back-alley yakitoriya

I can honestly say that after almost two years of living in Japan, I've fallen in love with a raw fish. I've been caught hook, line and sinker, and through amazing persistence, (not on my part) I've been slowly reeled in. Though admittedly, it's still a love-hate relationship for both of us, we've grown accustomed to each other. The first time we met, I couldn't bare the thought of touching my lips to her. Indeed, I rather thought I'd keel over at the mere smell of the beast. But then, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I had just been a week in the country, and was still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being in such a weird and exotic place. My new acquaintances at the time, all four of them displaced foreigners and longtime Asia dwellers, were a crafty lot, to be sure. They knew fresh meat when they saw me, and they couldn't wait to introduce me to the seedier side of Japanese life.

One evening, they plunked me down at a low, chair-less table obviously built for midgets in a dark little corner of a restaurant you could only find with a guide dog. It took us an hour just to find it. I've never seen such confusing streets in my life. If you visit Japan you're often better off finding some Japanese friends who'll show you the ropes when it comes to all things Japanese, for they also seem to have an uncanny sense of direction while cruising through the labyrinth of streets and side streets that make up an ordinary Japanese city block. But at the time it was the best I could do.

The others ordered of course, as they had visited establishments like this one quite often before. Suffice to say, I was at their mercy. Brimming with curiosity (and just a little fear) about what I was about to be subjected to, I hesitantly asked just what they had ordered. 'Oh just a bit of everything', they said. 'Don't worry, you'll enjoy it.' And I got that sweet, innocent 'I don't know what you're talking about,' kind of look, the one that's supposed to disarm you, and make you feel at ease, even in the lion's den.

It didn't take long before the assorted dishes were brought, one by one, to the table. Japanese restaurants are nothing if not efficient. My eyes had turned to the pretty young waitress who was moving in my direction, and to the plate of something or other she held in her hands. What she was carrying though, I couldn't make out. Remember, I was sitting painfully cross-legged on the floor, unable to see the doom that lay ahead of me.

She smiled as she put a bowl of what could only be described as sliced fish bait in front of each of us. It was purple-brown with speckles, and it would have fit in perfectly with the hooks and sinkers in my tackle box. 'It's Konyaku,' said a coy voice from across the table. I poked my nose into the dish and took a big whiff. 'Doesn't smell like any cognac I ever drank,' I muttered under my breath. But not wanting to insult the waitress who was eyeing my reaction (she must have been in on the joke I think), I poked at the bait until I managed to pick a piece of it up and jab it into my unwilling mouth.

I'm sure the people at that restaurant still talk about the gaikokujin (foreigner) who garnered howls of laughter with the horrible look on his face when he tried to chew the rubbery bait in his mouth. As I recall I had to down my glass of beer to get rid of the taste. To this day I swear that stuff would be better on a hook than in my mouth.

But it was the next dish that really gripped my attention. Still grinning from the last attempt, the same pretty waitress (who now looked like she was growing little horns on her forehead in my overzealous imagination), placed several strips of a thick red substance in the middle of the table that looked a whole lot like uncooked beef.

I could feel all eyes on me as I timidly moved in for a closer look. One of the other foreigners said something in Japanese to the waitress, and she laughed. 'It name sashimi,' she said, surprisingly speaking a little English. 'Raw fish.' At that I turned a little pale, and took a long hard look at the dish in front of me. Hadn't they discovered fire yet, or the virtues of a hot pan and butter? I leaned back, and took another swig of beer, for courage. I knew I was in for a long night.

From across the table, a voice told me to take a piece of the sashimi and dip it in a little of the green paste, called wasabi, found in a small bowl next to the bait plate. Now perhaps it was the beer, or the smell of raw fish, or just the sight of those crazy horns on the waitress' head, but I never heard the words 'a little.' I damn near covered that fish with green gunk, hoping in a desperate bid to hide whatever foul flavour would reach my taste buds.

As I put it in my mouth, and began to chew, a torrent of pain welled up from my nose and brought stinging tears to my eyes. Do you remember those Saturday morning cartoon characters that used to accidentally down a bottle of hot Tabasco sauce? Remember how the fire that came out of their nose and mouth always made you laugh? Well I can tell you now that it ain't no laughing matter! With my mouth aflame, and my sight blinded by salt water, I flailed around searching for my beer.

Grabbing the glass with two hands, I nearly washed my face with it in a hurry to get it to my lips. As I poured the last of it down my gullet, I felt the pain subside a little, and I banged the glass down on the table satisfied that the fire was extinguished. But it was too much for the rest of the group. The waitress couldn't contain herself anymore. She didn't stop chortling for the rest of the night. And I sat there, red faced, with a sick stomach, enduring the grins and barbs around the table, crack sure I would never do that again.

It took awhile, but I eventually did meet sashimi once more and quite often since then too, though even now I still can't eat the stuff. I've discovered something quite interesting since my first introduction to it. Sashimi makes surprisingly good fish bait, though I'd never tell the restaurant owners that. They might get offended. I even use that konyaku on occasion. You can buy them in any supermarket. Oh but look at the time! I should be on my way there right now. I've got a fishing date this afternoon, and I can't be late to get my take-out bait, minus the spicy-hot wasabi of course. There's not enough beer for the fish AND for me.