Sushi Place

When it comes to sushi, Japan – not surprisingly – is bar none. My neighborhood is just up the subway line from the world’s greatest fish market, Tsukiji. I wasn’t making it another supermarket mystery meat bento night. I decided to revisit a sushi place private student Aiko showed me one “lesson.” This time would be different. Without a crutch, I was intruding into a salarymen stronghold feeding on the bedrock of Japanese cuisine in old town Tokyo.

Approaching the storefront set gastric juices in motion. But you can’t just walk in and seat yourself. Well, you can, if you’re Japanese. I paced past the entrance to check seat availability along the two bell-shaped counters. It’s always packed. Making a U-turn after entering invites humiliation. Standing and waiting along the perimeter feels too exposed when you’re a foreigner, not to mention the only one under 40.

The glass of the double sliding door is frosted almost to the top, but standing on my toes enables reconnaissance without commitment. I already had peered in twice. Cigarette smoke blurred dark salarymen suits. I pretended to thumb text messages while waiting for someone to walk out, but hunger soon trumped insecurity.

Unlike typical establishments here, don’t expect an audible welcome upon entering, which at least doesn’t draw more attention. Other customers aren’t looking for polite service. The freshest, cheapest sushi on this side of the Sumida River keeps them coming back. I feel their gaze, but hone in on my goal – sliding into an empty stool without knocking it or anyone else over. I cringed stuffing my knees under the counter.

The grey-haired lady poured jugs of sake into customers’ overflowing glasses. I recalled her stern disposition from last time, sort of like the sushi Nazi. Apparently I wasn’t a stranger either. “I never forget a handsome face,” she said through a customer translator. Ack. I let out a breath and looked up to order. Instead, I caught people staring at me from behind beer mugs and raised chopsticks. Can he speak Japanese? Can he eat raw fish? Can he handle chopsticks? Let the games begin.

In such situations, I fall back on a fail-safe recipe: draft beer. I wanted small, but ordered 1 liter. Murmurs of approval. First hurdle cleared. Next I whispered “unagi” (boiled eel) just like I had eaten when with my private student. Its mouth-watering richness makes it taste more like dessert than sushi, although it’s not raw. The sushi Nazi turned to the kitchen and yelled, “Do we have unagi today?” loud enough for everyone to overhear.

I sensed laughter before it became audible. One observer challenged me, in English, as to why I was ordering cooked fish in a place known for its raw delights. My cheeks turned the color of a maguro slice. The lady's answer was no, followed by a sentence I couldn’t catch. The only word I recognized was anago, unagi’s salt-water cousin (conger eel). I didn’t really want it, but quickly accepted.

“Maguro,” I called out, adding the house staple of tuna to my order, which appeased any remaining detractors. I wasn’t in the clear just yet. Furtive stares anticipated how I would eat what I had spent so much effort ordering. I treated chopsticks like a surgical tool and poured less than usual soy sauce.

The conger eel arrived dripping in delicious sweet eel sauce. I steered clear of the accompanying bottle filled with seasoning. Unfamiliar lids with unfamiliar contents only increased chances for embarrassment. Anago in chopstick, I raised it to my lips and stopped. Was that someone speaking to me? When you can’t understand the language, you begin to sense these things. A well-dressed gentleman in his twilight salaryman years had uttered “saisho,” or first. I knew what he meant. I had skipped a step. The eel was still undressed.

I imagined drowning it in green flakes. When nothing came out, I tapped harder and the prophecy fulfilled itself. I causally smeared the sprinkles around my plate like I was seasoned expert. I looked up to find the salaryman nodding. I toasted him with a green slice of eel.