Were it not for the shining sky and bright colors, I could imagine my next destination as a getaway from the hustle and bustle and into the unexplored. The place I would go to next was clearly on the GPS, but to get there one would need to duck into the alleys of the large buildings that made up the downtown area onto a flight of stairs, giving way to a descent towards incredible experiences. Tucked away in this place, I was able to answer my own question; would eating someplace with truly authentic Japanese cuisine change my perspective of home? The answer was a resounding yes.
I was the sole customer at this time, and due to this luck I was able to discuss the finer points of dining with my waiter, who was keen to listen. In a surprising turn, I even helped to rectify a culinary faux pas; the rather savory and salted miso soup was not an invention of the restaurant I would come to find, and upon my second visit it was clear the miso I experience was the result of an overeager salting process. Nevertheless, I was ready for my travels into the culinary world of Japanese dining. I was refreshed with the clear purity of water, offset by the sickly sweet apple sake I had decided to order. Passing through my lips and with my eyes closed, I could pretend that Dionysus was squeezing apples personally into my drink, his intoxicating presence the lone scent and flavor of alcohol.
After a time, appetizers were frequently passed along to myself as I continued to enjoy the quiet and tranquil atmosphere of solitary dining. There were two dishes I ordered, both sizziling and crackling between my lips. One consisted of the sea; lightly battered shrimp and spicy peppers, the sea pounding my tongue with waves of flavor while the shisho leaves acted as rocks against the waves and cooled my palate. The other was the feeling of home; chomping onto dark fried succulence, the chicken thigh karaage a perfect complimentary dish to my main course. Each bite would send me to thoughts of my own attempts at Japanese fried chicken, and of all the restaurants I went to, this had the best.
It was now time, however. Passing from his hands to my table, the bowl of mist was waiting for me. The cloudy broth obscured the entirety of the soup, but I knew what I had desired, and also knew what was to greet me. I parted the broth with my spoon; akin to exploring the depths of the ocean, suddenly the ship-wreck and the prize were made clear. I savored the moment, however, and brought the clouds to my lips instead of the treasure. Treasure it was indeed, for as soon as I experienced the flavor I underwent a metamorphosis. No longer was I myself, but a prospector taken by greed. I demanded my treasure, and now that I had found it, my gold fever had taken hold. I consumed the ramen that would be the pinnacle of my food experiences, greedily slurping noodles perfectly cooked to my tastes alongside pieces of slow cooked pork and bean sprouts. Bamboo shoots shot into my mouth, and the scallions that accompanied it were also victims in the massacre. In what felt like moments, the soup before me had vanished and I awoke from my stupor. I grinned and laughed, for today I had once again experienced exactly what I was seeking.
I experienced food that must be recalled and remembered. It is one of the greater gifts in our lives, and I was humbled once again to bear witness to these gifts once again.
Writing in C Major 