Japan, 2025
Once the kids were down, their stomached filled with their convenience store noodles, Dani and I agreed I’d go fetch us dinner.
She’d found a nearby sushi place with options she could eat and sent me out with a small smile that says this will be nice for both of us, but our plan unraveled almost. The restaurant wasn’t open, and the alternatives felt more like hopeful guesses than destinations. Thus, I went out, alone, walking through the city, trusting my eyes and a feeling to guide me. Trusting myself.
The night air felt brisk, people rushing past in currents of light and sound. Osaka’s energy kicks in late afternoon and explodes after dark. Dani and I had discovered that nothing opens before eleven, and most eateries don’t open until at least six, and they stay open until five. Now, at seven, I was venturing out at the beginning of dinner.
The first place I saw, turning left out the hotel, was a sushi restaurant. A white cloth with black lettering hung over the doorway. Nearby, a window looked in. It showed three sushi chefs in white, nimbly preparing orders. The place was small and quiet, a welcome reprieve from the city’s nighttime energy. It called to me, so I parted the curtain and stepped inside.
The restaurant held a bar with at most a dozen seats. A small group of men sat chatting at three of the stools, while a young couple occupied another two. One of the chefs looked up as I entered and greeted me in Japanese—earnest and polite, formal and welcoming in a single breath.
“Konnichiwa,” I said—One of the two Japanese words I could recall.
“Reservation?” One of the workers said, identifying my native tongue from the way I presented myself and replying with one of the English words that he knew.
I shook my head, but it did not matter. He gestured me to the bar all the same.
I used my phone’s translator app, first asking if I could “order takeout to bring back to my wife” and then snapping photos of the menu to convert to English.
“Yes.” My host said.
I would realize later that this formed a mistranslation that also reviewed something authentic about the Japanese culture. “Yes” here meant “yes, I understand your request” not “yes, I can accommodate it.” When I sat at the bar, I had already agreed to eat here, the rest was formality.
I ordered a ginger sour to drink while I waited, and then five rolls and two orders of soup. I wanted to order the “Chef’s Choice,” which everyone else seem to be enjoying, but I stuck to what Dani and I had agreed on. This meal was for her, too.
I showed care here, pointing to the menu listing and then trying my best to pronounce the items, though I’m sure my attempts sounded closer to gibberish than anything understandable. Still, my host nodded with understanding, then relayed my order to the nearest sushi chef at the far side of my bar with sharp, breathy, and deep precision.
A moment later, the first piece of my order arrived. It came so fast, so adeptly, that I hadn’t noticed its preparation. With one movement, the chef reached over and set a roll on a stone slab sitting near me at the bar and beckoned. It looked incredible. An oblong ball of rice with a slab of glistening pink fish sitting on top. Unlike American rolls, it wasn’t drenched in sauce and tempura flakes, deep-fried, garnished, or wrapped in seaweed. It made no pretense about what itself and did nothing to elevate or diminish that status. Salmon.
There must have been a translation error, for I had asked for take out.” My chef saw my hesitation; concern fill his eyes.
I used my translator again to ask for “to go. To bring to my wife.” He shook his head.
“Here only.”
I texted Dani an update. She replied at once:
“Eat. Enjoy. Of everything to go wrong; this is nothing. You deserve it.”
“Thank you.” I said, even though she wasn’t there to hear me.
Her grace and kindness had granted me the permission I needed to enjoy this experience without the pressure to make it something else.
I was already here; now I could be.
Still, I felt pressure to meet their standard, to honor the space. I was so caught in my own self-consciousness that I fumbled a chopstick into my lap, not noticing the man next to me ate his sushi with his fingers. I tried again, gingerly grabbing the small piece of fish and rice and placed it in my mouth. The fish melted: delicate, soft, and fragile.
People often told me sushi was their favorite food, and I never understood them. I realized that I had ever eaten discount American sushi, so it had tasted merely okay. This restaurant was neither American nor cheap. And now I understood what I’d been missing. This was the best sushi I’d ever eaten.
When the next rolls came, I watched their creation. The chef—skillfully molding rice, warming and shaping the fish with his hands before dabbing each piece right. He moved with the speed and grace of someone who takes absolute pride and dedication in his craft, and yet he seemed humble about it. There was no identity in what he did. In this regard, he was not “a chef” but a man making sushi.
The next rolls arrived. Tuna and then the eel, raw but lightly seared with a blowtorch. Along the way, cucumber, and a bowl of soup were also set before me. In every case, it raised the standard. It showed me the inferiority of every other bowl of soup, every other piece of sushi. Nothing here was more, simpler, and purer. The best, by itself without comparison because comparison would be meaningless.
I was here, now, eating sushi. What else was there?
After I finished, I asked for my check, which came with a cup of earthy green tea I hadn’t asked for but welcomed all the same
My chef and host both greeted me again as I stood to leave.
“Arigato” I said—my other Japanese word.
If I could express my true gratitude. I’d felt out of place, but never unwelcome. I was hungry, I was cared for, and I was fed—enough for any traveler.
He then followed me outside before returning to his work.
~
This wasn’t what I expected, but this was what I needed.
Some moments arrive by accident; we don’t get to choose them all. Be present enough to notice.
Back at the hotel, I begged Dani to switch with me—to let me watch the kids, so she could walk next door and experience sushi the way I had—but she was already settled under the blankets.
“This was yours,” she said. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”