My Favorite Japanese Restaurant

3/04

My favorite Japanese restaurant at home is small and quaint, warmly lit by hanging square wooden lanterns. The decor is simple and clean, the booths separated by wood and semi-transparent paper frames; paintings of fish and birds line the walls. The air of the restaurant is rich with the smell of sake and teriyaki sauce and the mirth of pleasant company. The pink fish, white rice, and green vegetables, of various textures, come arranged elegantly and strikingly contrasted against the partitions of the smooth black bento. The taste of the food is delicate, not too strongly flavored, but settling in your mouth after a few moments.

The restaurant has played more of a role in my life than perhaps it is aware of. My very first time eating there was after a disastrous violin recital, during which my mind had gone totally blank; it was the first time I had ever stopped in the middle of a performance. Waiting for the food, I was wallowing in melancholy, marveling at the countless, and seemingly useless hours I had spent practicing, frustrated at myself, at my performance, certainly seeing no reason to celebrate. But during the course of the meal I was slowly brought back to smiles by the embraces of family and friends, by the steaming rice, and by the green tea ice cream.

That brush with disappointment would not be my last; thankfully that encounter with the restaurant was not my last either. Where else but here would I pick for the location of my first date? The boy I brought with me to the restaurant had never had sushi, or tempura, or wasabi, but was eager to sample each one. Though the cucumber slices slipped between his chopsticks countless times, he refused to use a fork. I had to smile at his brave endeavor, and at the defiant look on his face when the unfortunate cucumber finally entered his mouth.

Each of the families, couples or friends, here on this particular Saturday evening, has their own story, their own reason for celebrating, their own favorite dish, but they share for a few moments the oneness of human hunger, the oneness of longing for nourishment of soul and stomach. Looking around, the atmosphere of the place seems to put a spell on all of the customers who pick up and eat small bites of food with their chopsticks, raise their bowls gently to their lips and sip, and are too complacent to do more than smile in gentle agreement. It transforms the commonplace act of eating into a ritualistic work of art. 

a.w.


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