Glutton Abroad: Tokyo Chow

I (but really, my friend Nat) had been planning this trip to Tokyo for months, but I did not expect the fervor with which I would come to regard Japanese cuisine, thanks to the Youtube channel Nushi Kitchen Life. The countless images of cozy eggplant stir fries, innumerable miso soups, and freshly baked bread hooked me almost instantly, and on my flight there, I dreamed of square omelet pans with which I could cook my own tamagoyaki (rolled omelets), sharkskin graters for fresh wasabi paste, and even making my own tororo (gloopy mountain yam) on rice. Meanwhile, Nat had reserved two well-regarded sushi restaurants one right after the other, both with vastly different chefs and philosophies.

The first, Sushi Yoshitake, had been in the Michelin Guide until recently, when they — like quite a few other Japanese restaurants — requested they be removed from the guide. They had reached the pinnacle of what Michelin could give (that would be 3 stars), but after recently being downgraded to 2, they preferred to bow out from the game gracefully rather than seeking to win back Michelin’s favor. The atmosphere was hushed, the service solicitous, and the chef (who also makes his own whisky, meant to pair perfectly with the sushi) very obviously a master of his art. From his deft hands, tender slabs of squid, surf clam, and mackerel pike would appear, perfectly shaped over mounds of reddish vinegared rice that always seemed on the verge of crumbling. A shame, then, that I would become so full somewhere in between the fatty tuna and the sea urchin that I almost had a panic attack. At least I got beautiful photos out of it, right? Alas, no. It turns out they are not allowed, as I was informed after attempting to shoot a beautiful dish of steamed abalone blanketed with abalone liver sauce. “They don’t allow photos anymore after getting the three stars,” my friend Cha said.

Stung once, I didn’t even attempt to bring my phone to the second night’s reservation at Nishiazabu Taku. This proved to be a mistake, since they allow photos. They also have private sushi bar rooms, which are a lot of fun since you basically have your own sushi chef for your private party. Ours, Chef Satoshi, served sushi the way a good musician would play music: without a set list, he made his selections depending on the audience’s reaction. A finely vinegared slab of in-season sanma (Pacific saury) or a tottering roll stuffed to the brim with fresh ikura (salmon roe, only fresh in the autumn) would be interspersed with refreshing salads or grilled vegetables, so that the meal never made you too full. They took their sake seriously here; certain bottles would not be served if they clashed with the fish you were having at that time. By the end, I was full, but not suicidal like I was the night before.

After two towering sushi meals like these, it seemed silly to seek the cut-rate stuff out in a Shinjuku back alley or among the tourists at Tsukiji. So we focused our attentions on something I’ve been obsessed with for a few years now: OG-style yoshoku (Western-style Japanese food), which was born during the Meiji Restoration in the 19th century when Japan, like Thailand, was battling the forces of colonization. Like Thailand, this “fusion” came out of a sort of “if you can’t beat them, join them and then they’ll leave you alone” philosophy (which, incidentally, worked).

Arguably one of the most famous restaurants of this genre is Rengatei, said by some to be the first ever restaurant to serve omu (omelette) rice, a dish made even more famous by yoshoku rival Tameiken of “Tampopo” fame. There is a line an hour before opening, one of the rare Ginza eateries to elicit such demand among the Japanese themselves. Probably because this was Western fusion and not strictly Japanese, nary a tourist could be found here.

Another offshoot of the yoshoku genre is the kissaten, the old-fashioned Japanese coffee shop. The first of these, Cafe Paulista, was predictably born in Ginza in 1911. I’d visited another famous shop drawing huge queues, Ginza Tricolore, but did not realize the sheer number of retro coffee shops in the neighborhood until now.

Our first stop was at Tsubakiya Coffee, which seemed as grumpy as Walter Matthau on a couch in his underwear. You get the picture immediately when you are greeted at the door with this sign:

Another nearby, possibly a little more famous, is Cafe de L’ambre, hushed and as dark as a Bangkok speakeasy bar. The service is stressed but efficient, and the seats at the counter have a strange swivel that ensures you look like an idiot whenever you try to move, no matter how many times you’ve been there. It’s a place to give you humility after a few too many sushi bar meals.

But back to the cooking. Willing to help in the face of obvious signs that I would be terrible at Japanese food, our friend Ami drove us to Taito City, where an entire street of cooking pots, knives and ceramic ware exists, ripe for the picking. Our destination was Kama-Asa, where I went crazy and bought the aforementioned square copper omelet pan, a hammered aluminum saucepan, and a bread knife that is so precious to me that I will never use it.

Later I discovered they have branches in Paris and Brooklyn. But that’s neither here nor there now that I’m in my kitchen after transporting half of a Tokyo grocery store to my house.

So I filled my omelette pan half full with oil and let it simmer for 15 minutes. I threw old vegetable scraps into the water in my aluminum pan in order to cure it. I hid my knife in a shelf in its box. Since then, I’ve made two rather bad tamagoyaki in my pan, grated fresh wasabi (and some of my hand) for steak, and made fried tororo, “Midnight Diner”-style (for which I got rashes on my wrists from the calcium oxalate crystals and saponins in the mountain yam’s “mucus”). I am up to my ears in miso, mirin and dashi broth. Even though my plate is completely empty when it comes to projects, I feel like it’s going to be a productive fall for me.