by Chris Tharp
THE OTHER SIDE
Japan, 2006
“Mmmmmmmy God this is so good,” I mumbled, chewing the sushi in slow motion, savoring every molecule of texture and flavor. “Mmm-mmmmmm… good lord.”
“Excuse me.” Steve—my friend and colleague—waved to the sushi chef, who was busily chopping ginger on the other side of the counter.
“Ah… yes-uh?” The chef stopped his work.
Steve proceeded very slowly: “What-kind-of-fish-is-this?” He pointed to the silver slice perched atop the ball of molded rice in front of him.
“Aji,” the man replied.
“Aji?” repeated Steve.
“Aji. Hai,” confirmed the kind-eyed chef. “How do you say in Eng-uh-rish-uh?”
He looked to his partner—a grey-haired man of about seventy—who stood just feet away, putting the final touches on a shrimp roll, and rattled lighting Japanese his way. The old man glanced up, smiled, and just shook his head. The younger chef then furrowed his brow, gripped his shining knife with his right hand, and drummed on his apron with his left. He whispered to himself, lost in contemplation, until his eyes suddenly came alive: “Oh, yes. Aji in English! Spah-nish-a mah-kuh-rel.”
“Spanish mackerel. Of course,” nodded Steve.
“Hai. Aji.”
“Aji is better,” Steve said. “Much easier to pronounce.”
“You need to seriously get down on that, Steve. It’s literally one of the most delicious things I’ve ever had.”
“No time like the present.”
I stopped to watch Steve eat this chef’s masterpiece. He gingerly gripped the sushi between two wooden chopsticks and lifted it off the plate. He slowly lowered it toward the ceramic bowl containing the soy sauce mixed with atomic, bright green wasabi. He carefully let just the bottom of the rice absorb the sauce before elevating the now ready-to-eat sushi away from the counter toward his awaiting mouth.
“Go on,” I said. Take it down. The whole thing.”
The sushi disappeared behind his lips. Steve slowly chewed. His eyes gave away intense pleasure. Hints of tears welled up in the corners, visible through the round glasses that partially reflected the fluorescent lights above. He groaned and ever-so-slightly shook his head in deep approval as he swallowed the work of art.
“Ahhh…”
Steve set down his chopsticks and finished off the moment with a deep gulp from his ice-cold, foamy-headed mug of Sapporo. He set it down with a heavy clunk on the counter and sighed.
“These are some damned good eats. Was I right about this place or what?”
“This restaurant? Or Japan?”
“Both.”
“Yes, you were. Can we move here?”
The two chefs went back about their business, slicing fish, molding rice, and placing their creations on white plates with the skill and precision of masters. Each took his time, working deliberately and with confidence, in the manner of one who has been at it for ages. Their restaurant was a very small affair marked with a simple sign outside and a sliding black door. The interior consisted of a tiny counter that seated just four or five, as well as two very small tables. There was a second-floor space as well—probably reserved for groups of businessmen—with one tired-looking, bob-headed waitress who ran orders up the stairs and empty dishes down. The place was ordinary, as far as sushi joints in Japan go, but the food transcended the unremarkable surroundings. Having just eaten one of the most fantastic meals of my life, I was pulsing in culinary ecstasy.
“I found this place last time I came here,” said Steve. “I was walking around in the rain, looking for somewhere to eat. I can’t read Japanese, so I was shit out of luck, as this isn’t the most English-friendly country, especially with regards to signage. I wandered the streets, obviously clueless, until a voice, in English, called out to me. Across the road I saw a young, dark-skinned, non-Japanese guy selling handmade jewelry at a little table. So I went over to talk with him. It turns out the he was mixed race—Indian-Israeli-Japanese—and spoke something like five languages. I told him I was looking for good eats, so he had a friend watch his wares while he led me up the street, and voila! Here we are, the best sushi in Fukuoka.”
“You enjoy aji?” The younger chef asked, knowing our answers.
