Obsessed in Japan Part 3: Sushi
At the bottom of a dark flight of stairs we arrive at the door of a small restaurant in a dimly lit alleyway.
Crap, no, wrong place. The hostess politely maneuvers us away. We turn around, walk through another nearby alley craning our necks looking for the right sign.
No, not here.
We cross the street. Turn the corner. Do a barrel roll. Ascend the stairs.
Nope. Not here. Ughhhh.
Even with Google maps, Tokyo behaves like a petulant maze. We turn, spin, and peek into seemingly all the wrong places.
Wait…I think I found it. Another flight of stairs takes us to a dimly backlit door on a quiet commercial side street.
The hostess' first instinct is to shoosh us away as if our presence were an accident.
Sushi no Ikumi? I ask, presenting my reservation.
Ohhh!!! Her demeanor flips as she shooshes us to our seats at the sushi counter.
This is no accident.
Sushi no Ikumi is small and simple. No excessive ornamentation. No visual distractions. What is here is meant to be.
Our presence is surprising. Gaijin don't normally come here, an English speaking diner mentions. How did you hear about this place?
I know the right people, I say. I know where to go. I always know where to go. I am never wrong. I don't say that part of course, but that's the tone my confidence whispers.
In truth, it was Shotaro, the ramen junkie I’ll re-introduce later, who sent us here. It doesn’t have any Michelin stars, but it’s a great reasonably priced spot that few outsiders know about. I go there all the time, Shotaro explains.
Sushi no Ikumi is a glitch in Tokyo’s infinite sushi matrix, is how I interpret this.
Sign me up.
Everyone here seems to be in-the-know. Nina and I are a pattern interrupt. Combo breakers. The waiter fumbles to find us an English menu. Before he has a chance to follow through on his motions I make his life easier by uttering the magic phrase.
Osusume, I say with sensual confidence.
Osusume translates to recommendation. We don’t need to look at the menu. You bring us food. We eat food. But Osusume, at least how I interpret it, contains a deeper message. I’m in your home. I trust you. Do with me what you will.
Ohhh! Ok! Relationship established. The waiter bows, and appears to relax a little. Chef nods in approval. He knows that we know.
Signals given, the sushi train leaves the station. Watching a sushi master operate is apex culinary theatre. All motions have been rehearsed for years. Maybe decades. He slices and flows with the grace and precision of somebody in the possession of higher powers. No motion is wasted.
Aside for some small dishes like soup or karaage (fried chicken) there are no plates. Between sips of beer and sake Chef opens his palm to reveal his the latest gift.
Itadakimasu. This word is the mark of an advanced civilization. It translates (well, effectively) to from you we gracefully receive this lovely and cherished gift.
From his palm we grab the sushi, bite, chew and savor. Nina squeals. I grunt. It's good. Amazing. You know. Chef knows. We know. Chef knows that we know. The thin tensions amongst strangers gives way for intimacy amongst co-conspirators. Along the way we drop a few more Japanese words.
Kanpaiii! (cheers)
Oishiiiiiiii! (delicious)
Kireiiiiii! (pretty)
Sugooooooy! (impressive).
Our enthusiasm does most of the talking.
Each stop along the Sushi Express brings a new treasure from Japan’s highlight reel of fishy delights. Tuna. Scallop. Salmon. Tamago (technically, egg not from the sea). Oyster. Raw prawn. Roe. That shellfish that crinkles up with a smack.
Our bites, squeal, and grunts are disarming. Polite-but-distant becomes warm and inviting. Rudimentary words allow for pleasing banter.
Where are you from? Chef asks.
Texas! we say.
Ohhhh! Texas! Very good!
This is how dining should be. Cozy. Simple. Intimate. Ecstatic. We're happy to be here. They're happy that we're happy. We are worthy recipients of this sacred and fishy gift. Choo choo goes the sushi train until we arrive at our satiated station.
Stomach full. Sake scented. Smile untamable. We trade bows and make our way home.
Until we meet again.