Living for the lunch break
When your noon meal is the highlight, you need a new job
In life, some days are good, some days are bad, and some days are just fine. This profoundly astute observation applies to most people, I’d imagine.
I’m in my early 30s, in a serious committed relationship, and have not one but two dream jobs: running my own cookie dough business and writing about food. I can’t complain. But it wasn’t always this way. Like many, my 20s were spent unhappy and unfulfilled with my work, single or with the wrong person, and mostly just unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. Through and through, no matter how good or bad the days, weeks or months have been over the years, the one constant I could look forward to was ... lunch.
The midday workday meal offered more than just satiety — it was an escape from the monotony and boredom of work, a promise of discovery and adventure, a momentary pause for deliciousness.
Rewind 11 years, back to darker days: I was an undergrad at UC Berkeley and it was the summer going into my senior year. I chose to study rhetoric because I had this romantic idea of becoming a lawyer (which I soon realized was actually a time-consuming, expensive and generally ill idea). But I stuck it out anyway, and like many young directionless people in the Bay Area, I got an internship at a tech company.
I landed at a startup in San Mateo called Limbo 41414. The concept was almost as bad as the name. They provided a text message-based game where one could win prizes in a “reversestyle auction” by texting your bid to the phone number 41414 (this was in 2006 before there were iPhones and apps). So, for example, you could win a car if you — and only you — submitted a bid for $13.37 and no one else submitted a bid lower than that. It was so stupid, but I just went along with it, because what else was I supposed to do?
Every morning I’d wake up, smoke a bowl, eat some Rice Krispies and then grudgingly proceed on my 1½ hour commute to San Mateo: I would take a bus to Rockridge BART, ride BART to Caltrain, and then walk a half-mile or so to the office. There, I played with Powerpoint for a few hours until 12 p.m. rolled around.
And that’s when it was time to escape into a giant, piping hot bowl of freshly grilled teriyaki chicken at Kaz Teriyaki Grill, or as I called, it Kaz’s.
Kaz’s was everything this broke-ass college student needed: It was fast (takeout only), cheap ($5 at the time), healthyish (it included a single piece of broccoli!) and deeply delicious. There were all sorts of things on the menu — teriyaki this and curry that — but the only item I would ever order was the teriyaki chicken bowl.
I had fond memories of “the best chicken teriyaki ever,” as a younger, enthusiastic Omar might have proclaimed. But a recent rediscovery of Kaz’s made me realize that it was even better than I had remembered.
Kaz Teriyaki Grill was started by Kaz Suruki. He was born in Japan and moved to San Mateo with his parents in the ’70s when he was 10 years old. Kaz went to college in San Mateo and worked in landscape construction for most of his life until the day came when he decided to follow his passion for food and opened up a teriyaki joint 20 years ago in 1997.
A few weeks ago I found myself in the area, and as I was walking down the wild streets of downtown San Mateo, a strange feeling of familiarity swept over me — that same feeling you get when you revisit a once-frequented street in your hometown or a foreign city you
haven’t been to in years. It was then when I remembered that I used to work nearby, and more importantly, used to lunch nearby. I beelined to Kaz’s, and sure enough I ordered a chicken teriyaki bowl.
Suruki roasts thick pieces of juicy chicken thigh in an oven then finishes them on a gas grill lined with charcoal. This technique keeps the chicken moist and prevents it from overcooking, while imparting just the right amount of smoke and char. The chicken is incredibly juicy and flavorful.
He also uses premium highgrade sushi rice in the bowl. “The rice is very important — you have to rinse it three or four times to remove the coating and starch,” he says.
But perhaps even more important than the rice is Kaz’s teriyaki sauce, which he makes
Kaz’s was everything this broke-ass college student needed: It was fast (takeout only), cheap ($5 at the time), healthy-ish ... and deeply delicious.
in-house. It contains a mix of soy sauce, sugar, cooking wine, lots of vegetables and a few secrets. It’s not too sweet or overpowering and is packed with umami. The sticky sauce is painted on the chicken prior to grilling, and a thick, rich and glossy layer is liberally applied on afterwards as well. It is, as I said, everything.
As a seasoned eater reuniting with my chicken teriyaki bowl for the first time in 11 years, I can vouch that Kaz’s is more than legitimately delicious — it just may be the best chicken teriyaki I’ll ever have.
But superlatives aside, I’m reminded of the incredible power of food and its ability to provide refuge from the boring and the mundane, its ability to turn a bad day into a good one — even if temporarily, for just a lunchtime break.
Kaz’s was the one constant I could look forward to, and even after all these years it remains a glorious teriyaki temple that's worth the trek.