Lots of places, Tokyo
As the sun sets on my Tokyo-based adventures, I have found myself on a crazed mission to experience as much as I can of the world’s greatest food city. A mid-afternoon snack becomes a loose excuse to have an outsize meal at a place that I had been wanting to try. My Google Maps, typically full of green flagged “want to go” places, has become a treasure map to be hunted down and completed in the days that remain.
For some unknown reason, my wife has seen it fit to indulge this farcical gluttony without question or ridicule. As much as it speaks to a shared interest in food, it also speaks a little to who she is. Although undeniably fun to spend US$50 on conveyor belt sushi at Kaiten Sushi Ginza Onodera on a Saturday at 4pm, part of her knows that this is - for some reason - important to me, and so she goes with it, without question.
This high EQ is not a kindness she extends exclusively to me, although maintaining close proximity to her a lot means I suspect I am one of its primary recipients. Take the other day, for example, when a large box of cherries turned up at my doorstep by refrigerated courier, which, apparently, is perfectly normal here in Japan. To be clear, I hadn’t ordered these. They were sent – intentionally - by some ageing grandparents in a far-away prefecture and they were absolutely delicious. They were a glossy shade of pinky, yellowy red, plump to the touch, fragrant to the nose and absolutely, unspeakably delicious. They were also a thank you to my wife from her co-worker for some kindness that I had absolutely no part of, but on whose fruits I was happy to greedily feast.
Sending perfectly ripe, perishable produce through ordinary mail seems to be a bit of a thing here. There is apparently a scheme where you can allocate some of your tax dollars to underpopulated areas of the country, and in return the grateful local government sends you a helping of their best locally produced goodies. Getting a tax rebate by way of a 5kg bag of rice or a large chunk of refrigerated wagyu beef through the post is considered perfectly normal. It’s all part of the unselfconscious charm of the place.
But while some life affirming experiences come to you, like cherries to your doorstep on a Tuesday morning, others you have to go out and find yourself. There are still plenty of places to tick off on my Tokyo restaurant bingo card, after all.
Like a doughy captain of industry seeking various near-extinct species in Africa over a weekend, I undertook my own version of big game hunting. Over the course of a single weekend I bested Fuku Yakitori, an outstanding western-friendly yakitori spot in the achingly cool Yoyogi Uehara area, conquered Rama, a difficult to book and very high-class Italian Japanese restaurant which sits unassumingly under the train tracks on the corner of a ritzy neighbourhood and slayed Katsuo Shokudo, an off-the wall katsuobushi-don spot in Shibuya that is, unfortunately, very popular with the many tourists who throng to it like bees to honey.
Despite all being premium experiences, none were able to be secured at premium times.
Katsuo Shoduko was, improbably, at 8.30am on a rainy Monday morning, and was devoured in a matter of minutes as part of a catch-up with one of my old colleagues from Hong Kong, meaning I felt as much a tourist as I was surrounded by them. The sleep in my eyes perhaps dulled the senses a little, but rich smoky shavings of dried fish on rice have still never tasted so good.
Continuing the trend of piss poor timings, I thought I had booked Fuku for 7.30pm on a Saturday. As it turns out, I had put us on the waiting list instead and our luck was out on arrival. So we went somewhere else for dinner with our friend, while I cursed my incompetence and limited Japanese language skills. At the time, I was feeling severe FOMO. Fuku had been on my list for months and we were so close I could almost taste it. So, after a perfectly acceptable dinner at a local izakaya I casually (in my mind at least) suggested we double back to Fuku for “one or two skewers”. I’m sure my wife both knew this was coming and was unsurprised by my attempts to cover casual gluttony in the clothes of sociability, but she shrugged her shoulders and said “why not”, without judgement or comment, as is her way.
Despite our friend politely declining to join us, the ensuing 30-minute wait, the slightly rushed service as we got in just before closing time and my propensity for ordering unreasonably large numbers of chicken skewers despite already having an almost-full belly, my follies still continued to be gloriously indulged.