“Incredibly delicious. No, more than that: exquisite.” I struggled, not finding adequate words.
“Arigato gozaimasu.” He punctuated his thanks with a quick bow.
“We are visiting from Korea,” said Steve.
“Oh, Korea? Hai.”
“We live in Busan.” I added. “Do you know Busan?”
“Busan?” He pointed in the direction of the sea, as if to say, Just over there.
“Yes. We took the ferry here today.
“Oh. Busan. Hai.” He nodded in understanding.
“Actually, we’re from America.”
“Ah-mae-ri-kuh? U-S-A?”
“Yes, sir.”
The chef’s eyes lit up. “Oh… America. I live in USA three years. With father.” He nodded to the old man silently working next to him.
“Wow. That’s your father?” said Steve.
“Hai.”
“Oh, really? You lived in America? Where?” I asked.
“I live in… Mo-suh-suh Lake-uh”
“Moses Lake?” I blurted, not sure if I had heard him right.
“Hai. Moses Lake. Washington State.”
“I’m from Washington State! Olympia. Do you know Olympia?”
“Olympia. Hai!”
“Wow. What on earth were you doing in Moses Lake?” I gasped.
“Where’s Moses Lake?” Steve chimed in.
“It’s an unremarkable town in central Washington—the last place you’d expect this guy to be holed up.”
“I work for JAL. Japan Air. With father. We make the sushi for JAL workers.”
“Oh, that’s right! They have a big airport out there. It used to be an air force base, I think. They must use it for training.”
“Yes. Tuh-raining.”
“I heard that it’s one of the alternate landing strips for the Space Shuttle.”
“Space Shuttle. Hai,” the chef enthusiastically confirmed.
“Small world,” shrugged Steve.
The man translated for his father, who stopped his work, looked our way, and grinned. The father then turned to his son and appeared to give him some sort of orders. The son bowed and immediately grabbed a white plastic container and walked from behind the counter and out the front door. He returned a moment later with something in the container, most likely from the saltwater tank that we’d seen outside. After just two minutes, he produced a final dish and set it down on the counter: on it were two abalones, cut free from their shells. They were as fresh as it gets: still moving.
“Awabi,” he said. “My father’s treat. No pay.” He quickly shook his head and made a small waving gesture with his hand, as if to say, Don’t even think about it.
The old man smiled and bowed.
“Wow. Thanks,” said an impressed Steve. “They didn’t do this last time I came,” he whispered.
Next to the shellfish sat two narrow slices of lemon.
“Use lemon. Good taste.”
“Well thank you. Uh… ari-gato go-zai-masu!” I struggled, and then, just as awkwardly, attempted a bow.
“This is a first for me,” remarked Steve, raising his eyebrows. “But I must say it looks damn good.”
“Uh-huh.”
We grabbed the lemon slices and squeezed away with excitement, only to watch the poor creatures convulse in agony as the lemon juice seared their flesh.
“Oh, my…” I muttered.
The two of us looked on in pity.
“This is just sadistic,” confessed a bemused Steve.
Both abalones continued to squirm and writhe, spending their last few moments of life in what had to be unimaginable pain.
“I’m not sure whether to thank our hosts or condemn them,” I remarked.
“I hear you. Whatever the case, it’s time to put these guys out of their misery.”
“Sure thing,” I said, horrified. “I’d expect them to do the same for us.”
The abalones contracted and released in a spasmodic ballet.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Down the hatch!”
I popped the twitching mollusk into my mouth and chomped down. The flesh was a bit tough and I had to work at chewing, unleashing an explosion of sea salt and deep sweetness. The lemon juice only served to amplify the bright, fresh flavor, and for a moment, my whole mouth came alive.
