Vancouver Ventures | DAY 9: Aberdeen Musings, Garaku + K-Fever

Some last-minute ̶c̶o̶r̶r̶e̶s̶p̶o̶n̶d̶e̶n̶c̶e̶  reluctance from a local friend dating back to the pre-COVID Nam Nation days instigated some schedule changes. I would need not venture to meet her on UBC grounds after all, for the intent was to return to Richmond immediately without browsing the vicinity for destinations of interest. Thankfully, I had already undertaken my MEC and Rain or Shine ventures in the preceding days.

Due to no longer needing to wake early for the ninety-minute-long commute, I would converse a bit longer with my browsing partner before finally sliding underneath the covers for bed. 

In spite of sleeping in the next morning, lethargy persisted. Gradually, I eased into the morning with coffee (EVR's Empress was much better with 2 tbsp of grounds and hot water!) and a "sidekick" Mango Cream Cake.

Pilates was performed in high spirits, under the comfort of sunshine beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The one-hour session would comprise of Well + Good favourites as well as new Lottie Murphy releases for a restorative, full-body workout.

At 2 PM, I prepared a late lunch of udon, blanched choy sum, takeout leftovers, and a microwaved egg.

I'd eventually ventured out to Aberdeen around 4pm.

The first stop was another Vancouverite's K-Beauty boutique recommendation of CIYO, which we also have back home at Pacific Mall. Prices and product assortment did not vary vastly, thus I departed without making a purchase. Tony Moly on the second floor would serve my needs better with offerings of cleanser and pressed powder.

The trip also saw end-of-day sales at Saint Germain (significantly better than back home) and a quick trip through H Mart. Consistent with my 2020 observations, prepared food items - in particular unagi or dons - are shockingly economic for their portion size, even if snacks and produce are not priced using a similar model.

Supper plans at Garaku had been settled the evening prior, but not without unyielding opposition towards every possible contender I could nominate. A curry opposition and ceaseless claims that the profile of a dish could be envisioned without tasting had me going aimlessly in circles before reverting back to my original proposal. The Hokkaido soup curry outpost it would be.

​Supper plans at Garaku had been settled the evening prior, but not without unyielding opposition towards every possible contender I could nominate. A curry opposition and ceaseless claims that the profile of a dish could be envisioned without tasting had me going aimlessly in circles before reverting back to my original proposal. The Hokkaido soup curry outpost it would be.

The dining area was fairly empty even during the weekday evening rush, which was hardly a good sign when the eatery had been open for half a year already. With the arrival of my dining partner of the day, we entered into the restaurant, were greeted immediately, and then seated at a cozy booth near the preparation counter. Mind you, there was little to no food preparation taking place in this area, for it merely served as a queuing location for Fantuan orders pending arrival of the delivery driver.

Majority of the menu spanned various forms of Soup Curry, the Sapporo-based restaurant's signature dish. A handful of laminated sheets accompanying the fixed selection informed us of appetizers, drinks, and desserts. I steered clear of alcohol, of course, though not without some degree of longing towards the never-before-seen selection of Echigo and Orion beers.

​My friend, being positively unkeen towards curry and broth-based entrées, took to a Strawberry Lassi and a Zangi & Waffle from the Savoury Waffle lineup. As a consequence of the server's poor English capabilities, only one of two items were entered into the system correctly.
While the Strawberry Lassi had arrived without errors, Zangi & Waffle had been converted to a much smaller portion of fried chicken nobs. Clad in his thoroughly stained and somewhat ripped T-shirt, the man barely batted an eyelash when the mistake was brought to his attention. "Oh." was his curt response. Neither alternatives were presented, nor were attempts made to rectify the communication mistake on his part. The Zangi had arrived, and he had simply called it a day and returned to his post.

