Tonki and Menya Fujishiro, Meguro, Tokyo
When I moved to Tokyo I wasn’t really sure what to expect. For one thing, I thought in cliches and caricatures.
I had assumed for example, that most foreigners living here – particularly white, male ones – would be weird. They would have some questionable, potentially quite racy, fascination with 90s Japanese manga. Or a creepy peripheral awareness of any Japanese girl in a school outfit. You know what I mean. Sweaty, doughy and just weird enough not to fit in at home whilst also fitting in perfectly where people are polite to you no matter what and will allow you to wear sandals and socks without judgement. God love Japan.
On re-reading it that feels like a crass opening – playing to the crowd for easy laughs – so I hope you’ll forgive me. I mean, I myself am an often-sweaty western man living in Tokyo, so I probably shouldn’t go to deep on any of this anyway.
Another thing to strike me quite early on was how utterly useless I was at Japanese. Describing my Japanese language skills as non-existent would be generous to non-existent things. I was actually in negative equity, like I had learnt stuff which was wrong or useless. So I had to unlearn that before I could start from zero.
Existential panic stalked me at every turn in those early days, particularly as the only response that I could be sure of giving correctly was “hai” (“yes”). I didn’t even know the word for “no”. If, in some terrible hypothetical situation, a police officer were to accost me at the scene of a recently committed murder and had asked me, in Japanese, if I had done the deed, all I would have been able to say is a meek “hai”, whilst also likely looking embarrassed and, therefore, guilty as sin. In short, it is a minor miracle, and thanks to the very low crime rate in Japan, that I am not writing this from behind bars on a prison laptop having confessed to a crime I didn’t commit.
But those early, naïve, days are behind me now. In fact, I started language lessons, meaning I can now say “yes” and “no”, but, frankly, precious little else. The early naïve days have been replaced by slightly later, still quite naïve ones. Learning Japanese is like hiking Everest. Only I can’t walk, have limited supplies and the only way to get me up there is by dragging myself up by my un-gloved hands. I’m pretty sure I could get there if I tried really hard and was incredibly fortunate, but I’m pretty sure I’d rather just curl up and die at all points along the way.
Anyway, one of the benefits of these language lessons is that it gives me an excuse to eat a quick meal out either before, or after, my twice weekly evening class. It is an endevaour usually undertaken alone, often quickly and typically at somewhere keenly priced.
This gives me cause to talk about two of my favourite cheap and cheerful local eateries.
The first is Tonki, an old school tonkatsu joint. It’s opening hours are a reflection of its success and popularity. The place can pay the bills and make a healthy profit by just opening between 4 and 9pm each day. Clearly it pays to fry good pork. Tonkatsu is a simple dish at heart – fried pork (lean or fatty), rice, shredded cabbage, miso soup and a splash of mustard and a big squeezy bottle of tangy tonkatsu sauce on the side to slather on it as you please. It’s a very simple model, and very good.
Like in good ramen-yas, the owners know they can get away with making you queue. So queue you do – first outside, and then later like helpers at a UN Security Council conference, inside, but at small chairs one row back from the main action. Once you get your place at the hallowed bar, you order (quickly), wait (a weirdly long time) and then eat (again, quickly). There is something weird about having a queue behind you which makes a meal somehow go more quickly and at the same time much less enjoyable.
The price point was on the outer end of reasonable for a relatively quick eat (¥2100 = GBP£15 for a full set). The tonkatsu was better than reasonable - not too oily on the outside, not too fatty on the inside, crisp and with a good amount of bite and the perfect vehicle for the classic tonkatsu sauce. If you’re so inclined, shredded cabbage is available on a free-refill basis to your heart’s content. Tonki isn’t a place to go for a long time, but it is certainly a good time.
A separate post-language class adventure took me a few steps across the road to Menya Fujishiro, a classic ramen ya down a small alley off the main road. We spoke earlier of sweaty, western Japanese fanboys and, for the keen eyed reader of earlier blogs, you will know that my sweaty Japanese fanboy really comes out when tsukemen (thick, chewy cold noodles, hot broth to dip on the side) is involved. This place is famous for its chicken ramen, so tsukemen (¥870 = GBP£6) isn’t the main event, but when it’s on the menu I feel obliged to order it. And, in this case, I was very glad I did so.
The broth is silky, slightly vinegary, pretty chicken-y and a bit fishy. Believe me when I say, this is all a good thing. It’s a pretty big statement to say that this was pretty close to the best bowl of tsukemen I’d ever had, partly as it wasn’t as cloying and fatty as some of the pork-based varieties and had a silky vinegary kick to cut the fat.
That said, it’s definitely not for those on a diet. I have taken, rather greedily, to taking advantage of its late opening hours after a night out on the beer on the, rather tenuous, basis that it contains electrolytes and things which will definitely make me feel less hungover the next day. Half cut or not, it’s still great, and is one of the many reasons I will eventually leave Japan fatter but definitely happier.
