Urban Planning

The whole affair spread out over the table like a thieves’ ransom; plates of reds, greens, browns and golds stippled the table with color, enshrouding the room in a rich, enticing fragrance. And while the meal was hardy and bountiful, it did not leave us feeling heavy or overindulgent.

The central feature was finely fried tonkatsu (トンカツ) over a soft bed of pearlescent rice, nestled against a shallow hill of slivers of cut-cabbage, accompanied by sides of aromatic, cloudy miso (味噌) and crisp, refreshing takuan (沢庵

¹Interestingly named after a famous Buddhist philosopher/monk, Takuan Soho.

¹). The meal was served in classic 和風 fashion, on lacquered trays and Japanese clay-work bowls with hand-shaped chopsticks, whose richness paled in comparison only to the marbled, succulent cuts of meat.

While famous for their choice pork, まい線 (Maisen) is also renowned for their impeccable fry-timing, making the breading on both their filet and roast cuts light and savory, with only the slightest hints of oil lingering on the lips. Meaning that by the time the dessert sorbet arrived, the light, barely noticeable essences of orange rind and vanilla were not lost in a glaze of grease, but offered a subtle contrast that helped ease us in our descent from the heaven of the pork-gods.

It was by no small chance that we happened upon Maisen for dinner. Enshrined across the internet by locals and tourists alike, this bath-house-turned-restaurant lost in the winding alleys of Omotesando (表参道) has become the go-to exemplar to illustrate the proof of value the Japanese put in process to guarantee results. How, through painstaking exaction and attention to detail from farm to table, even the lowliest, most common of foods can be raised to sublime levels.

The lightness of the meal lent itself handedly to the conversation around the table. "This was so much fun," we agreed. "How come you don't come out to Tokyo more often? We could do this every week," my friend continued.

Well, besides the fact that such "attention to detail" also includes an attention to the "bottom line," with a starting price of around ¥$35 per basic prefix set.

"I don't know," I mused, fully knowing why. "I suppose it's because I've already done so much in Tokyo that I'm running out things on all of those 'must-see' lists to must-see."

"Oh, okay," he assented. "Do you think you're done with exploring The City, then," he asked genuinely, while still managing to fully emphasize the capital letters in both words.

While I am sure that there are still an infinite number of things to find and do in Tokyo, I find it entirely impossible to conceive of randomly wandering around The City in the hopes of finding something to explore. It's already impossible enough to find places when I have the address and a smartphone to help me navigate the city.

It's not that there is nothing to do or find. But rather there is so much to do and see in the miniscule that it becomes overwhelming to try to find it by chance. I mean, all it takes is just one quick glance down any urban street in Japan and you'll see for yourself how a proliferation of information makes finding any relevant information possible. Which also seems to be the Rakuten design model, suggesting that it is a persistent feature in the Japanese conception of liveliness and commerce (akin to how shopkeepers, chefs and waiters alike yell at their customers when coming and going: 「いらしゃいませ！！」anyone?).


Even in Kashiwa, it is virtually a drowning-man's game in trying to find a worthwhile restaurant on a whim. Not for a lack of available storefronts, but rather because each and every four-story building is crammed full of izakaya (居酒屋), nabe (鍋) or gyudon (牛丼) shops, complete with a wall of neon signs and billboards, whose vague and poetic kanji leaves even the most academic of Japanese experts confused and unclear. Which does not even speak to the proliferation of shops with dubious provenance and a general lack of rigorous cleanliness standards. Any tourist who walks into a shop blind must expect to be brave on any number of levels.

That and the fact that Japanese people tend to line up for restaurants just because there was the makings of a line to begin with. Literally, I have asked people lined up in front of a restaurant what they were waiting for only to be told that they weren't particularly sure.

But this is how I ended up at a little hole-in-the-wall karaage (唐揚げ) place after wandering around down by the station while running some errands

²

². No sooner had I poked my head through the smoke-covered glass sliding doors than I found myself drinking a plain, piss-yellow Japanese lager over what may have been one of the more delicious pieces of chicken I had yet tasted in Japan.

I suppose for any store that has been around for more than 25 years, and this shop and its keepers looked it, you’d think that they must have been doing something right. And this karaage was all right.

Except that the yakitori was a wash. A real, hard, disappointing wash. Though the iced-cucumber was refreshing, if not as salty as bar-counter cucumber should be.

But what this story really is about is how I was out running some errands in the city

³Not “The City,” but “the city.”

³, found a hole-in-the-wall, got a little drunk, went grocery shopping, and somehow came home with ¥$20 worth of crushed red peperoncino, bottled salsa, and 飲むYogurt.

On a whim.

So let it not be said that urban adventuring is dead.