Though we survived primarily on noodles, fried food, and department store takeout while in Japan, we did step out on select occasions. My favorite not-so-cheap eats in Japan, roughly in ascending order:
OK, so it's Benihana (not that anyone under the age of 40 has ever been to Benihana, including me) - except, as with most things Japanese, the Japanese version is way classier. Our teppanyaki experience came with fancy cotton aprons (much more Martha Stewart than plastic bibs) and a server-to-patron ratio of about three to one.
Our personal chef grilled our premium Japanese beef at our table as we munched salad and sipped delicate broth; he used the rendered fat to cook a third course of Japanese vegetables, accompanied by miso soup. I have rarely eaten a plate of steak so quickly or with so much pleasure. A personal motto of mine: if you're going to eat a mammal, make it count.
Japanese drinking establishments are not, it turns out, just for drinking. It is expected that you order food - ideally amply, though I think exceptions are made for foreigners - which, combined with the generally overpriced beer, makes izakaya a not-so-budget option.
Our most traditional izakaya experience was in Takayama, a quaint town high up in the Japanese Alps. A local had recommended Kinoene to me, and whenever we asked someone else for directions, they would get a wistful look in their eyes and say, "Ooohhh, Kinoene!" We took this as a good sign.
Like most izakaya, Kinoene's front room was filled with a bar, which housed that evening a solitary patron or two. We headed to the back room, taking off our shoes before stepping onto the tatami mats and settling ourselves around a low table.
The waitresses would slip off their plastic kitchen slippers every time they came into the tatami room, kneeling elegantly next to each table as they delivered drinks and took orders. (Hard learned lesson: never wear shoes or slippers on tatami mats.)
All the other tables were occupied by groups of men, yet I didn't feel out of place. When I ordered sake, our waitress brought out a wooden box filled with assorted sake cups so I could choose the one most to my liking.
Our yakitori, grilled up at the bar, came out tasting like the fire it was cooked over; the octopus fritters, freshly fried, were served on a cast iron dish so hot, the nori and bonito flakes sprinkled over the top were dancing in the updrafts.
The Tsukiji wholesale market now tops everyone's list of must-see Tokyo sites - a rather recent development that has alarmed those in charge. The famous tuna auctions are now mostly closed to tourists; if you really want one of the 120 observation spots available daily, you have to taxi your tired self down there at 4 a.m. (I can say from experience, 5:30 a.m. doesn't cut it). Children are verboten, all liability is disclaimed, and the most interesting "middle market" -- where every manner of sea food is on sale -- is technically closed to tourists until 9 a.m.
When we showed up at 5:30 on a Monday morning, I could see the cause for concern. In the gray pre-dawn light, speeding electric carts and forklifts did not follow traffic patterns; delivery trucks pulled in and out while restaurant workers wove through the erratic traffic on bicycles and scooters with bags of merchandise hanging from their handlebars. Wide-eyed tourists disoriented by the maze of alleys and piles of discarded styrofoam boxes (namely, us) are a hazard to themselves and to everything that crosses their path. Let's also note that for those jet-lagged on their first morning in Japan, it will not yet have become intuitive to keep to the left.
But for anyone even remotely interested in food (or a fan of Richard Scarry's Busytown books), the market is a worthwhile adventure. Especially in the early hours, the place is pulsating with energy, and the easily accessible outer market shops provide ample entertainment for the curious (so this is where restaurants buy industrial-sized flats of farm fresh eggs). Too late for the tuna auction, too early for the middle market, and too disoriented to hazard breaking any rules, we did what any red-blooded foodie would do at 6 in the morning: we had a sushi breakfast.
Tsukiji's outer market is famous for its tiny sushi counters. We took the last two seats at a narrow bar and watched the serious gray-haired sushi chefs prepare the fish directly in front of us.
The restaurant's single waitress brought us miso soup with tiny baby clams hidden in the bottom and green tea in roughly shaped mugs. With my limited (by which I mean nonexistent) Japanese, I managed to order a few basic rolls from the chef (this might have included pointing at our neighbor's food as well).
My tuna nigiri was a slab of fish so big and so deeply red that it almost looked like beef. Jeff's basic vegetarian rolls were exactly what sushi should be: crisp nori, firm rice, simple ingredients perfectly prepared. With growing confidence, I tried sea urchin for the first time - a fascinating texture that liquifies in your mouth, leaving the faintest taste of the sea soon erased by the vinegary sushi rice it left behind.
