Tsukiji

So I went to bed Monday night (Tues. morning) thinking, 'Stuff it: I'll sleep in tomorrow, and head to Tsukiji Wednesday, before I fly to Kumamoto.' Originally, my plan was to hit Tsukiji early Tuesday morning, breakfast there adn then haed off to the Kabuki-za for matinee performances.

Thankfully, Tuesday morning at about 05.00 my eyes snap open and aren't interested in closing again. It's then I remember, 'Damn! Wednesday Tsukiji's on holiday! I go today or never!'

So what's Tsukiji? It's arguably the largest fish market in the world, and is perhaps the best place in the world for fresh sushi - it can't get any fresher when the chef's cutting his fish that he's bought that morning at the market. And, being a fan of sushi, I'd always wanted to eat sushi there, but never made the time. After hearing, however, that within a few years the market at Tsukiji may have to move locations as its outgrowing its present grounds, I decided I'd better make it on this trip.

So I'm out on the streets by 06.00. First thing in the morning is about the only time when a Japanese city is close to quiet: the drunks have all since passed out; the nighttime workers are cleaning up and heading home; and the daytime places have yet to open. Tokyo was no exception. As I headed out that overcast morning, things were relatively quiet, and after taking the subway to Ginza, I found myself walking along Tokyo streets that were comparatively deserted.

I finally found the Tsukiji market, which at its entrance resembles the cavernous opening of a bus terminal. In I go, and enter a dark, warehouse-type world with dim lights hanging from a corrugated ceiling high above. The place is functional bedlam, with fleets of curious tricycle scooters chugging along between fishmongers and trucks. I missed the famous auctioneering of fish, but did get to see the many stalls selling an incomprarable array of fish and seafood. I even got to see the famous giant white frozen carcasses of tuna, stacked up like oversized firewood.

After slopping through the half inch of water and the-gods-know-what-else that permeates the floor all through the market, I began to feel increasingly self-conscious, as I noticed there were dozens of other white-skinned trourists like myself, gawking and getting in the way. It would be perfect place to buy one's fish first thing in the morning, but as a tourist, I soon felt out of place and went off in search of a suchi bar for breakfast.

The famous place is Daiwa Sushi, which usually has a long line in front of it, and this morning was no exception. I joined the line and pulled out my Murakami, ready to settle in for a long wait. I soon realised, however, that the majority of the people waiting were foreign tourists like myself, and good sushi or no, I decided I didn't want to eat at some place where every other tourist and his mother does, so I went off in search of a lesser-known spot.

I found one, a bar just big enough to accomodate perhaps ten diners, sat down with four others that were already there, and ordered the omakasei, or 'chef's whim'. No doubt about it, the sushi was good and fresh, and some of the best I've had, but I also realised how much the food is affected by the atmosphere. A big part of going to a proper sushi bar is the interaction betwen chef and customers, and here there was none. The chef was simply getting his orders out and chatting with his assistant. This is a real waste in such an intimate space, and made the meal little more than an exercise in getting the food down and moving on. Disappointing.

I still had about an hour to kill before the Kabuki-za box office opened, so I asked about for a barber, found one, and had a shave and hair cut (or head shave). About thirty minutes and $35 later, I walked out feeling renewed, but subsequently found out the barber had all but raped my tender cheeks, and I had a couple of bad patches of razor burn for the rest of the day. Another disappointing Tokyo experience. Boo hoo.