*
Fukuoka is a city on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu and just a three-hour high-speed ferry ride across the water from Busan. For much of the world, the aquatic mass that separates the two countries is known as the Sea of Japan, though Koreans universally balk at such a Nippon-centric label. They insist on calling it the East Sea, which, seeing as it’s only east of Korea, doesn’t make it any less territorial. Perhaps a third, neutral name needs to be dreamed up by a committee in the United Nations, made up only of representatives of countries who have no horse in this particular race. But whatever you choose to call it, Steve and I crossed it. It was mid-April, and we had few days off from the university, so we decided to jump on a boat and see how the folks on the other side of the water did things.
It was my first trip to Japan, and though I did have certain expectations, I was shocked at how different it was from Korea. Koreans and Japanese look a bit similar and do share some cultural traits, but it stops there. To visit both nations in the course of a day is an exercise in contrasts, and it woke me up to how dissimilar they actually are.
The first thing that hit me was the tranquility. The place was quiet. Granted, Fukuoka is less than a third of the size of Busan, population-wise, but the moment I walked off that ferry I could hear it or—more accurately—not hear it. I took a deep breath and felt my muscles relax. Ah, calm. Urban Korea is a loud, often chaotic place: there’s really no end to the din. The constant growl of cars, buses, trucks, and motorbikes combines with the clamor of loudspeakers from vehicles selling produce; K-pop pumps and blares from the fronts of phone shops, cafes, bars, and stores. And then there are the people themselves, who cackle and joke and argue and cajole at generous decibels. Koreans like to think of themselves as quiet, but in reality they’re often just the opposite.
The Japanese, on the other hand, are truly quiet, and this became evident in laid-back Fukuoka. Steve and I decided to walk from the ferry terminal to our hotel, which was located in the city center. The outlying streets were almost empty of cars, and I noticed right away that many people got around on bicycles, easy to do on the flat surface of the town. Bikes are a much rarer sight in Busan, which is a city carved into the valleys and ravines of many mountains, making pumping pedals a lot more difficult.
Steve and I strolled under overcast skies along the peaceful streets of Fukuoka, listening to the calls of seagulls while taking in the eye-catching architecture of the city’s most basic houses and apartment buildings. The Japanese have a flair for design, and this struck me as we made our way toward the downtown. Instead of blocky apartments, we saw small square sections pushing out from the sides of the buildings, breaking up the lines and grabbing the eye; outdoor staircases wrapped around structures in rounded, gently ascending bands, rather than the obvious forty-five degree diagonal slopes found throughout much of the world. Daring colors were employed as well, with bright greens, reds, and oranges splashing out and adding some verve to what could otherwise be a dreary urban landscape. Even the angles used in the building design tended to be unexpected and exciting. That’s not to say that the architecture was flashy or trying to impress; like many things Japanese, it was mostly understated, something small that just changes the whole way a building is perceived—a tiny detail that makes you say think, Wow. That is cool. Korea, on the other hand—while definitely improving on its design aesthetic of the last few decades—is still all too often the land of the unimaginative shoebox apartment block, where the drab and literal reign. And sometimes, perhaps in reaction to this, they take things too far in the other direction, with modern buildings adopting the science-fiction-strip-mall look—all overdone cheap plastic and aluminum with some nifty colored lights added for effect.
Our hotel rooms were twice the price and half the size of anything we’d get back in Busan—glorified broom closets, really. A narrow single bed abutted the wall, with just a few feet of space to maneuver around it. A slim counter stretched out at the foot of the bed; on it were a tiny television, lamp, notepad, pen, and radio alarm clock. A chair was pushed in underneath in case you wanted to use the structure as a desk. The bathroom was an even tinier affair, a toilet and sink crammed in with only inches between, and just a few feet from the wall to the shower/tub. This was cramped space, to be sure. It struck me just how difficult a place to maneuver this country must be for large people.
Yes, the rooms were minute, but they were tidy, clean, well located, and the best bargain for the buck. After Singapore, Japan is the most expensive country in Asia, and it didn’t take long for sticker shock to set in. Almost nothing is cheap. Combining that with an unfavorable exchange rate, and cash hemorrhaged.