Fortified by breakfast, we might or might not have broken the official market rules by walking through the giant middle market, where all the real action was happening. It might or might not have been fascinating and impressive. And we'll leave it at that.
Our favorite was the plate of perfectly fried oysters the size of medallions - a local delicacy - accompanied by a tartar-like dipping sauce. The local oysters also made an appearance in a simmered dish of bok choy and conger eel, served in a pot over a little flame. I gorged myself on beautifully arranged sashimi - mine as well as Jeff's - and rolls of delicate Japanese beef wrapped around squishy green vegetables (that "fifth texture" of Japanese cooking). There was a plate of half a dozen intricate amuse bouche; a silken tofu topped with caviar and wasabi; a savory custard incorporating more fish (don't ask me how); crispy sardines topped with pickled vegetables; and the obligatory cup of soup - this one with a meatball dumpling. I think the dessert incorporated cantaloupe and some unrecognizable delicacies, but frankly, we couldn't eat that much.
Although not as extensive or exquisite, our shojin ryori meal at the Buddhist temple in Koyasan also falls into this category, as does our last meal in Japan: a Ninja-themed feast in Tokyo with friends.
I believe the restaurant is actually called Ninja, and it is as much amusement park spectacle as multi-course dinner extravaganza. After following our Ninja hostess through a mini-maze of serpentine corridors, narrow staircases and a draw bridge (secret password required), we were deposited in our own little cave, complete with fake stone walls and a large orchid arrangement.
The food was fancy but fun: foie gras shaped like throwing stars; a savory "cream puff" with a tofu cream and salmon sashimi filling; chicken wings and cashews covered in bright red peppers; upscale "spaghetti"; perfectly cooked salmon for the main course; a plate of sushi served like a palate-cleanser; and a mango cake dessert with a dab of meringue shaped and decorated - if you looked at it just right and squinted your eyes - like a snowman equivalent of a ninja. But my favorite course was the showy soup course, made by our charming Ninja server at our table. He dropped pre-heated stones into a vat of broth, which immediately came to a frothy boil and wilted the mounds of green vegetables he heaped on top. And then there was the visit of the Master Ninja, who regaled us with advanced card tricks and suitably corny jokes in between courses.
When we finally extracted ourselves from the restaurant and started down the city street, our charming Ninja server followed us out, executed a flashy somersault on the pavement, and whipped out a banner that said "Please come again!" It was a perfectly cheerful and cheesy end to a cheerful and cheesy feast.
This overwhelming abundance made more sense to us once someone explained that the Japanese always bring back boxes and boxes of sweets - for their boss, their coworkers, their families, their neighbors - every time they go anywhere, whether for business or for pleasure. This also explains the entire floors of sweets in the major department stores, which is a cultural experience unto itself.
But the love of sweets runs deeper, as demonstrated by the lines stretching outside the most popular mochi stores and the prevalence of soft-serve ice cream stands. It's probably a good thing that, for most Americans, sweets devoid entirely of chocolate can be an acquired taste: otherwise, we might have eaten nothing else.
1. Teppanyaki
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| The preparation of our third course. |
Our personal chef grilled our premium Japanese beef at our table as we munched salad and sipped delicate broth; he used the rendered fat to cook a third course of Japanese vegetables, accompanied by miso soup. I have rarely eaten a plate of steak so quickly or with so much pleasure. A personal motto of mine: if you're going to eat a mammal, make it count.
2. Izakaya
Japanese drinking establishments are not, it turns out, just for drinking. It is expected that you order food - ideally amply, though I think exceptions are made for foreigners - which, combined with the generally overpriced beer, makes izakaya a not-so-budget option.
Our most traditional izakaya experience was in Takayama, a quaint town high up in the Japanese Alps. A local had recommended Kinoene to me, and whenever we asked someone else for directions, they would get a wistful look in their eyes and say, "Ooohhh, Kinoene!" We took this as a good sign.
Like most izakaya, Kinoene's front room was filled with a bar, which housed that evening a solitary patron or two. We headed to the back room, taking off our shoes before stepping onto the tatami mats and settling ourselves around a low table.
The waitresses would slip off their plastic kitchen slippers every time they came into the tatami room, kneeling elegantly next to each table as they delivered drinks and took orders. (Hard learned lesson: never wear shoes or slippers on tatami mats.)
