Dear Bourdain,
Food is an experience, subject to the mood of the eater, the environment, what you had for breakfast, the alignment of the constellations, what have you.
Today, approaching the sushi bar, I had had an excellent day.
The Maruyama Park I toured was simply godly. The mountainside was more alive than anything I had ever felt before. The shrines were fierce and godlike, each busying with the energy of the spirits of the forest. They were ancient, projecting the power of thousands of years of history and millions of prayers, and yet temporary; made from new wood, a testimony to the culture that built and rebuilt itself between inevitable earthquakes.
From the Hokkaido Shrine I biked down to the outskirts of Sapporo, the houses reminiscent of any community neighborhood in Queens or San Fransisco. Tucked cul-de-sacs townhouses in mountain valley streets.
I found an almost IHOP-like facade on what I assumed was a chain sushi house, I wasn’t sure I would have a good experience. But at less than a $1 a plate, I could finally take a second to pig out.
When I entered the restaurant, I was greeted with a sing song hello and the rapid polite efficiency of all the service in Japan. I was in awe. Single serving packets of wasabi and salt and soy. I marveled at the fresh tang of the pickled ginger. The matcha powder and hot water spouts at each seat to make your own green tea.
I enjoyed the songs that played when your order arrived, a tiny basket crown on a electronic train, color coordinated to your table, zipping around the conveyor belt.
I savored every bite of the tempura shrimp, obscenely sweet against light, crisp, hot batter. I chewed through the profound experience of herring eggs; spicy, chewy, crunchy. It felt like a combination of cartilage and tiny roe. I munched on fatty toro that melted in my mouth. Salmon that was all at once, powerfully oily, flame charred, and clean. Shiso is like a mixture of basil and mint, herbaceous. It made a marvelous throne for raw, sweet, and snappy Ika [squid].
All of this atop the clean vinegar tang of delicious sushi rice. Much like how any high class Italian dish is judged on the pasta, so is sushi judged on the quality of rice. It should just barely stick together, not to dense, not too dry. It should be perfectly cooked through, rinsed of most of the starch. Each granule uniform in texture and size. The flavor should be mild but distinct. Mirin, Vinegar, Sugar, Salt. All in balance.
Something important happened while I was eating.
I found my peak. I finished my meal, barely 7$ with tax and no tipping.
I buried my head into my arms. What on earth was going on? 3 days in and this was the best meal I had ever had. On top of the best meals I had ever had just getting here.
What the hell. Could I even top today’s adventures? What would I do tomorrow that could beat this?
Fear struck me paralyzed. Would I be sick of traveling soon? Would all the wonderment simply blur and mesh into the average state of boredom that had gotten me out of New York to begin with?
I brushed away the anxiety with a simple “Who cares??”
I had to eat slow, the flavor of each piece was exquisite, even when I had no frame of reference. Around me, pairs and singles of all ages popped in and out.
The conveyor belt continued to spin. Someone had ordered a strawberry ice cream sundae, topped with two pocki. Brightly standing out against the fish and rice and seaweed. It was destined for a sweet tooth down the bar, and merrily marched its way down.
I was bidden goodbye with bows and English, cheery smiles and enthusiastic waving. <¥800!
I danced and spun my way to the bike rack [free rentals from the hostel!] laughing outright at the joy.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? What in New York could possibly have compared to the last 4 hours?
Maybe I’ll be sick of this one day. Maybe I’ll come crying home to mom. But for now, all wonder. All amazement. All love.
Winston
