Since last posting, a handful of important events have passed (me by). I visited Japan and Italy for 16 days and 10 days, respectively. Japan was a revelation in many ways. Traveling alone with limited command of Japanese taught me much about what was truly important to me, in terms of vacation. In short: food. Longer: food is, for the most part, the easiest point-of-entry into a foreign culture. Everyone eats and shits, and since I don’t know of anyone who likes to share a stall, I usually try to eat early, late, and just about every time in between, when traveling. Japan exceeded my every expectation. I ate Japan from bottom to top. Yakitori, sushi, ramen, tonkatsu, udon, soba, wagashi, ayugashi, takoyaki, teppanyaki, sukiyaki, tempura, curry, French pastries, French haute-cuisine, vending-machine sandwiches, bento boxes from the train station, gigantic fruit, kaiseki ryori, vegan monk’s food, countryside specialties, inner-city delicacies, convenience store staples, the weird, sublime, elegant, blunt, awe-inspiring, and sickening. I think I’ll remember most of these meals for a long time, if not for the food, then for the company or the lessons learned. I’ll spare you a day-by-day recounting, here. If you want to know more, I’ll gladly talk your ears off and your stomach to a growl. Though, I’ll share one particularly telling story about Japan’s culinary culture.
My first night staying in earnest in Tokyo (until then my nights there were merely short, one-night stays between my trips elsewhere) at Claska, I sought something particularly hearty and protein-tacular, as I’d just returned from climbing Mt. Fuji the day before. After reviewing the general categories, I decided on yakitori (skewered, grilled chicken). Chowhound was in fairly unanimous agreement that the best yakitori in Tokyo was to be found not six blocks from my hotel. With a blurry StreetView shot in mind and a vague understanding of my neighborhood, I asked the front desk for reliable directions. They didn’t seem to know of the place (though they were exceptionally helpful in literally EVERY other request I made) so I set out into the waning sunlight (which was, at this point, about 7 p.m.) in a desperate search for amino acids. The place was found without event (it had a chicken drawing for a logo) but was packed. Informed that 9 was the soonest I could get a seat, I walked back dejectedly to the area around the hotel to re-orient myself.
The walk back led me past a large paper lantern hung from the entrance of what looked to be a dive bar/grill. No more than 10 people fit at the bar with two more four-tops in the back. I remembered the concierge telling me that the one yakitori place that they did know of had this same description. What the hell, right? Concierges don’t always get you the best, but they aren’t going to recommend the worst either. In I went, garnering odd looks from what turned out to be the regulars. (Regulars meaning 3-times-a-week for dinner, here, it seems.) After a brief and awkward exchange with the “masta” (”master” or “mama”, depending on sex, is the honorific often given to owners of such small establishments) I seated myself at the remaining open space at the bar, in front a glass case full of chicken, vegetables, and unknown bits on skewers. Being the pretentious jackass that I am, I had looked up and jotted down the names of commonly ordered items at yakitori places. In broken English and Japanese, respectively, “masta” and I got across that I wanted at least four things, thigh-meat and leeks, wings, okra, and asparagus skewers, as well as a few others that he recommended. The first four were truly the tastiest versions of those foods that I had ever had. Bar fucking none. The thigh-and-leek (”momoniku“) was juicy, deeply flavorful, and seemingly-effortlessly grilled to perfection, while managing about a dozen other skewers, orders, and disparate lines of conversation. Everything was flavored with salt (no MSG I was assured), lemon juice (squeezed fresh), and little else, with the exception of a few special dishes. The wings (”tebesaki“) were crunchier than their fried counterparts (though cooked over a minuscule, rectangular charcoal grill) and the fatty meat really shone through. The okra (”okura“) and asparagus (”aspara“) were divine. Wrapped thinly in unsmoked bacon and grilled until just tender, they tasted of all the right things: juicy, fresh, sweet vegetable and tangy, salty bacon, nothing else. His last three dishes were cheese-stuffed jalapeno peppers wrapped in bacon (”piman“, as the French “piment“) (OH LORD), livers basted in a ponzu-like sauce (”reeba“), and the most enlightening of the night, breast-meat cubes grilled lightly (blue-rare, in steak terms, just a nice sear) with a last-second smear of wasabi paste over the top. This combination of wasabi and chicken was finer than the best religious ecstasy you could imagine. Two flavors I had NEVER thought about together were just perfect.
This is where the story stops being food-porn and starts being culture-porn. Sated, I paid, repeatedly expressed my genuine joy at the quality of the dinner, and moseyed back to the hotel to sit on the roof deck and watch Tokyo’s skyline in the cool breeze. My friend, Eric, joined me the next day. In the course of the next week, we returned three times to Torishige (the name of “masta“’s yakitoriya, as we found out later.) In those visits, we tried more exotic (to us, but mundate favorites to the regulars,) skewers like enoki (wrapped in bacon, ‘natch), steak, chorizo, chicken butt, gizzard, grapes (again, bacon-wrapped), tomatoes (baco–you get the point, veggies were wrapped in bacon without exception), and leeks. The regulars took to us (I have a new facebook friend to prove it!) slowly but surely, “masta” opened up and told us of his past (a renowned, Japanese jazz drummer), and the serving girl even invited us to write our own list of orders (just like everyone else) in romanji, if we were so inclined. Our fifth and last visit came on the night preceding our departure. We told “masta” as much, to which he heartily replied that this was our “goodbye pahhhty“. We took this as a figure of speech; he meant it literally. Before we were even sitting down, he had extracted three bottles of wine from the fridge (where did he find those?), and opened two whites, distributing them among the clientele at the bar. One guy at the far end of the bar wasn’t included in the festivities by his own choice, for some reason. We changed that very quickly with eager hand motions, forced glasses of wine, and gentle teasing. The whole place was in it, now! Drinks flowed freely: wine, Sapporo, whiskey and cold green tea (sooooo refreshing), medicinal, home-brewed Chinese soju, iridescent Korean firewater, and plenty of water. We tried horse-meat sashimi (this was the one thing that didn’t agree with my taste buds in the least), soft-tendon, whale, chicken-hearts, as well as previous staples. A GLORIOUS time was had until the very end when Eric puked in the bathroom and I had to spend 15 minutes cleaning up, but you know, no harm, no foul. Halfway through, I checked my wallet for bills (this was a cash-only establishment) and noted a mere $115’s-worth of yen. This surely couldn’t cover the tab. I sheepishly told “masta” that I couldn’t possibly pay for everything tonight, in cash, and that I would drop by tomorrow at lunch time to cover the rest. He said, “No, no, no! Your goodbye pahhty, sabisu!” (”Sabisu” is their way of saying “service”, or “free”.) He literally threw us a goodbye party! He knew us for eight days and threw a goodbye party that must have cost him $300 in checks, since nobody paid that night. Astonishing. An open mind, a bit of research, genuine emotion, huge hunger, and a touch of Japanese got me more than I could ever have asked for. Similar, though not nearly as grand, experiences were had all over Japan. Seems they think food is as important as I think it is.