"When you're hungry, everything tastes better," was the quote I had in mind when I first stepped into the recently opened Daikokuya Japanese ramen house in Hacienda Heights. In an attempt to completely subject my palette and stomach (and possibly sanity) to the whims of the female waitresses and male cooks of the establishment, I had come to the shop neither hungry nor full, but rather a gray area in between to best judge its cuisine.
The place had both a new-age and retro atmosphere about it. While the flooring and contemporary tables and chairs were made of a strange conglomeration of veneer and solid wood with a dark walnut finish, the off-white walls were armed with an array of the "standard" random Japanese paraphernalia, ranging from old movie posters to ads that had no relevance whatsoever to the ramen shop. The open kitchen design was a clever move to give the establishment a more contemporary feel, but was obscured by the wooden divider between the register and the seating area, which was small, but adequate to serve a large number of patrons simultaneously. I noticed the drop ceiling above the register was also made of the same veneer/solid wood conglomeration as the tables, with one unique difference, it had part of a tin roof attached to the end of it, with stainless steel lights dangling below, rather tacky, but not unexpected of the Japanese. The washroom was positioned in the back of the ramen shop, near the rear exit. Its walls were also lined likewise with old posters of Godzilla movies and newly-placed tiling with some mold already lining the caulking near the toilet. On the sink sat a bamboo fragrance oil, which surprisingly bore the Playboy rabbit logo on its vase. However, compared to most Asian establishments, these washrooms were particularly cleaner than most, thus making them all the more "comfortable" to operate.
When I first stepped into the newly-opened establishment, I noticed something rather remarkable, something lacking in most other Asian restaurants: a lack of efficiency and experience. I first guessed that the female waitresses were inexperienced amateurs when I saw one of them attempt to stack the used cups from a vacated table, which immediately toppled over and spilled onto the wooden floor, and try to clean up the mess with paper towels. My assumptions were confirmed when two of the four were standing in the middle of the establishment, which was half empty (though its exteriour was definitely not lacking in hungry and possibly disgruntled patrons), while trying to figure out how to seat the customers waiting outside. I watched the debacle unfold as the two squabbled back and forth for at least three minutes while other patrons inside the restaurants were finishing up their meals. The newbies eventually decided on their plan and began to call in and usher the waiting customers outside on the sidewalk. As they entered, the employees shouted overlaying Japanese greetings, which were impossible to understand, much less hear properly. However, when the waitresses had seated the parties, there were still three seats unaccounted for at the bar. They had forgotten about the last few seats (I know because I saw the list of parties, and the number of people did not equal the number of available seats) and began immediately to tend to the recently-seated. However, while the waitresses were inexperienced when it came to clearing tables and seating customers, they knew how to talk to the customers, at eye-level by kneeling down and actually talking to them, instead of just asking for their orders.
After what was about fifty minutes of waiting, my family and I were eventually seated at the aforementioned vacant spots at the bar. It took a total of about seven minutes for our food to arrive, to my mother and father, each a bowl of Daikoku ramen, and to me, a combo with a pork cutlet donburi (rice bowl). What I first noticed about the food was not the food, but rather the bowl in which the food was served. Compared to the bowls in J-Town, these were more angled from the bottom going to the top, which made them all the more smaller. It was a bit hard to notice, since the top of the bowl was of the same diameter as the bowls in Little Tokyo. The manager made a smart and cleverly concealed method of saving a bit more money with these smaller bowls (but not secret enough for it to go completely unnoticed). The ramen was, well, normal. It was exactly the same as the ones served in Little Tokyo. The pork and egg were of the same quality as the establishment in Little Tokyo, as expected. However, the soup was a different matter. When I slurped up the first spoonful of the legendary soup, I was met with a wave of disappointment. It was not as sweet nor as salty as the original. It was diluted! I was so disappointed. The soup, which was supposed to be the highlight and star of the meal, was nothing but coloured water. To add to my dismay, the pork cutlet donburi was of exceedingly substandard quality. The fried pork was soggy and extremely salty. There was no way that I could finish this disaster placed before me without a vomit bucket nearby.
All things considered, I must say that I am rather disappointed in Daikokuya - HH. While the design of the place was rather novel and unique, the establishment failed to live up to the standards excellence as established by its legendary predecessor in J-Town. The washrooms possessed items not suitable for all ages and the waitresses were all amateurs, incapable of neither seating nor serving their patrons quickly and efficiently. But worst of all, the food was disgusting. It left me unsatisfied and extremely thirsty. I couldn't believe that this establishment would even begin to think it could bear the name of Daikokuya without bringing shame to the name. It is unworthy of the name. But keep in mind that this was simply a soft opening, not an official grand opening, and because it is only a soft opening, I will give this place one more chance to redeem itself at the grand opening. If it cannot live up to the name of Daikokuya, the place might as well pack up and leave.
Rating: 2/5
A while ago, I started reading this manga-like webcomic called "MegaTokyo." At first, I was intrigued by the artistry and stylistic idiosyncrasies of the artist, but I was eventually drawn into the actual storyline. At one point in the story, one of characters, Ping (she's more of a robot, but she's unusually human), was affected by a explosion set off by a massive build-up of static electricity. When she comes to, she absolutely cannot stop crying. Eventually, "Ping’s problem is traced to her emotion programming correcting errors (directly quoted from synopsis on the MegaTokyo website)." In essence, it was an emotional purge.
