Vancouver’s gold-medal cuisine

I’m watching what I eat up here. First I watch it, then I eat it. Total elapsed time, about 4 seconds -- a new North American record.

What’s really doing me in are these Japadogs (about $9). Japadogs are basically Japanese hot dogs, served from a couple of simple carts on busy Burrard Street, one of the main Vancouver thoroughfares.

Japadogs have seaweed on them and a whole bunch of other stuff that could be good for you -- I’m not sure. But don’t let that put you off, because bite for bite, Japadogs might be the best thing you ever barked down.

At some point in my life I’ve got to start focusing on finding a career, and what I think I’ll do is finance one of these Japadog carts, place it at the corner of a major intersection in the states -- Wilshire maybe, or even Michigan Avenue - and just retire. They’re pretty good, these Japadogs.

But they aren’t the only culinary triumph in this town of explosively good and diverse restaurants. What I like about it is the damage you can do with a twenty in your pocket. Crazy, gonzo stuff. Call it fear and bloating in Vancouver.

In fact, my original goal was to eat at every single Vancouver restaurant while I was here, to share with you the hits and the misses. I’ve since modified that goal; I now want to eat at every Vancouver restaurant twice.

Pardon the aside, but part of the goal is mere survival: If I can eat myself into a stupor, which you can do here very cheaply, I think it might make me sleep better. I never sleep well in a hotel.

Who does, right? But I can’t count how many nights I’ve tossed-turned to the hiss of tires on wet pavement in the street below.

I just seem destined to spend too much of my life in hotels that face the street.

“Hello, front desk?” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you have any *&^%$##^ rooms that don’t sound like *&^%%*&% bus barns?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid we’re all booked up.”

So be it. And off I go in search of sushi.

Remember how Jeremy Piven claimed mercury poisoning when he dropped out of that Broadway show? Well, I may have to drop out of the Olympics, same reason. I have never seen so much sushi. It’s good too, on a par with L.A.’s, and about half as cheap.

There is also a huge Chinatown, with a palace called Flota that seats 1,000 people. Order what they call the “hot pot,” stir-fry that comes to the table sizzling from the kitchen -- a brushes-on-snare-drum sound so mesmerizing you could dance to it.

Another culinary adventure you should try is this gloppy delicacy called poutine -- French fries smothered in cheese curds and a layer of pure cholesterol traveling under the alias of “gravy.” Outside of the Japadog (and Peggy Fleming), it is the most delicious thing ever.

I’d recommend a little place called Fritz, on Davie Street, where you can get a bowl of the stuff for $4, and chicken on top for another buck.

Poutine is hearty, Great White North food, and your doc would never recommend it every day. But have some next time you’re here -- late at night, in lieu of dessert. They’re open till 3.

Maybe I’ve inhaled too many Zamboni fumes, but I’m also nuts for a greasy spoon called the Elbow Room, five minutes from downtown.

I have no patience with hyperbole, but the Elbow Room may be the best thing to happen to breakfast since the chicken.

Sure, it’s got a reputation as an ornery place -- but it’s a manufactured ornery, not mean-spirited like the old biddies at some deli. The Elbow Room waiters, for instance, make you get up and refill your own coffee.

It’s worth it though, because they have this long list of blow-your-cork egg dishes -- all for around $10. I have something called the Brett Cullen. If I ever sleep again -- probably not -- I may dream of it.

Whatever you choose here, and you can hardly miss, I recommend that you get wobbly with food, then walk it off, then get wobbly once again -- you only live once. Health is precious, sure, but so are good memories. So is a deep, rich sleep.

Besides, the best health club of all time is this Stanley Park -- the great water-rimmed oasis on Vancouver’s front porch. It is the ultimate jogging venue. The other day, while running, I passed a bald eagle supping on a boulder, a mere 20 yards offshore.

I’m pretty sure he was having the poutine.

chris.erskine@latimes.com