(A Special Culinary Guest Post for CulinaryPassages.com)
Hello. Culinary. People.
You probably are used to the regular culinary bloggers here, the ones who are (no offense) old. The ones who use words like “mouthfeel” and “terroir” and who probably think a beige-colored sauce is “exciting.”
Well, they are gone.
I’m not allowed to tell you my name, but I am ten years old. And because I am very mature and responsible and good at adjectives, the usual writers (who I am related to by “blood”) have left me in charge of this entire website.
Okay, that is mostly a lie. They left me, my seven-year-old sister (who I will call The Gremlin), and a babysitter who is supposed to be in charge but who really understands that I am the one with the vision.
But the most important thing they left? The Magic Plastic.
You grown-ups call it a “credit card.” I call it a rectangular piece of unlimited power. It’s like a key that unlocks the entire world, except the world is mostly just restaurants that have good lighting for TikToks.
My parents went somewhere “to relax.” (Which is weird, because all they do is eat food and then type about it, which is what I do for fun, but whatever.) They said, “Be good. Don’t break anything. Eat the healthy food we left in the fridge.”
We found the healthy food. We looked at it. The sad chicken and rice casserole stared at me. I stared back. I will not be intimidated by this mush I said.
Our babysitter, who we will call “The Supervisor,” saw the sad chicken and rice and saw the Magic Plastic sitting on the counter. And she saw the note that said, “For emergencies and maybe one nice meal.”
I am here to report that we had an emergency. The emergency was that we were bored. And hungry. And the casserole my mom made looked sad. This was a culinary crisis that required an immediate “passage,” as the website title says.
This is the story of our journey. It is a story of bravery, adventure, and sugar. Mostly sugar.
Part One: The Gastronomy of Grown-Ups (Katsuya)
For our first official night as “independent culinary explorers,” we knew we couldn’t just go to a place with a drive-thru. That is not a “passage.” That is a “failure.”
I told The Supervisor that we needed a place with “ambiance.” (I learned that word in school. It means “dark” and “expensive.”)
The Supervisor, who is wise, made a reservation at a place called Katsuya.
Even the name sounds like you’re not allowed to be there.
We got dressed. I wore my jegings and my stripped top that makes me look like a cool orphan from a movie. The Gremlin (my sister, age 7) insisted on wearing her sweat pants, and we talked her into a shirt that matched. I told her this was unacceptable for the ambiance. She told me to “stop being bossy.” The Supervisor told us both to “please just get in the car.”
We arrived. The restaurant was VERY dark. It looked like a secret cave for ninjas who are also millionaires. There were giant pictures of ladies’ eyes on the walls, which was a little creepy, but also “art.”
A man in a suit looked at us. He looked at me (cool orphan). He looked at The Gremlin (girl in sweats). He looked at The Supervisor (a cool girl in her early 20’s who suddenly looked very, very nervous).
“Reservation?” he asked, like he was guarding a dragon.
The Supervisor said the name, and he let us in. We had passed the first test.
We sat in a big, white booth. The music was loud. It was not Taylor Swift. It was like “thump-thump-thump-beep.” I think this is what grown-ups listen to when they are trying to feel important.
The menu was a disaster. It was all words I didn’t understand. “Omakase”? “Sashimi”? “Izakaya”? This was not a menu. This was a spelling test that I was failing.
“What do you want?” The Supervisor asked, trying to be in charge.
The Gremlin immediately pointed to the menu and said, “I want that.”
The Supervisor looked. “That… that’s the $150 Wagyu beef tasting.”
The Gremlin smiled. She knows what she is doing. She is small, but she is evil.
“No,” The Supervisor said. “How about… steak?”
This is the problem with seven-year-olds. They have no “palate.” (Another word I know. It means “your tongue is smart.”) The Gremlin has a dumb tongue. She just wants “steak.”
So, The Supervisor ordered “Hibachi Steak” and “Steamed Rice” for The Gremlin. How boring. How suburban. I almost disowned her right there in the ninja cave.