Cash, yes, it was a concern. I had brought plenty, but knew that it could go quickly in Japan. So you can imagine my elation that night when, at the sushi joint—after taking down the tortured abalones and finishing our draft Sapporos—Steve graciously produced his card and picked up the sizable bill. Styled. As we walked away I thanked him profusely, but he just waved his hand and said, in an exaggerated Boston accent:
“Fahgitabouttit, Mr. Thahp. Just buy me a bee-ah and some wicked re-tah-ded gah-lic bread.”
Fukuoka is a town made for walking, with flat streets, conscientious drivers, and polite people. Steve and I wandered through the business/entertainment district that also housed our sushi paradise. There were plenty of massage joints and karaoke rooms, advertising their wares with pictures of busty, dyed-haired girls with large brown eyes. Clusters of suit-and-tie-clad men wandered the sidewalks, chatting and smoking (cigarettes were among the few things that could be called “cheap” in Japan). We passed by a number of pachinko parlors and even went in one to try our luck. The ringing and buzzing of the machines joined together in one massive hum that seduced and tempted, reminding me of a Vegas casino. We sat next to each other and fed coins into the hi-tech units, but were both totally baffled as to how to operate the things, and received no help from the indifferent staff. I quickly picked up on the vibe that we weren’t welcome there anyway, and we made for the exit.
We soon came across a regular video game arcade, which was everything I had expected to find in Japan. The place contained at least ten different versions of the crane game, with alarm clocks and stuffed animals and anime figurines and cute puppy pillows up for grabs by the mechanical claw; groups of teenage girls stood around live-action dancing games and watched their agile classmates try to match the moves demonstrated by the lit-up digital board in front of them; boys played drumming and guitar games, along with soccer, baseball, basketball, and first-person shooters and fighters. This place—along with the pachinko parlor, was the very opposite of quiet Fukuoka—with a mélange of sounds drifting and combining and clashing: revving engines, machine-gun fire, punches, techno music, screeching brakes, whirring helicopter rotors, thumping drums, screaming, and laughing; along with beeps, blips, and modulating tones from the eighties and beyond. In fact, it was eighties games that I was most after, and soon we came upon a huge section of nothing but vintage arcade games from the decade of my teens. I binged on Galaga, Pac-Man, Frogger, Donkey Kong, and Asteroids, and was overwhelmed with giddiness when I came across a machine containing Scramble, a spaceship shooter that I loved as a kid but hadn’t seen for over twenty-five years. There I was, transported back to 1983, sitting in the tiny arcade cluster of the Lacey Cinemas, killi
ng time before a Friday-night film.
After our video game orgy, Steve and I ended up at a bar popular with expats, where I freely spent the money I’d saved from dinner on beer for the both of us. Japanese beer is easily the best in Asia: it’s clean, fresh, and full of flavor, lacking the formaldehyde and cat urine that seem to be present in so many of the continent’s lesser brews. Whether it’s cars or electronics or beer, the Japanese just do things right. They pay strict attention to detail and they don’t cut corners, and it shows everywhere. Things in Japan are just nice. Almost nothing looks shitty. My first few hours in Fukuoka made me seriously question what I was doing in Korea.
Steve and I ended up joining a group of Japanese ska heads who occupied a couple of tables. One of them was celebrating a birthday, and they were freely pouring from a large bottle of Jose Cuervo. They were in full punk regalia—leather, Doc Martins, bleached Mohawks, safety pins, checkered trousers, bowler hats, tattoos—and drank with savage ferocity. I immediately liked them and joined in their madness, slamming shots and slurring in one guy’s ear about the beautiful power of punk rock.
“You like punk rock?” He said in good English. His name was Koji.
“Yeahhhhhh, man… I love punk rock.”
“Cool man,” Koji nodded. “Punk rock changed the fucking world.”
“Hell yeah!”
“To punk rock!”
“Punk rock!”
We slammed our beer glasses together and drank.
“I wanna hear punk rock now!” I yelled. His friend, a tiny girl in huge boots and black dreadlocks, handed me a shot of tequila.
