Japan Report 2
Choking down hunk after hunk of raw fish, Sean drinks beer.
So, if you haven't figured out yet, I was in Tokyo on business. I'm not a busnessman. I don't wear a suit, and I don't carry a briefcase, but work sent me there anyway. I wasn't going to complain. I'd never been any farther north than Vancouver, any farther south than Ensenada, and any farther east than Yellowstone. If work wanted to send me to a foreign, world-class city like Tokyo, I was all for it.
Our hosts at the company we were visiting were very polite and friendly. There was Mr. M, who ran the company, and Mr. T, who was in charge of production. Our first day there, they took us to lunch.
It was a small restaurant a few blocks away from the office. With mis-matched dishes and silverware, and a motherly old Japanese lady running the joint, we walked in and took a seat. Me and my fellow travelers, of course, couldn't read the menus, so we had a few suggestions translated for us. I decided to try the day's special -- yakiniku. All of the Japanese guys ordered spaghetti.
It was there that Mr. M asked me what we wanted to do on our first trips to Tokyo. I said that I hadn't a clue, but that I'd been warned not to go to Roppongi. Roppongi, as I had been told by many sources, was the part of town where American servicemen and other foreigners went for sleazy fun.
Our Japanese colleagues though this very funny that I'd been told to stay out of Roppongi. They thought it even funnier that it was my girlfriend from whom the suggestion came. My girlfriend that'd spent over a year cumulative in Tokyo.
"Is she jealous?" Mr. M asked me.
"Well, I think she just thought that if you've only got a few days to spend in Tokyo, there are better things to..."
The men would all start talking amongst themselves in Japanese. The only thing I could catch was the occasional "ROPPONGIIIIII" drawn out and said in the same way you'd say "YOU SLY OLD DOG YOU" to your best friend at his stripper-laden bachelor party as you elbowed him in the ribs.
Mr. M apologized to the three of us that he couldn't take us out tonight. We assured him it was OK, that he was under no obligation to take us out. He assured us that tomorrow he would show us around, and paid for our lunch.
Walking back to the offices, we passed a candy store and he asked us if we liked sweets, saying he wanted to buy us some candy. We told him it was OK, and that if he gave us candy we'd just eat it all before our plane ride home.
The next day, we all went to lunch again. Again I got the yakiniku and again the Japanese guys went with the spaghetti. Mr. M mentioned that tonight him and Mr. T would take us out. To what, we weren't sure, but he started asking us if we were familiar with a place in San Francisco that I don't remember the name of now.
"Is very good," he said. "There is place in Roppongi, '7th Heaven,' that is much like. They have girls there, for the one thousand yen..."
Here he trailed off, uncertain of how to say in english what it was he was describing. Resoring to hand signals, he put his hands in front of them and opened and closed his fingers in the universal breast-honking motion, and then placed his head between his hands and moved it back and forth.
We weren't really sure what to say.
"Yeah," Paul said, "if we could just go out for some drinks tonight, that'd be good."
"Yes, yes, drinks" Mr. M said. "We go out tonight."
He paid for our lunches again, and we walked back to work. At the end of the day, Mr. M and Mr. T tracked us down and said it was time to go. He asked if we had any preference where we wanted to go, and again mentioned 7th Heaven, referring to it this time as a stip club.
"Yeah," Paul said, "strip club is maybe not so necessary. If we could just go somewhere and get some drinks, that'd be great."
"Not necessary?" Mr. M said in disbelief. "OK."
We all got into Mr. M's BMW -- John, Paul, Myself, Mr. T and Mr. M -- and drove downtown. We still weren't quite sure where we were going, but when we stopped and parked in a lot full of very nice cars, he announced that we were there: Roppongi.
We got out, still unclear as to whether or not he was actually going to take us to a strip club. We took off down the street, and in a few minutes went by a Hard Rock Cafe. John and I both stopped in to get t-shirts as we'd been instructed to do by people back home, but Mr. M beat us to the register.
"No, really, you don't have to pay for these. They're just souvenirs," we said. But it wasn't any use.
"He like to buy gifts," Mr. T said.
John wanted to get more, but decided he'd come back later when there wouldn't be someone awkwardly paying for everything he purchased.
We went around the corner to some restaurant that had been pre-selected by Mr M. Of course, it just had to be a freakin' sushi restaurant, because as everyone in Japan knows, Americans love sushi.
I hate sushi. I'd never had it before, actually, but I hate seafood. In my unholy trinity of things I will not eat, pickles are the holy ghost, tomatoes are the son, and seafood is right there at the top -- God himself.
We sat down and the headbanded chefs wasted no time with dishing out the raw fish. At least they had beer, thank god. First was some sort of tuna which is high in fat. I was assured by Paul, whose mother is Japanese, that it was very hard to find back in the states, and even harder to find fresh. Our chefs kept boasting about how fresh everything was. Before the evening was done they must have laid out 10 different types of raw sea creature in front of me to choke down and politely say I liked. The procedure went something like this:
1. Pick up piece of raw sea creature which may or may not feature scales and/or tentacles.
2. Chew on raw meat for 60 seconds.
3. Swallow it, in the exact shape it was in when I put it in my mouth.
4. Mouthful of ginger.
5. Gigantic swig of beer.
Step five was the most important. I must have consumed no less than 4 bottles of beer due to my need to get the flavor out of my mouth after every bite.
I realize Mr. M was being very generous in buying us dinner. I assume it cost a pretty penny, too.
After dinner, we once again hit the street. We followed M's lead, because he seemed to know precisely where we were headed. Down the major bustling street, right into an alley, past the giant stack of air conditioners, and up to the unassuming building with the "7th Heaven" sign.
