Cuttin' tuna, drinkin' beer, and eatin' round the world!

Douchebags long before me have rather loudly noted that certain things, although available all over the world, taste better in their countries of origin. Stuff White People Like agrees, which makes it true. Peroni "tastes better" in Italy, Lindt chocolate "tastes better" in Switzerland, and sushi "tastes better" in Japan. The thing is, sushi really is better in Japan. And it’s more fun.

On a recent sojourn to the land of sumo and bondage action figures, I visited Yajima Sushi, two blocks away from the hustle and bustle of Shibuya Station. My candy golden flower and I were the only two customers there, as we arrived on the tail end of the lunch hour. The chef, whose name I do not and do not ever want to know, greeted us and asked if I wanted beer. This is done, for non-English speaking men, by shouting the word BEER! in a guttural voice and smiling. I declined, not in the mood for drinks. The chef, although crushed, quickly mashed up a couple pieces of nigiri and I was impressed by his skill. He was clearly a long-practiced master chef, the way he cut his fish, applied freshly ground wasabi (a rarity even in Japan), mashed another dab of fish underneath to help dissipate the pungent root, then assembled his delicious rice. I ate one bite and decided the sushi was so good I needed a beer to help me maximize the experience. The chef smiled, clapped, his hands, and barked to his wife, the joint’s only employee, to bring beer. He then turned to me and shouted “On the house!” I turned to my gloriously attractive interpreter and asked her if he knew what that phrase meant in my world. He did, apparently, and I thanked him for the FREE BEER. I sipped slowly, and on repeated occasions the chef would snag my bottle, pour himself a glass, and chug it down. He seemed to want me to chug my beer as well, which I was happy to do. California style.

It wasn’t long before I realized he was drinking twice as fast as me and was pretty well blitzed.

The beer ran out soon as we chatted with the chef as he prepared a dazzling array of simple but artful pieces of sushi. Tuna cut so well it melted like toro. Non-farmed yellowtail, which I had never eaten. Three kinds of clams. Fish I have never heard of in any waters. Every now and then he would make an extra piece for himself and toss it in his mouth, enjoying it with the reckless abandon of a man who has seen it all. I read a book recently that expressed the thesis that sushi was meant to be done this way, prepared simply by a dedicated craftsman, in the atmosphere of fun and familiarity. I knew even before finishing that this was to be one of the finest sushi experiences of my trip, therefore my life.

And that was just lunch. After we exclaimed we were full to busting and the chef had long ago barked “SAKE!” to his bedraggled wife and filled my glass repeatedly and without charge, he started in on storytime. He told us the tale of a famous conductor who once came to the restaurant, made an impression, and came back two years later. The chef, red-faced and probably pissing in his pants, stumbled over to the TV where he had hooked up a DV camera. He played for us about ten minutes of video his wife shot the last time the conductor had sat in the restaurant. He mumbled some shit in Japanese about how honored he was and whatnot, and I looked around subtly for whatever instruments he would inevitably use to kill us both. I am not accustomed to staying after the food is eaten, let alone at the time most places are aching to close. When the video presentation was over, I calmly whispered to my Japanese-fluent companion that it was time to get the check.

But first there were magic tricks to be performed. Chef did one with wine corks and one with rubber bands. He then forced me to learn both tricks to perfection, not allowing me to fail. I realized we would not be permitted to leave until I could make the corks seem like they went through each other, and when I succeeded the chef downed another glass of sake, poured me another, and relished his accomplishment. Something tells me he knew I would blog about this shit. He and my eastern escort exchanged business cards for a while as I finished my ninetieth glass of sake. We asked him how much he wanted for the meal and he just shrugs his shoulders and says “One sheet.”

10,000 yen. About a hundred dollars. For two people eating their fill of premium sushi and a fair amount of booze. We got out for about 125 dollars less than full price. And I got to keep the corks and rubber bands. The chef didn’t give a shit about the money anyway, just the company and an excuse to tip a few back. I then realized I wanted to stay there forever and be his son.

But I didn’t because he was weird and I was full. Bam. Greatest time ever.