Critic’s Notebook: Rekindling my relationship with fried shrimp at Izakaya Ichie in Buena Park

The ebi furai at Izakaya Ichie in Buena Park are absolutely delicious. Ebi furai are the crispier cousin to shrimp tempura. Oddly, this new Japanese pub lists the ebi furai on the menu as “shrimp tempura” even though these are distinctly not tempura (which would be coated in a light, airy liquid batter) but rather are very clearly furai (coated with prickly, flaky, crispy panko bread crumbs).

I suspect these shrimp might arrive at the restaurant already frozen and coated in crumbs, but I could be wrong. Doesn’t matter. Fried shrimp don’t get much better than this. These are incredibly tender and beautifully cooked. Underneath that crispy golden breading, the shrimp have been scored in a harlequin pattern and stretched until they measure a full five inches in length, perfectly cylindrical. They come with a wasabi-infused aioli for dipping. I savor every bite and lick my fingers clean.

Panko crusted fried shrimp, or ebi furai, at Izakaya Ichie in Buena Park (Photo by Brad A. Johnson, Orange County Register/SCNG)

Izakaya Ichie at The Source in Buena Park (Photo by Brad A. Johnson, Orange County Register/SCNG)

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Although I haven’t thought much about fried shrimp in recent years, there was a long stretch in my life when I coveted fried shrimp as one of my ultimate guilty pleasures, a fascination that began when I was just a child.

Growing up on a cattle ranch in remote southwest Texas near the Mexico border, my family didn’t eat much fish or seafood except for the occasional catfish that we caught in a nearby river using Kentucky Fried Chicken as bait, but that’s a story for another day. My parents did, however, bring home the occasional box or two of frozen fried shrimp when they went to the big grocery store 45 miles away. Each sibling was allowed just three or four pieces because it was so expensive.

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I’ll never forget that first introduction. I had never seen the ocean, wasn’t really sure what it was. I’d never seen tiny sea creatures like this before. I had no idea how to eat them, only that they were supposed to be delicious. My older brother told me not to worry. He’d show me how to do it. I trusted him.

“It’s very important that you don’t eat the tails,” he warned. “Eat only the meat.” He made it sound like I’d die a worse fate than a rattlesnake bite to the throat if I ate the wrong part.

“Which part is the meat?” I asked.

He pointed to the skinny red tips. “Eat those little red parts on the end, and leave the rest on your plate,” he told me, adding, “Now, you go first.”

He hovered over me and supervised my every move as I did exactly as he instructed. I picked up each shrimp and bit off the red shards at the ends. They crunched between my teeth as I chewed and chewed and chewed. I was afraid to swallow because they felt like live wasps in my mouth, so I kept grinding as fast as I could until they were pulverized into mush. I reluctantly let it slide down my throat then looked up at him for approval.

“I don’t think I like fried shrimp,” I told him. He smiled a sinister grin and gazed at my plate, which was now littered with the soft meaty scraps that I was told were inedible and that I dare not put in my mouth.

“That’s OK. I’ll get rid of those for you,” he said. He reached over and grabbed a handful of the now-tailless shrimp and began stuffing them into his mouth. “Oh my god these are so good,” he said, laughing as he crammed shrimp after shrimp into his face.

I was stunned. He tricked me (not the first time). I began to cry. And when my parents finally saw what had happened, my older brother got a whipping with the rodeo belt. “It was worth it,” he said.

It would be months after that before I would finally get the chance again to taste the right part of a (frozen) shrimp, and it instantly became my favorite food. It remained a guilty pleasure for much of my life.

Thank you, Izakaya Ichie, for reminding me how much I still love fried shrimp.