Dinner at a real, live, nutso Japanese restaurant and then at a real, live Japanese home

Originally published November 20, 2011

Ever see one of those movies where folks go into a Japanese restaurant and they’re yelled at by the cooks, the waitstaff, the other customers? I always thought such scenes were gross exaggerations. Guess what? Not only are they not gross exaggerations, but they are tame compared to what we experienced two nights ago. And, apparently, the hole-in-the-wall in which we ate and drank copious amounts of chilled sake (I have developed a taste for it) truly is the way it is.

The Japanese have worked long, hard weeks and kept quiet through all that time (if my experience of near-silence on the subway is any measure) and need an outlet for yelling, rowdily eating, drinking and un-sphinctering. There wasn’t so much obsequiousness going on last night. Rather, we — Ozawa-san, Dave’s Japanese minder and fellow Intel employee based in Tokyo; Chetan, Dave’s colleague who traveled with him from PDX; and us two — were seated — loudly — at a communal table within elbowing distance of diners on either side of us. Both of whom drank copiously and smoked even-more-than-copiously. It’s been a while since I was a college student in France and could easily ignore all that smoke. This time, not so much. The sake helped, however.

First, this hole-in-the-wall actually was a hole-in-the-ground. We had to go down a flight of stairs from street level to reach it. (And its bathroom was yet again another flight down. It had a bidet!)

Ozawa-san was a hoot to watch; he knew when and how (loudly) to attract one of three very high-pitched-talking waitresses who must have screeched “hai!” in my ear 95 times during our evening, following each time we requested so much as an additional chop stick. The place was simply throbbing with energy and blown-off steam. It felt like it was in constant motion — like a small boat on a rippling sea — and that sensation had nothing to do with the sake or second-hand smoke. Rather, the suited-up folks still were in their suits and straddling their brief cases but, boy, were they having a blast together. They also got increasingly red. Dave conjectures Asians metabolize alcohol different from us whiteys, as they truly were flushed all over but sure didn’t care about their beet complexions. Kanpai! (Cheers!)

Also patronizing the place were, as Ozawa-san kindly described, “Radies of the night.” Chetan hadn’t heard that expression, so Dave equally kindly — and even more loudly — satisfied his linguistic curiosity by yelling, “You know, prostitutes!” These women had very big hair, kinda stereotypical geisha style, and very slinky and scanty dresses. I’m not sure how they made it up and down the flights of stairs in their spike-heeled boots. But they managed just fine. Must have been all that support they got from their red-faced clients.

It is not monsoon season, but, yesterday, you could have fooled us. Dave and I started out our morning by walking across from the Imperial Hotel to Hibiya Park, filled with those puffy green trees and winding stone paths. There seemed to be a farmers’ market of sorts going on, with many booths roasting such wonders as sweet potatoes by the thousands. It started to mist. The Japanese already had busted out there umbrellas. Dave and I scoffed. We’re Oregonians! What’s a bit of mist? Then it started to rain a little more steadily. Oh well, we’re fine. And then, it started to come down in sheets. The wind picked up. Dave’s hair started dripping rain water down onto me. We did an about face and returned to the fancy hotel, which offers its customers really big umbrellas, as yet another thanks for our patronage.

Umbrellas in hand, we headed to T0kyo Tower which is referred to in Japanese as the “Sky Tree.” It’s purposefully a few stories higher than the Eiffel Tower but run in a much more efficient manner than that man-made edifice in Paris. Of course it is. There, we were crammed — and I mean crammed — into a small elevator with about 20 other tourists (very few of whom were Westerners) until it stopped on the first platform. Had I mentioned the monsoon-like conditions? That means clouds. Which means an obstructed view. Still, from our height, we could see the 360-degree view of Tokyo which, unlike the sliver that is Manhattan, has short and tall buildings radiating out until FOREVER. We saw the spot where Mt. Fuji is supposed to be. But, of course, with the cloud cover, we didn’t see that storied peak. Turns out Dave never has seen it and it’s become a joke between him and his Japanese colleagues that it actually doesn’t exist. Our Tokyo Tower adventure did nothing to help Dave’s colleagues’ case.

