pointed out that I find these sort of details interesting because I don't live there and am not subjected to them on a daily basis, and perhaps he's right. But there's a personality  and old-fashioned sense of courtesy around these parts that I find both alarming and refreshing after spending several decades facing down the glowering scowl of your average Londoner. It's easy to take the piss of how backwards or simple they might seem, and many do, but fundamentally these are good people. They probably have very different values to you and me, some of which you may even find repellent, but they are also incredibly kind and friendly. At least, that's my experience of them. Then again, I am hardly a raging firecracker of anti-establishment rebellion, so that might play a part.

Anyway, back to the food. The first thing you see when you enter the dining hall of the Salt Lick is the frankly mindblowing smoke pit. They actually have two, though the one in the pictures is my favourite. The cashier girl, upon hearing my crazy accent, invited me in to the kitchen so that I could get a better picture of the smoke pit, and I happily obliged. You can probably tell from the picture, but the smells coming off this thing are absolutely divine.

According to the cooks, they smoke their brisket for 24 hours, with the other smaller cuts going on for various lengths of time. As we sat down with our menus at an old wooden bench on the far side of the room, I was immediately ensconced in a laid-back, welcoming atmosphere with people eagerly ploughing through mountains of glistening, smoky goodness. As a matter of course, I ordered the sampler plate, which arrived promptly - a small Everest of brisket, ribs and sausage, piled high under a glistening blanket of their incredible barbecue sauce. I could write an entire blog post just about barbecue sauce (and maybe I will!), because they come in all sorts, tastes and consistencies. The Salt Lick's sauce is a thinner, runnier sauce with a sweet and vinegary taste that just does wonders when it hits meat. I actually brought several bottles back with me, because as I have stated in previous posts, you will never get sauce this good in the UK. The meat itself is great, particularly the sausage and ribs. Brisket seems to be the hardest thing to get right (although if reports are to be believed then Franklin's has cracked this conundrum), whereas the sausage and ribs seem to benefit from simplicity and slow cooking. The ribs in particular were juicy and soft, with the meat just disintegrating rather than getting stuck in your teeth. Special mention must also go to their bread hotdog rolls, which come as one of innumerate sides. I am a sucker for soft, squidgy bread, and this stuff is almost comically soft. I'm pretty sure mother nature never intended bread to be quite that doughy, but oh my god it is perfect for mopping up barbecue sauce. This is amply demonstrated by Dave's hilarious looking chopped beef sandwich below, which is actually made up of four hotdog rolls in a row, filled with a hellflood of chopped beef and sauce. I was endlessly entertained by the fact that it looks like the gaping maw of a meat-based doombringer, come to devour your children on some sinister revenge mission.

Normally after a meal like that, I would curl up into a ball of guilt and self-pity while sucking on the bones. However after several beers, Dave had the genius idea to ask for the dessert menu. Hey, you only live once right? (and at this pace, that is virtually guaranteed). Swallowing my immediate terror, he ordered the cobbler and I ordered the pecan pie. His cobbler looked like the site of an icecream meteor hitting the earth's crust, a steaming vat of molten fruit and sugar bubbling beneath. My pecan pie turned up, and looked like this:

Yes, that is a standard sized fork stabbing it. The pie laughs at the fork with disdain, like a goldfish attacking a whale shark. I'll leave you to eat the pie with your eyes by just saying that it absolutely shit on any pecan pie I have ever had in the UK. That probably goes without saying, but there was just no comparison between the two. Warm, crispy caramelised pecans layered on top of a slick, sugary something and a light, flakey pastry crust. This was pretty much my coffin nail, consciousness slowly drifting away from me like smoke vapours. Dave, sensing my incoming food coma, said "let's go, I need to show you something."

We jumped in the car and headed east, through a little town called Buda (pronounced "byoodah", bizarrely) filled with random trailers and shanty town storefronts. As we slid over the undulating hills of southeastern Austin, my food-addled brain took note of the several water towers dotted across the horizon, like toothpick cocktail snacks. "Is that normal?", I asked. "Those are tiny ones," Dave replied. "Wait till you see the one where we're going."