But then, it was my turn. I am ten. I am sophisticated. I read blogs. I was ready.
“I will have,” I announced, “the Spicy Tuna on Crispy Rice. And the Rock Shrimp Tempura Rolls.”
The Supervisor looked relieved. The Magic Plastic was safe… for now.
The food came. And this, my friends, is when the passage truly began.
Culinary Analysis: Spicy Tuna on Crispy Rice
This is, according to all the YouTubers I watch, what you must order at Katsuya. It’s a “signature dish.”
It arrived on a long, white plate. It was beautiful. It looked like four little presents.
- The Bottom Layer (The “Foundation”): A perfect rectangle of white rice that had been fried until it was a crispy, golden-brown block. It was like the world’s most elegant, grown-up Tater Tot.
- The Top Layer (The “Treasure”): A scoop of bright red, chopped-up tuna. It was mixed with something spicy.
- The Garnish (The “Hat”): A tiny, tiny slice of a green pepper. A jalapeño.
I looked at it. The Gremlin looked at it.
“It’s raw,” she whispered, like I had just ordered a plate of worms.
“It’s supposed to be raw, you Gremlin,” I said. “It’s sushi.”
I picked one up. It was warm on the bottom from the rice and cold on the top from the tuna. It was a temperature “journey.”
I ate it in one bite.
My. Brain. Exploded.
First, you get the CRUNCH. It’s so loud and satisfying. Then, you get the rice part, which is soft inside. Then, the tuna hits you. It’s so soft and cool, and then—BAM!—the spice kicks in. It’s not “call the fire department” spicy. It’s “wake up, tongue!” spicy. It was salty and spicy and crunchy and soft all at the same time.
I ate all four of them. I did not share with The Gremlin. She doesn’t deserve signature dishes.
Culinary Analysis: Rock Shrimp Tempura Rolls
Next came the rolls. I am an expert at chopsticks. (Another lie. I am terrible at them. They are like trying to pick up a grape with two pencils. It’s an impossible system.)
I asked for a fork. I am not ashamed. A true culinary expert knows when to use the right “tool.”
This roll was “tempura.” Now, I have done my research. According to my primary “authority reference” (my Mom), “tempura” is just a fancy Japanese word for “chicken nugget batter.”
And my Mom is never wrong about fried things.
This was a roll of rice, but inside it was warm, crunchy shrimp that had been fried in that magic tempura batter. And it was drizzled with some kind of creamy, spicy orange sauce.
It was… incredible. It was like the best popcorn shrimp in the world decided to go to college, get a fancy degree, and move into a rice apartment. It was crunchy and creamy and warm. I was in heaven. I was a “gastronomer.” (I think that means a person who is good at eating.)
Culinary Analysis: The Gremlin’s Hibachi Steak
While I was having my sophisticated passage, I looked over at my sister.
She was eating… brown squares of meat. And a pile of white, sticky rice.
“How is it?” I asked, trying to sound like a professional food critic.
“It’s good,” she said, with her mouth full. “It tastes like… steak.”
She dipped it in a bowl of “Eel Sauce,” which is what she calls soy sauce. She ate the whole thing like a small caveman. She got rice in her hair. This is why she is not allowed to write for the blog. She has no “poise.”
But she was happy. The Supervisor was happy. And I was happy, because I was full of fried rice and fancy shrimp.
We paid with the Magic Plastic. It felt so powerful. The man in the suit even bowed to us as we left.
“See?” I told The Gremlin as we walked out. “That’s ambiance.”
“I have rice in my sock,” she said.
Part Two: The Great Wait (The Next Morning)
We woke up the next day. The house was still quiet. The parents were still gone. The Magic Plastic was still on the counter.
We had survived the night of high-class gastronomy.
But now we had a new problem. Lunch.
We looked in the fridge again. The chicken and rice dish was still there. It looked angrier now. There was also some yogurt and “flax seeds.” What is a flax seed? It looks like food for a hamster. I am not a hamster.
