One Life, One Sushi
Never to be Repeated Again
Redeemed. Finally got my sushi fix last night. A trip to Tokyo isn’t complete without at least one sushi binge whether it be from a tiny kitchen tucked away between wholesalers at an early morning fish market, a conveyor belt restaurant deep within touristy la la lands, or an understated little hole in the wall hiding amongst old dusty alleyways on the back side of town littered with ancient tattered bicycles propped up on creaky kickstands underneath rusting tin patch siding of long forgotten storefronts where rent’s dirt cheap but the sushi will still break your wallet and couldn’t be fresher than if you’d been leaning off the dock patiently waiting for some early morning fine fatty tuna to jump straight out of the bay and land flat onto the cute little plate you’d cued up with a glorious strip of rice perfection laden with a tiny but heavenly dollop of the world’s freshest wasabi and a generous clump of the most magnificent pickled ginger found on the planet. Yum.
Yesterday evening, I found myself in one of the major hubs of Tokyo precisely at the same moment when all the strange and exotic convenience store snack food I’d sampled a few hours earlier had instantly burned off and left me with a voracious appetite. There was no better plan than to abandon all plans and head to the nearest neighborhood sushi joint. Though only considered a mid-grade restaurant, its massive popularity all but guaranteed fresher fish with a higher turnover rate and a wide selection of offerings.
With a seemingly never-ending stream of succulent sushi floating past me on a magic carpet conveyor belt right before my hungry eyes and insatiable stomach, I was able to check most everything off the list. Though somewhat tempted, I opted to pass on the horse meat, again. Wilbur’s back side and his famous neck fat just never seemed to shoehorn in quite at the right place.
Stuffed to the gills, I headed up to pay. Sumimasen? Did you say 3,000 yen? Hai. Arigatou gozaimasu. “Only $19,” I thought to myself while mentally shaking my head. Hardly possible anymore in the consistently overpriced restaurants of Northern California.
Those rumors about Japan being so expensive have got to be from either people hailing from more affordable states or highfalutin folks who only patronize highbrow Michelin Star restaurants while traveling abroad. Nearly ready to pop after gorging myself on standard grade sushi in Tokyo that’d surely be ranked as high grade back in the States, I was refueled for the night ahead. Were there better sushi joints around town that I knew about? Yes, indeed. But right at that moment when hunger had struck hard, this middle of the road standard happened to magically appear at the right place and at the right time.
Over the years, I’d heard a lot of two cents dispensed about sushi in Japan. The best places to eat, how to find the freshest fish, and a lot of other good beta peppered in with things like “Best sushi you’ll ever have,” and “Go loaded with cash. We dropped a few hundred dollars but it was worth every penny,” or “Head down the alley, take your second left. It’ll be right there.”
On the first trip to Japan with my buddy, Lars, our expectations were a bit high, and we knew what that meant. Surely, we were setting ourselves up for a case of the heavy disappointments. Lucky we stumbled across the right place.
At the risk of setting you up poorly for your first sushi in Japan too, I’ve got to report that we also found ourselves ready to declare “best sushi we’ve ever had” once Lars and I had put down our chopsticks at one particular little forgotten sushi joint not shown on anyone’s social media feed. I’d never had raw fish disintegrate on my tongue that quickly with so much elegance. Nothing so simple had ever teased my palate that same way with such beautiful complexity. A sushi experience like never before.
My brain is a trap when it comes to great food. When I discover a golden nugget in the giant piles of detritus, I remember the place with crystal clear clarity. All the important details quickly cement up in my head. The neighborhood it’s in, the street it’s on, the closest subway station, nearby landmarks. All the pertinent info lands onto a mental map so that I can eventually make it back there someday.
But, despite finding such a glorious hideaway in an unexpected spot, would we do the unthinkable and advertise to everyone else exactly where this little gem sits in the megalopolis that is Tokyo? Of course not. Not only to keep our little find from becoming the next InstaChat FakeBook sensation with a line a mile long and a commensurate decrease in quality but also because, unbeknownst to us at the time, we’d been carefully listening.
Without even knowing it, we had started to absorb one of the most admirable elements of Japanese culture. In this case, the Zen concept of “ichi-go ichi-e”…
"ichi-go ichi-e" (一期一会), means "one life, one meeting," and underscores that each and every experience in life is a unique moment that can never be repeated, reminding us to value the fleeting nature of all things in life as they occur for they will never be seen again.
Alas, that wonderful sushi experience we had just had will never be repeated either by ourselves or by anyone else. At the time, we weren’t fully aware of all of the implications. We simply knew that we weren’t going to be posting anything about it.
It took a few years for the ichi-go ichi-e philosophy to sink in deeper, at least enough to meet it halfway. In weak moments, the ichi-go ichi-e philosophy would drop completely by the wayside and we’d share all the details with other world travelers. In the moment, we’d forget the futility of it all. We needed constant reminders to keep our heads in the game.
Years after Lars and I ate at that incredible sushi bar, I happened to find myself in the exact same neighborhood again. As hunger rolled in, I started looking for the best options. It suddenly occurred to me that I was just a few blocks away from that top-notch sushi spot we’d found. Little did I know my stomach was tricking my head again. “Lightning can strike twice, can’t it?” Clearly, ichi-go ichi-e had waned a bit. I found some visual clues and walked up and down a few alleyways until I saw a hole-in-the-wall in the distance that closely matched the details I’d plotted on my mental map.
Things were a bit more tattered than I remembered. Most of the shops, stores, and restaurants were showing their age and were worse for the wear. Fewer cutesy looking little flower boxes adorned the pavement out front than I’d remembered. As I strolled down the nearly abandoned alleyway, a store owner quickened the pace of their sidewalk sweeping perhaps hoping that the day would bring a customer or two.
Heading down the block, I could see that the tiny little place where we’d eaten more than five years prior was still there. A front door opened to the street corner. The big window overlooking the alleyway was still there. The size of the place seemed about right. Peering through the windows, the interior looked familiar - a tiny little strip of stools hugged up against a bar on the back wall. My taste buds were buzzing with excitement.
Naturally, as I scurried up to the menu posted in the window with an empty stomach on a full agenda, my mouth was watering even before I scanned the offerings. Sadly, crushing devastation came rushing in all too quickly. Even to this day, I can’t remember what the not-so-sexy and completely unappealing menu was saying about its fare but I can tell you it had absolutely nothing to do with sushi, rice, wasabi, ginger, or anything of the like for all sumptuous things had apparently swished on down the street long ago to the more fruitful spawning grounds of other neighborhoods, alleyways, and places unknown, out of sight, and out of reach.
Out with the sushi. In with the fried…um…no, thank you. I’ll take a pass.
Such are the fickle ways of life. There was no better lesson for me than this as to the true meaning of ichi-go ichi-e. One life, one sushi.
So, now, when I find a relatively unknown awesome spot in a back corner of the world, I often have to remind myself of a lesson long forgotten. This won’t happen again. Not for me, you, or anyone else.