We pulled up in a typically gargantuan carpark outside what looked like a standard B&Q, a place called Cabela's. I couldn't have been more wrong in my initial assessment, however. This is no ordinary DIY store. This is a guns and hunting supermall.

Stepping inside, there is a lot to take in. There is a stuffed yak mounted above the entrance to the toilets. There is a fully camouflaged mannequin chilling out in a sniper nest. There is a rocky outcrop at the far end of the enormous store, covered in mountain goats and other killable beasts. There is a fishing section the size of a Costco. There is a goddamn aquarium. This is no ordinary store. Actually no, hold that. This is an ordinary store in Texas.

As I started wandering the aisles of excess, hunting / camping / hiking gear as far as the eye can see, I stumbled upon a little enclosure at the back of the store, where things started getting really weird.

Throughout the entire rear of the store, there were stuffed animals. Everywhere. Of every kind. Lions, tigers, elephants, water buffalo. Deer, mountain lions, prairie dogs, moose (meese?). Bears, wolves, muskox, a freaking polar bear! There was even a separate room on one side with every type of deer, squirrel and turkey I've ever seen! And that room had its very own animatronic George Bush-lookalike in hunting gear, recanting tales of early hunters and how they blew animals away with rifles. And throughout all of this, there were parents strolling around, kids in tow, looking at the various stuffed animals alongside all of the equipment used to kill them. Now don't get me wrong, I am not a hemp-wearing animal-loving hippy. I have skinned a rabbit with my bare hands at a stag party (long story), and spent time on a farm so I have no issues at all with killing animals for food. But this was a thoroughly creepy experience because of the manner in which it's aimed at children and the conveyor-belt sense of educating them for commercial purposes. See that deer? That was killed with hollowpoint ammunition from a Barratt sniper rifle while dressed in a full-body camo Ghillie Suit, sat up in your Buck Buster. And guess what? We sell all of that here.

Inevitably, we ended up in the gun section. I'll let the pictures do the talking here, and just simply say that taking pictures surrounded by people checking out fully automatic Assault Rifles and comparing scope sights was one of the most physically uncomfortable experiences of my life. When you take pictures in Texas, you get looks from a few people. When those people are holding an AK47, it's a very different look. Unfortunately the pictures don't convey it, since I wasn't comfortable picturing people buying guns directly, but this was easily the busiest section of the store as well. Men, families, daughters, grandparents. They were all here, looking at different rifles the same way you might look at a camera in Dixons. It was truly surreal.

Seeing all of these weapons, ammo and accessories lead me to an interesting reflection. I play a lot of video games where you fire weapons at people / monsters / orks, etc. So according to the Daily Mail I should be a dyed in the wool mentalist, grabbing guns off the shelf and running through the store shooting people on a GTA-style murder spree while furiously masturbating. But seeing all of this up close and personal had quite the opposite effect. Dave kept egging me on to go up to the counter and ask to see the biggest gun they had, but I wasn't interested in any way. Ever since I accidentally shot my sister right above the eye with a BB-gun as a kid, I have been vehemently disinterested in weapons. That was one of the scariest moments of my entire life, and when you see just how easy it is to inflict so much more harm with a real weapon, it actually makes my skin crawl.

Hunting, and more importantly owning a gun, is at the core of living in Texas, and nowhere is that more apparent than when you see the way in which it's been turned into a business. Seeing this in action was sobering, mildly terrifying, and deeply insightful. It would be grossly arrogant to simply assume that all of the people shopping at a place like this are patently insane. Owning a gun is a way of life here, and while the right to bear arms may no longer have anything like its original constitutional context, many people and families in the US still consider it a god-given right alongside freedom of speech and the right to a fair trial. It may be alien and strange to the rest of us, but it's a fundamental part of the patchwork quilt of the American identity and I'm glad I got to witness it first-hand.