Perhaps it has been too long since I last provided you all with an insight into the challenging area of the delicacies of Japanese cuisine. This is an area of my research that yielded magnificent examples of the genre only last night. Those with a feint heart or queasy stomach are best advised to move on to another e-mail at this stage, what follows will not be advisable for those with conservationist attitudes or who regard animals as "our friends". The Japanese culture of eating has never been infected or perverted by the western association with and foppish sensitivity towards the essential suppliers of fine dining!
Having spent at least half an hour sitting on a hard wooden stool as the preferred option to accompanying Takayama around the bead department of Tokyu Hands department store I was expecting my usual reward of a visit to Kirin City. This is a marvelous emporium of beer brewed with an unusual Japanese reference to German brewing techniques.
As I sat trying to re-adjust my buttocks every few minutes in compensation for the unyielding discomfort of the hard wooden stool which is the only seating option in the beading section, I was treated to an unexpected pleasure. There before me was a row of sewing machines and in masterful attendance was a man who clearly had taken time, and possibly many training courses, to familiarise himself with every detail of every machine on offer. He was about 45 years old, around 5 feet 4 inches tall, of compact frame with a well combed head of hair that successfully hid the underlying thining from all but the trained observer on a wooden stool. In a very crisp white shirt conservatively endowed with pens in the breast pocket and the green apron that is the trademark of Tokyu Hands staff dress code, this knight of customer service stood sentry over the two shelves of consumer white sewing machines.
Ever attentive to even the slightest movement of an individual towards his goods of sale, his eyes darted around this way and that with a concern that no opportunity should be missed. Within moments of my casual observation of this servant of the thread a woman had been drawn in close enough to the machines for our man to come smartly to attention. For a few moments his brightly shining eyes flashed a desperate anticipation for interaction but something seemed to be holding him back. I wondered what precisely would be the sign that the social codes had been correctly observed and he could legitimately intercept the potential customer. She stood with a finger on her lip casting her gaze across the full range. He watched her discretely standing just comfortably outside of her line of vision. The tension was pressing and it wasn't just the hardness of the stool.
In a sudden movement the whole situation transformed and communication was established. The change of relationship was so sudden I had to think quickly about what had happened. In an instant there was an exchange of bows, a few pleasant words and then with that semi servile arch of the back which is the specialist move of the Japanese department store professional our man opened up with an encyclopedic knowledge of all the technicalities and extensive detail of
the working components of his sewing machines. In my memory I realised that the stimulus which released the interchange was the moment the woman actually leaned slightly forward and touched one of the machines. I continued to observe.
Obviously, as you all know, I do not speak Japanese myself but I am fairly certain that our man was interjecting within the technical descriptions a full and comprehensive history of the art of sewing. This was truly a master at work. Such was his command of his subject, so practised was the theatre of his description that even I began to feel the need to own a sewing machine. This man lived for the guardianship of those two rows of consumer goods.
For at least fifteen minutes he responded to enquiry with knowledgeable looks and amazingly detailed hand movements that described sewing patterns, moving parts and material workmanship. To the western eye some of these digital demonstrations could be seen as suspect, note the insertion of the right index digit into an 'O' made by the left hand thumb and index finger with the right index then performing the action of the machine sewing needle to the amazement of the female customer, but such thoughts are only to diminish without true cause the work of an artist!
After suitable thanks and appreciation for the information imparted, a series of appropriate bows, the lady left and the consumer assistant turned his attention to the packing of a box. This box was placed besides the sewing machine shelves and therefore, one assumes, gave more space for all the other assistants behind the counter where they all packed their boxes. After a short while four women in a retail therapy shoal floated up to the sewing machines to the obvious but constrained delight of the box packing assistant.
The shoal wriggled and glided around the sewing machines like angel fish hovering above a gilded coral reef. They talked amongst themselves, they changed position and they pointed from distance and whilst our man watched intently I could see that he was far too experienced to exhibit any signs of pre-demonstration stress. No, he was making continual assessment, looking for opportunity, listening intently without listening at all (the Japanese art of zen salesmanship) and all with a deep inner calm clearly based on an absolute certainty that his moment would come.
