Animal, Vegetable or Mineral?

Making Sense of Japanese Supermarkets

I arrived in Tokyo from New York tired, alone, without a job and, worst of all, hungry. Eerily realistic plastic food displayed in restaurant windows wasn’t much help. I was clueless as to what the replica was imitating. Even picture menus puzzled. I needed someplace to inspect goods up close, and preferably under bright lights. I needed a supermarket.

Here, senses of smell, taste or touch come in handy when sight alone proves insufficient. Unable to crack Japanese labels, I play the grocery guessing game, which entails crossing fingers and tossing an item into my basket. I’ve made two memorable mistakes.

I have an acute weakness for dried baby sardines inserted into Japanese snack mixes. True to my American roots, I buy in bulk. Elated upon discovering an extra large bag of little fish, I unwittingly purchased – and partially consumed – cat food, which got a rise out of a Japanese friend who declined a nibble.

I am also guilty of gulping what I thought was a can of refreshing “Italian lemon and California lime” soda. A few minutes later it hit me – in the head, as I stumbled around my apartment in a Suntory stupor.

A chore anywhere else in the world, grocery shopping in Japan transforms routine into cultural phenomenon. My local branch of the Akafudado chain is no exception. The experience begins right outside the supermarket’s automatic doors. A lady with a generous smile peddles a cart of ¥100 (85 cents) skewers of grilled animal parts unknown. Some are tasty, others crunchy. One triggered a gag reflex.

Skewer lady competes with the singing meat display near the frozen food aisle inside. A portable stereo mimics the meat. It chirps at shoppers, “we like meat, take your pick” in a treble that only Alvin & The Chipmunks can match. One might expect higher prices and lack of music to drive skewer lady out of business. But jingles can backfire.

The voices were cute, at first. But the tune turned repetitive, and then harassing. Now I restrain myself from gouging out eardrums with nearby toothpicks just to make the voices stop.

I take refuge out of earshot in the snack food section. Despite serving sizes fit for a gerbil, rice crackers, cookies and traditional sweets come individually wrapped within larger packages. It’s the equivalent of encasing each Dorito in plastic (which hasn’t been done here…yet). While the concern for freshness is admirable, the means to achieve it are an environmentalist’s nightmare.

Indeed, Japan is the land of small portions. Although now I’ve adjusted to thinking of their size as sensibly adequate, I used to eat at McDonald’s just to get enough calories. Sympathetic supermarket workers have taken notice.

“Delicious,” I said to one, satisfied after sampling his seafood salad. I reached for a container marked ¥462 ($4), but the employee pulled it out of my hands. He pried open the lid to slip in additional shrimp, jellyfish and cellophane noodles, but left the price sticker unchanged.

Another time, a young man at the gyoza station flagged me down for a taste test. After dishing out seconds, he directed my attention to baskets lined with clear plastic bags filled with what looked like melting intestines.

“Ika,” he said. It sure didn’t look like squid. He jabbed a toothpick into the basket brimming with pinkish worms, and extended the slimy offering. Although raw fish is a favorite food, even I paused at the sight of this freebie.

“Mexico,” he said, jiggling it. Mexican squid? What the hell, I thought, closing my eyes as it slithered onto my tongue and down the hatch. “Indonesia,” he pointed at the next basket. Just swallow, I told myself. “Japan,” he said with hometown pride, reaching for yet another toothpick. After cleansing the palate with some seaweed from Hokkaido, I thanked him for the world tour.

Free samples subsidize my strategy of eating supermarket cheap. Why pay more when you can’t afford it? Cutting costs on food in one of the world’s most expensive cities is a necessity. At Akafudado, I barrel down the aisles with Olympic athleticism in search of tofu, gyoza or anything left unwrapped. Insider’s tip: making a few rounds amounts to a free appetizer.

I then head to the rear of the building (dangerously close to the singing meat) to select a bento box entrée. I regularly set my cell phone alarm to ring for 7 p.m. This begins the evening competition with salarymen and bargain-hunting biddies to snatch up marked down items. One reduced by ¥75 (65 cents) catches the eye. I never know quite what I’m buying, but bento beggars can’t be choosers.

While queuing for the register, people peer into my basket to see what the foreigner is feeding on for dinner. Doritos and Coke? On the contrary: bento, edamame, walnuts and sardine mix and a drink. I feel the urge to defend my strawberry milk selection by staring back and saying, “Yeah, well nice radish, lady!” It’s usually the thickness of my lower leg (or daikon ashi, but don’t say that “radish-legged” insult to a woman).

The checkout line gives me time to whip out my point card. It offers few financial rewards. Instead, the card confers status. I deliberately fiddle with it to advertise that I live here, too, and am not some stray tourist with the temerity to forage among the locals.

Arms saddled with plastic bags, I exit past the ¥290 ($2.50) apples. Murmurs of singing meat fade away. Skewer lady’s grill smokes as a customer looks on. Although often ignorant as to the species of mammal, vegetable or fish I’ve purchased, one thing’s for sure: grocery shopping in Japan sure works up an appetite.