Happily, our booking at Rama was for an actual seat at an actual time, but the time happened to be 7.30pm on a Sunday night, which we can all agree is not the classic “date night” occasion. Sundays are a time for tracksuit bottoms at home, mindless television, baths and - if you happen to live in the right parts of Asia - perhaps a trip to the foot massage shop. But because I am greedy and my wife somehow continues to indulge this kind of nonsense we got dressed up and went to Rama for a posh dinner.
The counter has nine seats and the two chefs quietly prepare a mind blowing ten(ish) course tasting menu of pitch perfect Japanese influenced Italian dishes, and some straight-up Japanese ones. There were too many highlights to remember, but particular favourites were a staggeringly good pearl barley risotto and, afterwards, a bowl of handmade pasta in a broth of chicken stock and cheese, topped with shaved truffle. The hotate (scallop) nigiri, served with a gentle brush of homemade tomato soy sauce was so fresh you could almost feel it quiver. Like so much in this magical country, every detail had been considered. The tableware was chosen for the season (blue, for rain), the moody but comfortable room designed by a local designer and the movements of the two chefs like an intricately choreographed dance. But choreography shouldn’t be confused with formality. The atmosphere was classy but relaxed, helped by the chef owner’s English being far better than my Japanese. This was perhaps helped by the fact we arrived on time. Those diners who didn’t were, quite rightly, given a less happy welcome, unsettling as it would have been for this carefully chorreographed experience.
It is safe to say that I was pleased with my weekend’s work. I had slayed some big beasts, even though it had meant getting up early and staying out late. Eating at positively awkward times had never felt so rewarding.
On reflection though, I do wonder what makes the proverbial tiger skins of restaurants I have eaten at so valuable. Like, is having the skin the point, or is enjoying the hunt? Keeping the skin seems gruesome and performative – the memory of the hunt is presumably what these flatulent and flawed captains of capitalism remember most fondly.
For my own part, I started writing this blog when I could only indulge my greediest big game hunting desires by dining solo. Queuing for tsukemen in Hong Kong, or spending my hard-earned cash on omakase for one in Singapore felt right at the time. There was pleasure in those experiences, for sure. They were new and other-worldly to someone raised in the home counties of England, and they represented a treasured time in my life where I felt free to explore and look at things anew. I researched and collected restaurants like a particularly pedantic train spotter. I often sat in silence and ate. Or sometimes I’d pop in a podcast or take a book to read. It must have looked lonely from the outside, but internally I was unperturbed and the food tasted no less glorious. But in many ways, it was just about having been and trying whatever they had to offer. I don’t look back and remember what a great time it was reading my books alone in a half empty ramen restaurant on a Sunday night. Even if some of the stuff was delicious. It was my own form of collecting skins but not experiences, I suppose.
As it stands now, I don’t take as much joy from eating mind-blowing food alone. Experiences, even gluttonous ones you’d rather not let others see, need a companion. Someone to share and remember it with, to purr and coo with you when it’s good and to make it fun and joke about nonsense even when it’s not. Ideally someone who doesn’t judge you, allows you to indulge your greedy dining habits and who somehow makes the experience more memorable than the dishes themselves.
It is why I enjoy eating the fried chicken at Lanterne, a little white-washed hipster izakaya in Ikijiri-Ohahshi and Yoygi Uehara, as much as I enjoyed the sumptuous foie gras sandwiches at L’As, a swanky French-Japanese restaurant in the rich-and-famous neighbourhood of Aoyama. The food, surroundings and price point are totally different, but the experiences are both basked in the same warm glow because of the common denominator.
A wise person once said to me that “it’s not where you go, but who you go with” that counts. And although I have been to some pretty incredible places, as I look back on my time in Japan and Hong Kong there is a truth to these words which resonates more deeply than a bite of high end sushi or a morsel of perfectly grilled chicken ever could.
Having read these words, you probably don’t need a second guess at who that wise person is.