tuna | Japanising.com

Sometimes in Japan (and the same can be said for life in general), I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Today, a red carpet has been placed in the middle of a busy road. Not only does this carpet obstruct many motorists who drive down here every day, but it actually stretches the entire length of Kappabashi Street – and Kappabashi Street is a very long street indeed. Is the head of state making a surprise visit? Is some type of awards ceremony about to take place, perhaps? Or is there no reason at all for this vermilion impediment? Only time can provide the answer.

For the last few months, I have been trying my hand at a little private English conversation practice with just one student—a 71-year-old Japanese man who has lived in Asakusa all his life. With a keen interest in food and Japanese history, he has provided me with an endless source of knowledge about post-war Japan and the changing attitudes amongst Japanese people. I enjoy teaching him, and our conversations often cover an array of topics, such as Bonseki, China Syndrome, and foods I’ve never heard of before in my life. Today, we are heading out to try such a food.

He drives us across Tokyo to Yotsuya. On the way, he starts a conversation with the dashboard of his Toyota, instantly reminding me of something from a science-fiction movie. In Yotsuya, we visit a shop called Ariakeya. The shop specialises in selling just one dish—a Japanese delight known as ‘tsukudani’.

If I were to ask anyone to name three foods associated with Japan, tsukudani probably wouldn’t even get a mention; and, if I’m completely honest, I had never heard of it until last week. Tsukudani most commonly involves seaweed, meat, or fish (often pond fish) that has been simmered in soy sauce and mirin. It can be eaten up to a year after it is made. Many years ago, this was a staple food in Japan, but due to its high salt content, it has become somewhat less popular, with concerns about salt being bad for health and such.

The woman in the shop is very pleasant and can speak excellent English; she has even prepared an English menu for me in anticipation of my arrival. I am offered samples of various dishes before settling on my favourite, Maguro—cubes of tuna. Soft, but surprisingly chewy at the same time, the outside is extremely salty but very sweet. The middle offers a dryness that you would expect from marinated cubes of cooked tuna. Overall, the fish is pleasantly moreish.

As we leave the shop, I notice a small tray of salt outside the entrance to a restaurant, guarded by a shisa—an Okinawan dragon. Curious about the purpose of this salt display, I ask my student. In his usual enthusiastic way, he explains to me that many years ago, the Emperor of China lived in a Palace so big that the only way he could get anywhere fast was to ride around on the back of a bull. Inside the Palace, the Emperor had three thousand women, each in separate rooms. Every night, the Emperor would tour the Palace on the back of his faithful bull and decide which woman he would spend the night with.

The women knew that the Emperor rode around on a male cow; I mean, everyone knew, it was hardly a secret. The women were all desperate to marry the Emperor, for the wealth and status they would receive if such a ceremony occurred. Finally being freed from their solitary rooms in the Palace was often considered a secondary incentive. Somehow, the women discovered that the bull liked eating salt, so every night, they would place saucers of salt outside their rooms. The bull would smell the salt, stop to eat, and hopefully, the Emperor would choose that room to spend the night. Somehow, this tradition of salt piles outside of rooms came over to Japan, and salt is now placed outside many restaurants. Bulls represent customers, or so the custom goes. The story made me wonder if the idiom ‘Like a bull in a china shop’ took any of its origin from the same story, but before I have time to ask, we are back in Asakusa, and I have a red carpet to inspect.

Back at Kappabashi Street, some women are singing in front of a man that I think is supposed to be a clown. Eventually, though, answers come, and the reason for the whole street being closed off becomes apparent.

A kappa (or at least a man dressed as one) follows the red carpet, walking the length of Kappabashi Street. The kappa stops intermittently to wave at the passing crowd, walking alongside an old woman carrying a scroll, and has a big red heart painted on its back. I have no idea why. No idea about any of this.

Back at home, I dine on my neatly wrapped packet of tuna cubes, which cost ¥432. Tsukudani is usually enjoyed with rice, but I will snack on this salty-sweet tuna as it is. Unfortunately, this type of food is not too pleasing on the eye; it might look like something you would serve to a domestic animal or a bull, but its taste suggests that this might be a bit of a waste. The tuna is, in fact, delicious and perhaps one of the best foods I have tried in months. The only problem, again, is the high salt content, but that shouldn’t put you off trying it at least once.

