It’s this mall teriyaki that has enamored me for years. My guilty pleasure. What I crave after a long vacation abroad. Whose kiosk is always teeming with hungry shoppers of all shapes and shades. Where, even if you struck out at every store, you’ll know you’re getting exactly what you want. Any time I’m near a mall, I feel the teriyaki calling to me like the Green Goblin Mask. Enough to make an excuse to go to Southcenter. by Michael Wong You may have heard that the American mall is dying, and depending on how fun your teenage years were, you’re either feeling grief or triumph over it. At its best, though, the mall is a watering hole for everyone. As an Asian man going on 31 years strong, the stores themselves don’t always show it (I personally don’t feel seen by Claire’s). But there is always representation in the food court. Between the Sbarros and Auntie Anne's, there’s always the omnipotent three: 1.) Panda Express. 2.) Some dupe version of Panda Express. And always, unwaveringly, 3.) A teriyaki spot unlike anything you can get outside the confines of a Westfield or Simon Malls production. It’s this mall teriyaki that has enamored me for years. My guilty pleasure. What I crave after a long vacation abroad. Whose kiosk is always teeming with hungry shoppers of all shapes and shades. Where, even if you struck out at every store, you’ll know you’re getting exactly what you want. Any time I’m near a mall, I feel the teriyaki calling to me like the Green Goblin Mask. Enough to make an excuse to go to Southcenter. This is an ode to mall teriyaki everywhere and an examination of what makes this simple box of food so special. It Always Starts with Teriyaki First, some context. For the past decade, I’ve been investigating what makes something “Asian Verified.” I was in college in Southern California—broke as hell and adamant about putting on my Freshman 15—when I got an advert in the mail for BOGO teriyaki bowls from a spot I’d never been. (Note: In SoCal, what passes for teriyaki is often a conundrum. The type of shredded beef bowl with cloyingly sweet sauce that can turn a Seattleite elitist—a canon event.) Hungry and humbled, I drove my ass to WaBa Grill. When I walked in, coupon in hand and hope in my heart, I noticed a white dude look at me, nudge his pal and say, “See, I told you this place is legit!” I wasn’t offended, but I wanted to clarify: My presence as an Asian person alone is not itself a signal of legitimacy, go figure. Sometimes Asian people just go somewhere because they’re hungry. Or because they have a coupon! And as such, from two bowls of extremely mediocre teriyaki, my video series Asian Verified was born—reclaiming the rubrics that define “Asianness,” previously written by such experts as white dudes that eat at WaBa Grill. Along the way, I’ve learned a lot about the Asian American experience, and I hope we can learn some things together. Let’s start with mall teriyaki. Anatomy of Mall Teriyaki The major player in the game is none other than Sarku. You know the getup: Red aprons, white shirts, inviting smiles of the Asian ladies at the register. The sizzle of the flat top, deftly manned by… yes, Hispanic men. And they’re damn good at it too. It’s at Sarku where you first encounter teriyaki sampled on the ends of broken, raw spaghetti noodles—a tactic born from the same savvy Asian frugality that brought us innovations like fried rice. Besides the prices, the menu is the same as when you were a teeny bopper. For the visual learners among us, Sarku offers pictorial menus showcasing glistening plates of food that mirror what’s being cooked beneath. You can choose from a normal teriyaki chicken plate, or, if it’s payday, fold in other classics like shrimp and beef. And then there are the extras—eggrolls, shrimp tempura, fried “potstickers,” and the like—surreptitiously provided for melanin-challenged patrons. Michael Wong Michael Wong Please take note of the fountain drink machine, moreover its working status. It’s commonly a coin flip. Think McDonald's ice cream machine reliability. If the soda machine is out of order at your teriyaki spot, mall or otherwise, you’re gonna be eating good. And I guarantee they have Snapples in the fridge. This is unwritten Asian Verified law. Also, note the team’s composition. Any teriyaki spot worth its sauce will feature a smiling Asian at the register, plus a (likely Korean) owner watching over things. But who is cooking? The best casual teriyaki is not made by Asian people themselves: it’s made by Hispanic cooks who have been tediously trained in the art of the yaki. These men lord over the flat top with skilled spatulas, conducting the orchestra of veggies and meats with intention and finesse. You might try to mentally will them to give you extra meat, but their fortitude is strong, be aware. After placing your order, the cashier will affix different colored toothpicks to your styrofoam box, alerting the team down the line as to what you paid for, what you deserve. Two plain toothpicks signal “double meat,” a welcomed subtlety that won’t embarrass you among other patrons. The box slides down the rails above the griddle, at points getting filled with your choice of rice, veggies, and add-ons as it makes its way to the promised land: the meats. Once you claim your prize (having missed your number being called three times prior), it’s showtime. The masterpiece is completed with endless streaks of sriracha, and best inhaled hunched over like Gollum in your car, but maybe that’s just me. And personally, I skip the salad as I’m too old to fake-enjoy the flaccid cabbage, often doomed with a one-way ticket to trash, sometimes with a layover in the fridge. I like how mall teriyaki is already cooked with the sauce, so I don’t add more. This contrasts with Seattle’s style, whose chicken is commonly grilled hot and replete with char, goading you to dip it in the dime-sized plastic cup of sauce they give you.  Diving in, it’s important to savor the simplicity of it all. The chicken, cut in pseudo strips and bits that provide the perfect surface area for the glaze of the sauce, tastes slightly caramelized from the flat top. It sits atop a full bed of hot rice, infusing the rice as it sits. (Trickle down flavor-nomics.) Over time, this makes chopstick use difficult, so opt for a spoon from the jump.  For the price, it’s a familiar win I’ll continue to claim. You may even get two meals out of it, depending on how much weed you smoke.  Something You Can Count On So yes, it’s true: In Seattle, teriyaki is as ubiquitous as Starbucks. But our tradition is not the rule. And mall teriyaki like Sarku serves to show us how Asian culture is as commonplace in our city as coffee.  My hope is that next time you hit the food court, you consider how mall teriyaki provides comfort and familiarity to more than Asian folks alone. Like many foods, it’s a handshake to a culture you either always knew or never knew. And in kind, it’s steeped in traditions that are unique to its format and also harken to its heritage—inclusive of Seattle’s influence, such as chicken thighs expertly grilled, and also of tropes that they somehow cannot escape, like the broken fountain drink machine. All signs for a great, Asian Verified meal. Just BYOB. ✌️✅ Michael Wong