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After a wonderful but long day of non-stop sightseeing, Tina collapsed on her bunk with a book and I decided to experience a little of Japan on my own. Reassured by our hostel manager that one of Kyoto’s ubiquitous ramen shops was a one-minute walk away, I ducked (literally, to avoid the curtain hanging above the door) into the first shop that I saw with a big red Japanese lantern out front. I was greeted with an enthusiastic ‘Irasshaimase!’ (Welcome!) by the husband-wife proprietors of the small, dimly lit establishment. I removed my shoes and took a seat at the counter in front of a small glass case displaying the day’s fresh fish. I sat staring at the five raw specimens, gutted and neatly displayed on a thin layer of ice cubes, their glassy eyes eerily returning my gaze. I flipped through the menu only to discover that it was entirely in Japanese. There were four tiny photos but they were too small to distinguish. A pang of anxiety coursed through me – the twinge of fear that you feel in that moment between realizing you’re in an uncomfortable situation and realizing that you can handle it.
A young couple on my left sipped cold sake, casually sampling their first course. A grey-haired, fifty-something salaryman sat drinking beer, chain-smoking and picking at his sashimi. Two short tables sat unoccupied on the tatami floor mats behind me. When the waitress arrived and greeted me in Japanese, I pointed to the salaryman’s beer mug; she smiled and nodded, returning quickly with a large draught beer. “Ramen?” I asked. She shook her head. As anticipated, she spoke very little English but was eager to help me order. With hand language and a lot of patience on her part, I managed to order a plate of soba noodles and a serving of chicken balls (like meatballs but made with ground chicken). It’s always safer ordering a vegetarian meal if possible, but at this point I knew that I couldn’t be too picky. In general, we have found the food in Japan to be of high quality.
The other patrons at the bar were now fully aware of the presence of a gaijin (foreigner) and the couple to my left smiled and attempted to initiate conversation. While it was a truly kind gesture, forced conversations between people who don’t speak the same language usually end in uncomfortable silence and soon I began staring once again at the fish in front of me. Slightly bored and certainly out of place, I ordered a small bottle of hot sake. The evening markedly improved with each sip.
Three cigarettes later, the chain-smoking salaryman departed and my dinner finally arrived. The noodles were swimming in a brown, gravy-like sauce, topped with octopus tentacles and thinly sliced pieces of mystery meat. The chicken balls were skewered and covered with a sweet and salty brown sauce, most closely resembling teriyaki. Ravenously hungry and eager to please my gracious hosts, I inhaled the surprisingly good meal.
As I was finishing my dinner, a man and a much younger woman sat down next to me at the bar. They lovingly entwined themselves as they glanced at the menu. The gentlemen inquired about one of fish in the glass case. The chef presented his best fish, enthusiastically exhibiting its freshness and quality. The couple nodded and the chef began preparing the fish as an appetizer. Minutes later, the dish was presented. The head of the fish was positioned face up on the left side of the plate and the tail was on the right, with the freshly carved boneless, skinless raw sashimi in the middle. Now that’s fresh!
Enthralled with the entire experience and slightly intoxicated, I hadn’t noticed that the restaurant had filled to capacity with throngs of cigarette-smoking salarymen. Eager for the fresh air awaiting me outside, I paid and left, merry, full and satisfied with the night’s accomplishments. Only later did I learn that I had stopped one shop too soon in my search for the ramen shop. I had stumbled upon an Izakaya, a traditional Japanese pub, and was treated to a truly authentic evening. No matter how much we may try to plan during this adventure, sometimes the most memorable experiences are accidental.
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