Dinner with the Fam

It’s 9 p.m. Friday night. I need fuel before going out for three hours before the subway stops. With my neighborhood sushi joint packed, I tried a family-run place without menus in any language. With plates of adjacent customers picked clean, the “I’ll have what he’s having” lifeline was severed. Then I spotted a familiar sight: a cooler filled with 22 oz. Asahi beers. “Biiru!” I pointed.

An older daughter floated behind the counter, stabbing blocks of ice with a pick and refilling the glasses of “salarymen” with jagged chunks, shochu, and a splash of water. The mother said something in Japanese about rice, so I just nodded. Whatever they cooked up I would consume. This was an anything goes kind of night. Four salty rice balls (triangles, actually) appeared. Chow time, I said to myself, piercing the grains with my chopstick. Laughter from all sides. Nervously I looked up for an explanation of my faux pas. Sure a plate of rice seemed austere for a meal, but I was just playing along, right? I set down my utensils and reached for the safety of the beer glass.

“Would you like something with your rice balls?” the older daughter asked. Lost without a safety net of plastic models to pick from, I simply expressed satisfaction. “Miso!” mom suddenly chimed in. That much I understood, but when she pulled a water bottle filled with pale yellow fluid from the fridge, concern crossed my face.

Waiting for my soup concoction to arrive, dad chirped at me in Japanese. I replied in a few rehearsed phrases: my name is Jeff. I am from New York. I am 25. I am single – sometimes. Ha, ha. Please be careful, the coral is dangerous!

Mother caught her breath from cooking, and had a swig of beer - from a customer's glass. The father cupped his lips around the water bottle used to refill guests’ glasses, and hummed along to Tony Bennett singing in the background. Then his youngest daughter entered and tied on an apron.

“Hello, my name is Hicca,” she said in perfect English. “Like hiccup.” Thank God, I thought to myself, grateful for a translator. To plan future dinners, I asked what days she helped out and their hours of operation. “We open at 4 and close when the last customer goes home.”

With the youngest daughter now at work, mom mingled by bellying up to the regulars at the counter. She inevitably wound up next to me, remarking how I looked like Tom Cruise while stroking my back. This compliment is commonly directed at any tall, dark-haired, young Westerner, as I learned from my resort days in Guam. Any boost in ego quickly vanished when she grabbed my Jewish nose, eliciting laughs.

Poking fun was a house rule. Hicca’s father made a scene about something, which she demurred to decode. I got the picture when dad inserted a soup bowl under his shirt to emphasize the flatness of his youngest.

The man next to me was filled with his fair share of whisky, and upon rising to the restroom, bowled over two stools. Hicca’s father cut him off, but slipped me another Asahi on the house.

This is how family restaurants should be. A loving couple with supportive daughters in a homey setting that hasn’t changed in decades, serving up cuisine that hasn’t changed in centuries, and frequented by loyal locals who have assimilated into extended family.
***
Price for four rice balls, two miso soups, two large Asahis, and a plate of chicken bits: $9.37 (equivalent to a pint of Asahi at Legends sports bar). Highly entertained with local culture, I had no motivation to trade Monzen-nakacho for the neon lights of central Tokyo.