This group of white goods predators didn't seem to be edging any closer to the kill so our man took matters into his own hands. In the most matter of fact style, casually and with seamless intent, he went behind the desk and procured a leaflet. This he then took to the sewing machines and placed underneath one of them in the style of a person simply performing an everyday task of counter management that surely had no relationship at all to the other matters of the moment.
In placing himself sensitively between the eye line of the shoal and the reef of machines he then responded with surprise and delight, in that order, when the inevitable question came from one of the ladies: he was in and the game was on! Four women of a similar age and social status dressed in department store chic were then were treated to the performance of a lifetime. I am not certain but I believe it started with the hunting of buffalo and their skins subsequently being sewn together for rudimentary clothes sometime in the paleolithic. At this point I made an observation that could be badly misinterpreted by the cynic.
As our man's hands waved around the history of sewing I saw that he did not have a wedding ring. Now there can be many reasons for this deficiency and there is no need to jump to rash speculations regarding territorial space, expertise in domestic machinery as a glowing asset in peacock practices or sexist insinuations about the gender audience of any one type of commodity. No, clearly the absence of a wedding ring in a man of middle age with a stylish sweep of hair merely tells us that he has spent a life devoted to the higher art of sewing rather than fritter away his energies in the much over rated activity of the mating game. By this time Takayama came to relieve me of the hardness of the stool and take me for my just and fitting reward, a glass of "Half and Half" in Kirin City.
Kirin City is a franchise operation bar and eating house run by the Kirin brewery, a sort of Starbucks of the Japanese beer world. There are three draught beers: lager, beer and stout, which are pored with a technique that provides a large foamy head in each glass. you can sit at the bar or take a table and table service. People come into this facility to drink a few beers and nibble at the offerings on the menu. You can get German wurst, fried chicken, pizza, garlic bread and a range of Japanese standards such as noodles, tempora or curry and rice. All are small portions which are meant to be eaten in number rather than individually
satisfy a need for a meal. These are essentially snacks to go with social beer drinking.
We sat at the bar and ordered our favourite, "Half and Half", a glass of beer and stout in quantative relationship I will leave to your imagination, and sat back to enjoy the ambiance. All around us people were tucking into their snacks, smiling and laughing. We pulled out one of the menus to consider what delights we would partake of when an unexpected supplemental fell from between the folds entitled "Delicate Eating Fare". Perhaps this was a summer traditional addition? I glanced around and a man eating what looked like white butter with salad between gulps of beer looked up and smiled at me with greasy lips.
"Oh, you will like this!" Takayama said, "Look, you can have Smoked Pork Face Skin, that's really tasty, a delicacy!"
Now regular readers of the Japan postcard will already feel uneasy with the introduction of that word delicacy. This is a term applied to elements of Japanese cuisine that the sensitive pampered western stomach may, unjustly, consider "difficult to digest with enthusiasm".
"...or you could have Fried Puffer Fish Ovaries"
I looked at the short speciality menu and yes, there it was in English: "Fried Puffer Fish Ovaries"
Nervously I glanced again around the bar. Everywhere people were getting stuck in to what I now perceived to be items of 'food' that were not readily recognisable to me. They all waved and smiled, the man next to me turned and seeing me looking at the menu pointed out his suggestion with a broad grin and a thumbs up sign. I smiled and nodded but decided to give Raw Whale Meat a pass. I just didn't feel that I could classify chewing through the red flesh of a Minke whale as a scientific experiment though I am sure that a few psychologists I know would consider measuring my responses if I did chose to do so.
All of this revelation of eating delicacies rather set me on edge but I could never have been more toppled over that edge by anything as compelling as the next item on the menu.
"How about Raw Horse Fat taken from the juicy bit on the shoulder?" Takayama asked.
I looked away and the man eating the whitish butter like substance winked at me and wiped his lips with a paper napkin.
Hmmm a delicacy!
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