​My own order would, naturally, take the course of soup curry. The Original Slow-Cooked Chicken Leg Soup Curry was requested, alongside a starter of Baby Octopus. The server's inadequacy in command of the English language again posed issues in communication.
The man struggled severely to answer most of my inquiries. Furthermore, he was unable explain the difference(s) between "Idako Karaage" and "Baby Octopus". Although both would entail the use of baby octopus, the former would be deep-fried and the latter marinated. He mistakenly answered that both items were fried, conjuring tremendous confusion on my part, and that karaage would utilize "legs" (tentacles) instead of whole baby octopus. Identical language challenges would be extended towards desribing Hokkaido Gyoza (deep-fried, not half pan-fried/half steamed) and Clams ("Shells", he repeated, before eventually turning to the assistance of Google Images. Frankly, it was beyond me why my Japanese-speaking acquaintance had not stepped in to relieve both of us from our misery, as I would have likely done.

Presented in a shallow, black ceramic dish, the marinated baby octopus was delicious with a chewy, toothsome consistency. Admittedly, its visuals were a bit graphic: biting into the jiggly, small heads yielded some discomfort. These morsels assumed a different species from the battered ones with big heads tasted at Yuzuki. They were somewhat delicate-tasting, but its texture accentuated in a chilled soy-sesame oil marinade.

​With regard to the main dish of the evening, my dining partner voiced skepticism and a boatload of reservations. She was known as a cynic of thick broths and curries in general, for they are often heavy and satiating - an element with which I concur. That said, I disagreed that the dish tasted "exactly as it sounds".

Contrary to expectations, the Soup Curry embodied a spice-infused stew, not the watery, thinned-out curry (or excessively rich ramen-style broth) I had assumed. There was even a hint of tanginess that prevented subsequent bites from becoming too heavy.
Submerged in the bowl was a single fried (crispy) broccoli floret, one overcooked slice of blanched carrot, a one sliver of red pepper, sparse bits of arugula, and an unseasoned quail egg.

​The Chicken Leg, albeit a meager portion, was flavourful and tender since it had been slow-cooked. Amazingly, the flesh did not become dry over the course of consumption, though the meat did fall off the drumstick portion of the bone, making it increasingly difficult to eat. Served on the side were plump, yellow grains of rice with rigid granules of purple rice woven between. Generally speaking, the dish was decent, but staggering sodium levels, stiff rice, and a shortage of meat would deter me from a future visit.

​Devouring the entirety of the dish would not be possible for an entity of my appetite, thus takeout containers were requested. Each paper round set me back twenty-five cents - Ugh! I had momentarily forgotten about the city's sustainability initiatives, but relinquishing a fee successfully reignited all feelings of negativity and injustice. At the least, I had come prepared with a backpack stuffed with plastic bags and reusable totes of different sizes.

​Prior to departing, I excused myself for the restroom. One accessible stall just beyond the kitchen had been made available for customer use. As the door swung inward, my senses were collectively traumatized by the foulest single stall of all time. A cluster of tiny fruit flies swarmed at me, while a disgusting waft worse than feces and sewage combined overwhelmed me. The ultimately unidentifiable stench, paired with urine on a raised toilet set, a sticky floor with random puddles of liquid, and an obvious circular depression masked with duct tape, prompted immediate exit. Garaku was indeed an eatery to remember forever.

Needless to say, I was compelled to resort to the mall bathrooms. At my time of visit, the second floor of Aberdeen Centre was in the process of undergoing cleaning. However, even at its worst, it could not exceed the utter abhorrence that was Garaku.

We then perused OOMOMO briefly, and next Yaohan Centre.

It was with curiosity and amusement that I roamed the two-storey building.
"What's there to see? What are you so excited about it?" was posed towards me in a seething tone.
"I'm seeing what changes, if any, have taken place since my last visit!" I replied with enthusiasm. "It's also part nostalgia."
Most vendors within the retail centre remained as they have been: the ground-level Osaka T&T, food court kiosks selling snacks and bubble tea, and hair product/lingerie/traditional houseware items on the upper level. Once upon a time, there was sizable bookstore stocked with Japanese fashion magazines and a limited supply of manga. Albeit obnoxiously pricey, it was one of my favourite shops at the time. Nearby boutiques retailing adorable plush charms and knickknacks had also been outlets of interest to my younger self.