All the other tables were occupied by groups of men, yet I didn't feel out of place. When I ordered sake, our waitress brought out a wooden box filled with assorted sake cups so I could choose the one most to my liking.
Our yakitori, grilled up at the bar, came out tasting like the fire it was cooked over; the octopus fritters, freshly fried, were served on a cast iron dish so hot, the nori and bonito flakes sprinkled over the top were dancing in the updrafts.
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| Octopus fritters and dancing bonito flakes |
3. Breakfast sushi at Tsukiji
The Tsukiji wholesale market now tops everyone's list of must-see Tokyo sites - a rather recent development that has alarmed those in charge. The famous tuna auctions are now mostly closed to tourists; if you really want one of the 120 observation spots available daily, you have to taxi your tired self down there at 4 a.m. (I can say from experience, 5:30 a.m. doesn't cut it). Children are verboten, all liability is disclaimed, and the most interesting "middle market" -- where every manner of sea food is on sale -- is technically closed to tourists until 9 a.m.
 |
| High-speed Tsukiji traffic jam |
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| Note the tuna-steak on far left. |
The restaurant's single waitress brought us miso soup with tiny baby clams hidden in the bottom and green tea in roughly shaped mugs. With my limited (by which I mean nonexistent) Japanese, I managed to order a few basic rolls from the chef (this might have included pointing at our neighbor's food as well).
My tuna nigiri was a slab of fish so big and so deeply red that it almost looked like beef. Jeff's basic vegetarian rolls were exactly what sushi should be: crisp nori, firm rice, simple ingredients perfectly prepared. With growing confidence, I tried sea urchin for the first time - a fascinating texture that liquifies in your mouth, leaving the faintest taste of the sea soon erased by the vinegary sushi rice it left behind.
Fortified by breakfast, we might or might not have broken the official market rules by walking through the giant middle market, where all the real action was happening. It might or might not have been fascinating and impressive. And we'll leave it at that.
4. Kaiseki
The equivalent of the French seven-course meal at a multi-Michelin starred restaurant, a true kaiseki dinner was simply beyond our budget. But thanks to the government of Japan, we were able to approximate the experience.
A "people's lodge" on the sacred island of Miyajima, MorinoYado is a government-run hotel that feels a bit like a conference center and caters, it appeared on arrival, almost entirely to Japanese retirees. Still, we were given a veritable suite of rooms (complete with our own doorbell) and enough futons to triple-stack our beds that night (think princess and the pea). After helping ourselves to tea and cookies in our room, we changed into our yukatas - cotton kimono-esque bathrobes - before setting out to soak in the communal (gender-segregated) baths.
Clean and relaxed, we returned to our room, where dinner was brought to us - still in our yukatas and seated around a low table on the tatami mats. It was a veritable feast, something like nine dishes each plus rice and dessert - and every last little dish was exquisitely prepared.
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| (Not including dessert) |
The best part is, after we called them to take it all away, we just had to roll out our futons and fall into bed.
Although not as extensive or exquisite, our shojin ryori meal at the Buddhist temple in Koyasan also falls into this category, as does our last meal in Japan: a Ninja-themed feast in Tokyo with friends.
I believe the restaurant is actually called Ninja, and it is as much amusement park spectacle as multi-course dinner extravaganza. After following our Ninja hostess through a mini-maze of serpentine corridors, narrow staircases and a draw bridge (secret password required), we were deposited in our own little cave, complete with fake stone walls and a large orchid arrangement.
 |
| Charming Ninja cooking soup. |
When we finally extracted ourselves from the restaurant and started down the city street, our charming Ninja server followed us out, executed a flashy somersault on the pavement, and whipped out a banner that said "Please come again!" It was a perfectly cheerful and cheesy end to a cheerful and cheesy feast.
5. And then there are the sweets
I cannot end my multi-part ode to Japanese food without saying a word about Japanese sweets. Japanese love sweets, which come in a shocking variety (never including chocolate). Mochi (chewy rice dough) features prominently, as does green tea flavoring, sweet bean paste, dried fruit, and sugar. Each region - and in particular, every major tourist destination - is known for a local sweet specialty, and nicely packaged sweets comprise about 80% of all gift shops.But the love of sweets runs deeper, as demonstrated by the lines stretching outside the most popular mochi stores and the prevalence of soft-serve ice cream stands. It's probably a good thing that, for most Americans, sweets devoid entirely of chocolate can be an acquired taste: otherwise, we might have eaten nothing else.
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