I seldom place links to other websites, but I genuinely enjoyed the food from Ariakeya, and they were very nice to me, so here is their shop:

http://www.ariakeya.com/

Today is different. For some reason I don’t feel like myself, I cannot explain how I feel. I just don’t feel right. I decide to sell my second camera, a Nikon. Never used. My Samsung camera literally taking all of the action.

I take a bicycle. Thirty minutes later, I arrive at Reisen Park. I step into the ‘We buy and sell any camera’ shop and place my bulky Nikon on the desk. I hand the man all the wires, still locked inside opaque plastic. ‘Charger?’ he asks. Oh, I forgot the charger.

One hour later, I return to Reisen Park with the charger, and the sale concludes. In the park opposite, a stage appears to be taken down. I stop by a bookshop and use some of my camera money to purchase a book; there are so many books I need to read. I spend ¥1160 on the one I choose, ‘Kafka on the Shore’.

Outside the rain drops like scattered gunfire, but you probably don’t care about the weather. I decide to grab an early lunch from the second floor of Hakata Station. I deliberately go via one of the shortest escalators in the World. Just for fun.

Most restaurants in Japan display plastic models of their dishes outside. These models are crafted so meticulously that mistaking them for real food is easy if you didn’t know any better. The attention to detail is incredible. Taking a chance, I enter a restaurant that lacks these plastic models, leaving me clueless about what’s on the menu.

It is one of those restaurants where Japanese is the only language spoken, which is fine by me. I order a set meal of tuna on seaweed with rice, accompanied by something resembling coleslaw but with a different taste, miso soup, a spicy horseradish green condiment (the name escapes my memory), and a delicious red bean cake for dessert. Overall, it’s a nice meal.

After I leave, a woman chases me out of the restaurant with my forgotten umbrella.

I return the bicycle to the hostel, just as the rain stops. I sit on the roof terrace and read eighty-six pages of Kafka on the Shore.

After reading, I take a stroll around at dusk. I walk toward Tenjin. I take a photograph of the city from the river, and then walk back. I was going to fill up space by talking about wasting electricity with all this neon, I will instead waste words telling you that Fukuoka is the sixth biggest city in Japan.

I realise on my walk back that I haven’t been on a train or bus for three days. Maybe I haven’t done anything but read for two. A Chinook passes over me. Ironically, I am on my way to meet a helicopter pilot.

At the bar, the manager pours me a free glass of ice cold rice wine. The helicopter pilot is with his wife. I talk to him for ten minutes, before sitting at the bar with my book. Not to disturb him as his food arrives. The helicopter pilot is Japanese, I met him last night in the same bar. His English is average. He told me to come back again today, “Not a problem,” I told him. “The bar is five minutes from my hostel.”

I sit at the bar for a while, eyeing the skewers of meat atop the glass counter. Eventually, the helicopter pilot’s daughter arrives. She’s studying English at university, and for the next two hours, we converse in English. Her eyes are a deep-set brown, strikingly profound. Her black hair has an unusual texture, reminiscent of straw to the touch.

I agree to meet her tomorrow over a bowl of Paella. She leaves. I pay for six Suntory whisky highballs and her orange juice, ¥2345. A nice clean number.

As I wander back via a Lawson Stores, I see these odd workers:

I see them everywhere, actually. They stand on roads, at entrances to car parks, and next to building sites. They wave on traffic and pedestrians with their red lightsabers. Sometimes there will be three or four, all standing on the quietest street next to a cement mixer or ladder. A very strange job.

Back at the hostel I have a craving for salt and vinegar crisps; another thing that I cannot find here. I sit in the lounge with a can of Suntory whisky highball, and talk with the Koreans. There is a Korean woman who is both the same age as me, and two years younger. East Asian age reckoning.

It becomes one of the Koreans birthday; an amazing cake duly arrives, bang on midnight.

One of the Korean guys is studying philosophy, and his sister is incredibly intelligent. We talk about philosophy, another thing I really miss doing. He quite likes my discussion on M-theory. We also talk a lot about sentient pigs.

The intelligent Korean girl tells me that my eyes look lonely.

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A Handful of Salt

Sentient Pigs, Birthday Cake, Neon Electric Girl