Eating Through Three Cities
The tonkatsu chef at a counter in Shinjuku had been dropping pork cutlets into hot oil so long that he did it without looking. His hands moved like they were playing an instrument—the timing exact, the rhythm unbroken. Oil snapped, the batter crackled, and he slid each piece across to you while it was still hot enough to burn your mouth.
I went to Japan for the temples and gardens, the proper tourist things. I arrived hungry and never quite recovered. Three weeks eating through Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto. The temples waited.
Ramen shops where the broth had been simmering for years—you could taste the time in it, that depth that comes from not adding anything but bones and patience. I’d burn my mouth on the first sip and do it again with the second bowl. Tempura from vendors working at night, each piece battered and fried one at a time, sliding across the counter with the batter still crackling. Yakitori from carts on dark streets, meat charred just past the point where it falls off the stick. I didn’t read reviews or plan routes. I’d see a line of people eating and join the line. If there were pictures on the wall, I’d point at a picture. The restaurants didn’t need to explain themselves.
There was something clean about eating like that. Fast and cheap and exactly what it claimed to be. No ego, no composition, no documentation—just the thing that tasted good right now, while it was hot. The chefs didn’t make conversation. You paid, you ate, you left. The meal was already fading as you swallowed it.
That’s what stuck with me. Not the taste, though the ramen was the best I’ve had. It was the simplicity: an appetite, a bowl, something hot in front of you. No frame around it.