There are many strange delights to be discovered in Aurora's Asian triangle, behind the doors of karaoke bars, noodle shops, Chinese bakeries, tea shops and stores selling herbal back-pain remedies, manga, car insurance and brain tonics. From strip mall to strip mall, the sensory landscape changes mile by mile, sometimes step by step — flashes of Ginza neon and smells of Tonkin Bay, the harsh tracery of Korean letters rubbing up against the graceful swoop of kanji, ancient Mandarin like the scratching of very thoughtful chickens. And everywhere, the different beer signs: Tsingtao and Asahi and 33 and Kirin and the ubiquitous Budweiser.
Mark Manger
Hot times: Michael Senduk stirs the pot at J' Shabu.
Location Info
Details
2680 South Havana Street, Aurora
303-750-5797
Lunch and dinner daily
Rib-eye: $10.95
Prime Angus: $13.95
Chicken: $9.50
Seafood: $21.95
Sukiyaki: $17.95
Sashimi (five pieces): $10.95
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I've been thrown out of some of these bars, ignored in others. I don't do karaoke, but I know a place where you can indulge your proclivities for singing half-drunk versions of "Mandy" or "Forever in Blue Jeans" until early in the morning. I know where to get great baguette, crab soup, acupuncture, a two-dollar bacon sandwich, Korean doughnuts, durian, Pocky and lychee juice. If it ever becomes an issue, I'm pretty sure I know where to find a hit man. And I know where to go for shabu shabu.
Swish swish — that's more or less what shabu shabu means, describing the action that defines the cuisine: the motion of raw meat, held in chopsticks and swirled through boiling broth. It is simple, messy, chaotic, indefinable and the diametric opposite of sushi, which is controlled and spare and rigorously traditional. But while sushi chefs are like rock stars in Japan, shabu shabu restaurants have no chefs at all. This is do-it-yourself food, requiring only a pot of water, a plate of vegetables, a tray of meat and some tongs. What with all the dipping and swirling, shabu shabu is often compared to fondue. But really, it's Japanese party food: fast-casual cuisine created long before there was any such phrase; almost-but-not-quite fast food, food for large parties, for sharing, for getting a taste of this and a taste of that and drinking a lot in between.
Being the contrary sort, I went alone to J' Shabu, which is owned by Jun Makino (of Junz in Parker) and has been open about a year in this corner-lot strip mall, surrounded by Korean barbecues, Chinese hair salons, a Japanese bar with blacked-out windows, a Honeybaked Ham store and a Fascinations outlet, open late just in case six or eight Kirins inspire in you a sudden desire for a pair of latex underpants or an ergonomic fuck-swing. The place was lightly populated — a party of six at one end, a party of three, a party of two climbing all over each other and demanding forks when they couldn't make their chopsticks work, then me.
There are no tables at J' Shabu, just red upholstered stools and chairs before a U-shaped bar — the surface one long, black induction range (where the metal pots grow super-hot super-fast but transfer no heat to the surrounding counter) set with black plates and black napkins. There's a kitchen in the back manned by a single cook who's responsible for little more than slicing this and dicing that, arranging plates of raw materials, cutting sashimi. One waitress works the inside of the bar — taking orders, delivering supplies, guiding the uninitiated through the process.
"Have you ever had shabu shabu before?" she asked.
"No," I lied. "What do I do?"
"It's easy," she smiled. "I'll help you. First, how about a drink?"
I liked her already.
The waitress brought me a short Kirin and J' Shabu's very basic menu, which includes only five items if you don't count the vegetarian offerings (which I don't), plus sashimi as an appetizer and mochi ice cream for dessert. "These are the meats," she said, pointing to the two kinds of beef (plain rib-eye and prime Angus rib-eye), chicken, a medley of seafood (king crab, scallops, bits of red snapper, salmon, shrimp and cherrystone clams) and sukiyaki (razor-thin slices of beef done in a special sweetened soy broth). "Each plate comes with vegetables, noodles, and you just add them to the pot."
She uncovered the pot. It was filled with water and a piece of kelp.
"Water?"
"Traditional," she said. When Makino first opened J' Shabu, the traditional water and kelp broth was all that was offered. This, of course, did nothing but confuse and infuriate American customers.
"People wanted something other than water," my waitress said, shrugging. So now the house also offers broths: miso, a red-pepper concoction, sweet soy, dashi fish stock. I stuck with the water (which is really the best way to go — the purest expression, flavor-wise, although the dashi is also delicious), asked for the prime Angus and five pieces of tuna sashimi.
"Do you want rice?" my waitress asked.
I made a face. "Uh, no. Why?"
She shrugged again. "Most people want a side of rice."
"But then that would be sushi."
"Yes."
I looked around. All the other parties had bowls of rice in front of them. Rice with their sashimi, rice with their meats, rice spooned into the bubbling bowls of broth.
