What are people in Los Angeles waiting in line for today? Tacos, of course. Shawarma? Absolutely. And on a stretch of East Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, in between a rug store and movie theater, it’s all about the giant onigiri.
This is where you’ll find Onigiri Time, a tiny cart with a big clock affixed to the front, and a name that sounds like a Sunday morning kids show from the ‘90s. And behind it, a smiling Tony Choe handing out paper bags filled with blue crab-, Spam- and tuna-stuffed rice balls.
While most of the onigiri in Japanese convenience stores and markets is designed for snacking, Choe’s onigiri are hulking, chunky rounded triangles of rice and filling that each weigh at least half a pound. And unlike most onigiri, typically made with unseasoned rice, Choe is using both white and purple sushi rice.
“We had a video that went viral, and a lot of Japanese people have been saying that this is not onigiri,” says Choe on a recent call. “I totally understand. People assume I’m Japanese, but the purple rice comes from me being Korean. This is simply my interpretation of onigiri.”
The former busboy and restaurant server taught himself how to make shari while working at sushi restaurants around Los Angeles. He started a pop-up sushi operation called Temaki Time, showing up at events and night markets with hand rolls. With no way to meet the demands of customers requesting hand rolls to go, Choe decided to change his concept to onigiri.
He rolled his Onigiri Time cart onto Colorado Boulevard in January.
“Hand rolls you have to enjoy right then and there because after a few minutes, the seaweed gets compromised and soggy,” he says. “I already perfected my sushi rice, and just applied that to my onigiri.”
Each onigiri is wrapped in a plastic sleeve that keeps the seaweed separate from the rice. When you’re ready to eat, you follow the instructions on the wrapper, pull down on the tab, then pull the plastic away. If the packaging is unwrapped correctly, the seaweed should remain in one long sleeve, offering satisfying, crispy bites that crack then collapse into the rice.
The two-toned onigiri is a dusty mauve on one side and pearly white on the other. Like well-made shari, the rice grains remain separate and glossy, clinging together with a nice firmness and just the right tang of sugar and rice vinegar.
Choe typically offers around a half a dozen flavors, like blue crab with Kewpie mayonnaise, or spicy tuna made with canned tuna. He dices Spam into tiny squares and glazes it in what tastes like soy sauce and sugar to make a hyper-sweet-and-salty filling. He does the same with bits of chicken doused in teriyaki, each square of protein properly caramelized. For a vegan option, Choe combines sweet corn with Kewpie.
Every month, Choe introduces a limited special. In July, he filled the rice balls with seared chopped Bay scallops, Kewpie and crunchy bits of fried garlic. This month, look for a special vegan onigiri with a mashed avocado and red pepper center.
Regardless of the filling, each onigiri comes with a cup of what Choe calls “dat dank wasabi cream sauce.” I’m going to assume he intended “dank” as internet slang for general praise. It’s a recipe he borrowed from his brother-in-law, who originally created the sauce as a condiment for chicken strips. It’s capable of seducing even the staunchest wasabi skeptics, with a sweetness that mellows any pungent heat.
Choe nestles the cup of sauce into the peak of the onigiri, creating an indentation at the top of each mound. You remove the sauce and wrapper, then drizzle the pale green condiment over the rice. The wasabi flavor is fast, fleeting and addictive. If the included cup isn’t enough, Choe sells the sauce in bottles.
Onigiri Time far surpassed Choe’s expectations and the popularity of Temaki Time. He has plans to launch another Onigiri Time cart on the Westside, and he’s already working on opening a bricks-and-mortar in Eagle Rock that will offer both onigiri and temaki.
For now, you’ll find the cart Tuesday to Sunday from about 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., or until Choe sells his last ball of rice. Go early. You don’t want to be stranded on the street corner without your own paper bag of onigiri, and dat dank sauce.
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