“What are we going to do?” The Gremlin asked. She looked worried.
“We are going on another passage,” I said. “A different kind.”
Katsuya was fancy and dark. It was for “impressing” people. But today… today we needed “joy.” We needed “volume.” We needed… sugar.
I knew exactly where to go. The happiest, most chaotic, most important place in all of Southern California.
“Supervisor!” I yelled. “Start the car! We are going to Santa Monica! We are going… to The Cheesecake Factory.”
Part Three: The Temple of Sugar and Joy (The Cheesecake Factory)
If Katsuya is a dark, secret ninja cave, The Cheesecake Factory is a giant, loud, Egyptian palace that got struck by lightning and turned into a restaurant.
It’s in Santa Monica, so we could see the ocean when we drove there, which is a nice “view.” But who cares about the ocean when there is cheesecake nearby?
We walked in. It was SO LOUD. There were balloons. There were families. There were so many waiters running around. And the ceiling was so high and painted with weird clouds. It was the most beautiful room I have ever been in.
A lady gave us a “pager” that looked like a giant black coaster. She said it would be a “20-minute wait.”
This is the hardest part of the journey. The “anticipation.”
The Gremlin started trying to climb one of the weird Egyptian pillars. The Supervisor had to pull her down and bribe her with a straw wrapper.
We waited for what felt like three years. I stared at the front counter. The front counter is where they keep the “target.”
It’s a glass case filled with cheesecakes.
There are so many. Strawberry. Chocolate. Caramel. Pineapple. Red Velvet. There must have been 40 different kinds. It’s like a library, but instead of books, it’s just pure, round happiness.
I saw the one. The only one.
“That one,” I whispered to The Supervisor, pointing. “The Oreo one.”
She nodded. She understood the mission.
Finally, the black coaster started screaming and vibrating. It was time.
We were led to a giant booth. A waiter gave us the menus.
The menu at The Cheesecake Factory is not a menu. It is a “novel.” It is a “book.” It is “The Cheesecake Bible.” It has 250 items. It is 21 pages long.
This, my friends, is the real “culinary passage.” It is the passage of “choice.”
How do you pick? How can you possibly decide? There’s pizza! And pasta! And hamburgers! And “Glamburgers”! And “SkinnyLicious”! (A lie, nothing in this building is skinny.)
It was too much pressure. I almost fainted from the responsibility.
The Supervisor, seeing my “culEEnary distress” (that’s a word I made up), took charge. “You know what? Let’s just get some sliders and some chicken strips. We need to save room for the real reason we are here.”
She is the smartest babysitter in the world.
The food came. It was good. The chicken strips were crunchy. The french fries were salty. The Gremlin ate her hamburger. It was fine. It was lunch.
But we were not here for lunch. We were here for The Main Event.
The waiter came back. He cleared our plates.
“Did we save room for dessert?” he asked, winking.
I looked at him with the most serious expression of my 10-year-old life. “Sir,” I said. “We did not save room. We made room. This is our destiny.”
He looked a little scared.
“One slice,” I said, “of the Oreo Cookie Cheesecake. And… three forks.”
Culinary Analysis: The Oreo Dream-Come-True Cheesecake
The waiter came back. He was holding a white plate. On the plate was… a mountain.
It was a monster. It was a giant triangle of power.
Let’s break it down. This is the “architecture” of the cheesecake:
- The Foundation: A thick, dark, crunchy crust made of actual Oreo cookies.
- The Building: A thick, white layer of creamy cheesecake. But it’s not just plain cheesecake. It has GIANT chunks of Oreo cookies mixed inside of it.
- The Second Floor: A layer of vanilla cream.
- The Roof: A covering of dark chocolate icing.
- The Garnish (The “Chimneys”): Two giant swirls of whipped cream, which are the “authority” on all good desserts. And more Oreo crumbles.
We all just stared at it.