M and T stood outside the door, talking amongst themselves. John, Paul and I stood a few feet back wondering what the polite way to say you'd rather spend your first night in out in Tokyo doing something other than stuffing dollar bills down a stripper's underwear.
"We go in," M said finally. "Just to look around."
...to be continued...
Our hosts at the company we were visiting were very polite and friendly. There was Mr. M, who ran the company, and Mr. T, who was in charge of production. Our first day there, they took us to lunch.
It was a small restaurant a few blocks away from the office. With mis-matched dishes and silverware, and a motherly old Japanese lady running the joint, we walked in and took a seat. Me and my fellow travelers, of course, couldn't read the menus, so we had a few suggestions translated for us. I decided to try the day's special -- yakiniku. All of the Japanese guys ordered spaghetti.
It was there that Mr. M asked me what we wanted to do on our first trips to Tokyo. I said that I hadn't a clue, but that I'd been warned not to go to Roppongi. Roppongi, as I had been told by many sources, was the part of town where American servicemen and other foreigners went for sleazy fun.
Our Japanese colleagues though this very funny that I'd been told to stay out of Roppongi. They thought it even funnier that it was my girlfriend from whom the suggestion came. My girlfriend that'd spent over a year cumulative in Tokyo.
"Is she jealous?" Mr. M asked me.
"Well, I think she just thought that if you've only got a few days to spend in Tokyo, there are better things to..."
The men would all start talking amongst themselves in Japanese. The only thing I could catch was the occasional "ROPPONGIIIIII" drawn out and said in the same way you'd say "YOU SLY OLD DOG YOU" to your best friend at his stripper-laden bachelor party as you elbowed him in the ribs.
Mr. M apologized to the three of us that he couldn't take us out tonight. We assured him it was OK, that he was under no obligation to take us out. He assured us that tomorrow he would show us around, and paid for our lunch.
Walking back to the offices, we passed a candy store and he asked us if we liked sweets, saying he wanted to buy us some candy. We told him it was OK, and that if he gave us candy we'd just eat it all before our plane ride home.
The next day, we all went to lunch again. Again I got the yakiniku and again the Japanese guys went with the spaghetti. Mr. M mentioned that tonight him and Mr. T would take us out. To what, we weren't sure, but he started asking us if we were familiar with a place in San Francisco that I don't remember the name of now.
"Is very good," he said. "There is place in Roppongi, '7th Heaven,' that is much like. They have girls there, for the one thousand yen..."
Here he trailed off, uncertain of how to say in english what it was he was describing. Resoring to hand signals, he put his hands in front of them and opened and closed his fingers in the universal breast-honking motion, and then placed his head between his hands and moved it back and forth.
We weren't really sure what to say.
"Yeah," Paul said, "if we could just go out for some drinks tonight, that'd be good."
"Yes, yes, drinks" Mr. M said. "We go out tonight."
He paid for our lunches again, and we walked back to work. At the end of the day, Mr. M and Mr. T tracked us down and said it was time to go. He asked if we had any preference where we wanted to go, and again mentioned 7th Heaven, referring to it this time as a stip club.
"Yeah," Paul said, "strip club is maybe not so necessary. If we could just go somewhere and get some drinks, that'd be great."
"Not necessary?" Mr. M said in disbelief. "OK."
We all got into Mr. M's BMW -- John, Paul, Myself, Mr. T and Mr. M -- and drove downtown. We still weren't quite sure where we were going, but when we stopped and parked in a lot full of very nice cars, he announced that we were there: Roppongi.
We got out, still unclear as to whether or not he was actually going to take us to a strip club. We took off down the street, and in a few minutes went by a Hard Rock Cafe. John and I both stopped in to get t-shirts as we'd been instructed to do by people back home, but Mr. M beat us to the register.
"No, really, you don't have to pay for these. They're just souvenirs," we said. But it wasn't any use.
"He like to buy gifts," Mr. T said.
John wanted to get more, but decided he'd come back later when there wouldn't be someone awkwardly paying for everything he purchased.
We went around the corner to some restaurant that had been pre-selected by Mr M. Of course, it just had to be a freakin' sushi restaurant, because as everyone in Japan knows, Americans love sushi.
I hate sushi. I'd never had it before, actually, but I hate seafood. In my unholy trinity of things I will not eat, pickles are the holy ghost, tomatoes are the son, and seafood is right there at the top -- God himself.
We sat down and the headbanded chefs wasted no time with dishing out the raw fish. At least they had beer, thank god. First was some sort of tuna which is high in fat. I was assured by Paul, whose mother is Japanese, that it was very hard to find back in the states, and even harder to find fresh. Our chefs kept boasting about how fresh everything was. Before the evening was done they must have laid out 10 different types of raw sea creature in front of me to choke down and politely say I liked. The procedure went something like this:
1. Pick up piece of raw sea creature which may or may not feature scales and/or tentacles.
2. Chew on raw meat for 60 seconds.
3. Swallow it, in the exact shape it was in when I put it in my mouth.
4. Mouthful of ginger.
5. Gigantic swig of beer.
Step five was the most important. I must have consumed no less than 4 bottles of beer due to my need to get the flavor out of my mouth after every bite.
I realize Mr. M was being very generous in buying us dinner. I assume it cost a pretty penny, too.
After dinner, we once again hit the street. We followed M's lead, because he seemed to know precisely where we were headed. Down the major bustling street, right into an alley, past the giant stack of air conditioners, and up to the unassuming building with the "7th Heaven" sign.
M and T stood outside the door, talking amongst themselves. John, Paul and I stood a few feet back wondering what the polite way to say you'd rather spend your first night in out in Tokyo doing something other than stuffing dollar bills down a stripper's underwear.
"We go in," M said finally. "Just to look around."
...to be continued...