Last night, we got the highlight experience of our trip. Ozawa-san and his wife, Myuko, invited Chetan, Dave and I into their home for dinner. They live in the suburbs of Tokyo, so we took a train 30 minutes from our hotel to their area, where Ozawa-san met us and led us through some winding streets and small alleys to their small home. There, we of course had to take off our shoes. But, unlike in American homes, they had placed three pairs of slippers out for our use; we all — hosts included — scooted around their home in borrowed slippers from there on out.

We were treated to such a special meal. Sashimi — slices of raw fish and shellfish, including snapper, shrimp, mackerel and tuna; that fabulous sticky rice; slices of nori/seaweed in which to wrap these little Japanese sandwich fixings; freshly made tofu from the couple’s favorite stand, near their home; and bitter greens, all covered with a thin layer of a sesame-flavored dressing. Sake? Yes please. For dessert, Ozawa-san had made it his job to purchase special Japanese sweets. He presented a box of individually wrapped, painstakingly decorated bean-paste treats, each resembling either a fruit (such as a lemon; Dave got that one) or an “autumn leaf”; I got that one. Bean paste has a smooth texture that feels satisfyingly thick in the mouth and has a subtle sweetness that is unexpected from a food that has the word “bean” associated with it. I ate mine and finished off Dave’s, too. It not being chocolate, Dave only politely ate a trifle of his and happily gave it to me to finish (or, rather, devour).

Ozawa-san then disappeared and came back with a try full of implements for what he called a “modified tea ceremony.” He presented us with a small canister of matcha — finely ground green tea — piled up pyramid-like, he explained, to recall Mt. Fuji. He then had each of us choose which of his five bowls in which he’d prepare our frothy matcha. I chose his powder-blue one.

With a bamboo implement, he scooped about three bits of the matcha into the bowl, closed the tin of tea and then laid down the implement. Then, while donning an oven mitt from Canada (this couple has traveled all over), Ozawa-san took hold the handle of a scalding-to-the-touch tea kettle and poured its steaming contents, in a circular motion, over the tea. Then, with a bamboo utensil that had been fashioned into a whisk-like object, he whipped the matcha and boiling water into a forest-green froth. Satisfied that it was frothy enough, he placed the bowl in front of me for me to pick up and, while supporting its warmth in my left hand, turn it a full rotation with my right. Then I drank from the steaming bowl.

Ever seen a matcha moustache? Though it probably was rude, I licked it from my lips. It’s bitter, but its froth helps it to ease down without a bitter or unpleasant finish. It felt like a warm, bubbly ride down my throat. Kind of like what wading in a luxuriously warm bubble bath might feel like to the interior of the mouth, were that part of the body ever to be treated to a spa day.

Myuko, earlier in the evening, had asked me what I’d seen in Kyoto, Osaka and Tokyo and, from among those sights, which I’d enjoyed the most. I’d told her that I loved the Asakusa shopping district and the impressively huge Shinto shrine I’d visited in Western Tokyo, outside the Yoyogi district with Rabbi de Gesu. While deep into my bean-paste sweet and matcha tea, however, I turned to Myuko and told her that this evening was hands-down my favorite experience from my entire week in Japan.

What a finish to this topsy-turvey, fascinating week.

It’s now Sunday morning, and we have our hotel room packed up. I’m wearing the Imperial Hotel-issued slippers and eating rice with my fingers while sipping tea made possible by my favorite appliance. I’m very ready to go home. I’m very anxious to smother Hayley and Alyssa with kisses. And the pets, too. I’m so glad they all speak English.

Thanks for following this trip; I hope it contributed to a cure for your insomnia.

Sayonara!