“It’s… so big,” The Gremlin whispered.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. I picked up my fork. The Supervisor picked up hers. The Gremlin picked up hers (and held it like a shovel).
We dove in.
I can’t even… I don’t have the… I need my classroom’s list of adjectives.
It was… It was… It was everything.
The first bite was the creamy, cold cheesecake part, mixed with the soft-but-crunchy cookie chunk inside. It was so smooth. It was so sweet. It wasn’t “fancy” sweet like the Japanese restaurant. This was “I am 10 years old and this is the best thing that has ever happened to me” sweet.
Then you get the crust. It’s dark and chocolaty and so, so crunchy.
Then you get the whipped cream, which is light as a cloud and cuts through the “richness.” (That’s another blogger word.)
I took a bite of just the cheesecake. Then a bite of just the crust. Then a bite with all the layers at once.
My “authority reference” for this is Science. In science class, our teacher told us that sugar hits the “dopamine” sensors in your brain, and dopamine is the “happy chemical.”
I had so much dopamine in my brain, I thought my head was going to float off my body and fly to the Santa Monica Pier. I was happy. I was full. I was victorious.
I looked at The Gremlin.
She had cheesecake in her eyebrows. She had it on her chin. She had it on her clothes. She looked like she had wrestled the cheesecake, and the cheesecake had won.
But she was smiling.
We did not finish it. We couldn’t. It was too powerful. We had been defeated by the cheese. But we were defeated with “honor.”
We paid with the Magic Plastic. The Supervisor added a huge tip, because The Gremlin had turned our table into a “disaster zone.”
We walked out into the sunshine. We were full of sugar and chicken strips. We were champions.
The Conclusion: My Final Culinary Passage
The parents came home. They asked what we did.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “We just… you know. Hung out. Ate the chicken in the fridge.”
(The Supervisor threw out the chicken and rice casserole. I think it is starting to turn yellow. That is its own fault.)
But I know the truth. The Gremlin knows the truth. The Supervisor definitely knows the truth. The Receipts were also left on the counter!
We had a journey. We had a Culinary Passage.
We learned that “ambiance” is nice, but “cheesecake” is better. We learned that spicy tuna is delicious, but fried shrimp is more delicious. And we learned that the most powerful tool in the world is a small, rectangular piece of plastic (and a babysitter who is cool).
I am 10 years old. I am a food critic. I am a gastronomer. And I am ready for my next journey.
(As long as it involves whipped cream.)
Still Hungry?
You finished my post? Wow. I’m impressed. Your brain must be full of my genius now.
But my passage is over, so you’re probably wondering what to read next (since you obviously have so much free time). I guess you can read some of the other posts on this blog, but just know they won’t be as good as mine.
- For When You Want to See How My Parents Think They “Do Luxury”: I’m pretty sure this is the fancy hotel my parents went to. It looks… fine. I bet their “California Coastal Luxury” doesn’t even include a single slice of Oreo cheesecake. Sad for them.
- For When Your Parents Finally Listen to You About Dessert: I’m adding this to my list of “Emergency Destinations.” It’s about gourmet ice cream in Los Angeles, which is just a fancy way of saying “my kind of place.”
- For When You Need to See What Boring People Do: My parents said they went to “relax.” I bet they were doing these boring kid-free activities. Like… “wine tasting”? Yawn. They should have just gone to Katsuya without me. Oh, wait…
- For When You Have to Take Your Family Somewhere: Okay, fine. If you have to bring your parents (or a messy gremlin) with you, I guess this list of Top 10 Family-Friendly Dining Spots is useful. It’s probably full of places that have good crayons and steak that isn’t $150.
Now go. Read. But just remember who your favorite food critic is. (It’s me.)
About the Author
The author (Madeline Graham) is a 10-year-old “gastronomer” and “culinary expert” based in Los Angeles. She is a specialist in all foods that are crunchy, fried, or involve Oreos. She is currently accepting applications for a new, less-messy “assistant” (sister). Her palate is very sophisticated.