Across the plaza was Aberdeen Neighbourhood Park, a relatively new installation to the predominantly commercial-residential suburb of Richmond. Contrasting against the azureness of the evening sky, the park boasted an abundance of diverse shrubbery, ranging from maple to bamboo. With its spacious concrete walkways, an open concept gazebo, lofty playground structure, and adorable boardwalks similar to Kariya Park - but on a distinctly larger scale! - the green space provided a much-deserved retreat into nature, away from the bustle of vehicles and retail traffic incited by surrounding condos.

​We chanced across some late blossoms along Sweet Avenue, then rounded onto Brown Road, which later transitioned to Sexsmith. It was awe that I observed the wonderful streetscape design along perimeter of the mid-rise building: separated concrete walkways for pedestrians and paved asphalt paths for wheeled traffic. A thin band of pavers would delineate foot traffic, while a sodded boulevard and concrete curb would offer a conservative buffer from vehicular traffic and street parking/layby areas.

​The path led us to the Union Square plaza, where family favourites of Supermarket 2000 and K-Fever resided.

For the first time since arriving, I chanced across the preposterous lineup outside Macu Tea. There did not appear to be any ongoing promotions, nor exclusive beverages being advertised. Located in close proximity were numerous other bubble tea franchises, such as Yi Fang, Meet Fresh, and the old-school Vancouver original of Bubble World, yet none featured customer volumes remotely close to Macu.

I was comparatively more curious towards Hanlin, which the Thai ahgase had been recommended to visit, though we never did.

The tea house was absolutely gorgeous within, decorated with brewing apparatus and guide books to exude the aura of a library or working space. On the ground level was the order counter, which comprised of a drink preparation and pick-up area and a refrigerated display case stocked with assorted small cakes. A single stall washroom could also be found at the back of shop, nearly entirely obscured from view. Its hidden position may have very well contributed to its level of cleanliness.

​A handful of tables were spotted near the entrance, however additional seating could be found on the upper level, atop a wooden stairwell. While far from accessible, this area accommodated parties large and small, simultaneously providing minor relief from the constant whizzing of blenders on the first floor.

​The menu was composed of traditional tea-based beverages, cream cap drinks, and fruity-milky smoothies. In fear of being unable to sleep (and being reluctant to carry more than the backpack and T&T tote in tow, I refrained from a drink purchase

Unknown to me was my friend's intention to stall until 10 PM such to coordinate a ride back with her sibling. Given that Translink was barely reliable on the usual weekday afternoon, I expressed reluctance to aimlessly sit around for the purpose of keeping company.
She suggested karaoke, an activity received with greater enthusiasm than further items of consumption. However, I'd propose including myself in return trip, for I'd need to Uber back otherwise. Once the favour was confirmed, we'd - or rather, I - would gather our belongings and meander in the direction of K-Fever. Hanlin Tea House would see proper evaluation on a later day.

​A post-curry dry throat hardly proffered suitable conditions for karaoke. Nevertheless, I persisted, facilitating most of the one-hour venture.

Towards the end of our stay, I found myself being rushed without warning. For some reason, the need to navigate to Bridgeport station had been omitted. We'd make haste in walking, passing the new Capstan Way station before making a sharp turn onto No. 3 Rd.

The road and sidewalk network surrounding Bridgeport Station and the Richmond Night Market was horribly confusing. Incredibly narrow aggregate-based sidewalks, protruding street weeds, unclear signage, poor illumination, and a lack of curb depressions (obviously without tactile) were just a few of the indicators highlighting negligence of municipal infrastructure.

​Within twenty minutes, we arrived outside the Bridgeport Station Park & Ride parking structure. The drive to Costco spanned three minutes, then the trip home about fifteen.