The One With The Unagi.

When you read this I’ll be three hours away from Melbourne, avoiding kangaroo poo, nursing my daughter who’s either carsick or asking me to suck out snake venom from her butt cheeks.

Fear not, as I have recently discovered ‘scheduled posting’.

Also, reheating cold rice.
Rice as cold as a 9-year-old memory.

Here is a re-master of my most memorable meal from 2016.

My most memorable meal in Japan.

I was grumpy that I had to wait.
Even though I was next in line with mobile data to kill time.
It’s not like this is a shit hot ramen restaurant.

The rain had ruined my plan to see cherry blossoms for the first time in my life.
So I googled ‘unagi ya’, and surprisingly, there’s one ten minutes away from my Shin Osaka hotel with the same name.

One thing we definitely can’t get in Melbourne, is unagi¹.

A tiny sign in front of me said ‘no photo’.

Ha. Challenge accepted.

Over the counter, I saw a pipe with water running into a big black plastic tank.
Next to the tank, a big chopping board, and a bigger charcoal grill.

On the wall hung a not-so-tiny sign:

Today’s eels are from Tokushima.

Sitting around me, all salarymen.

They were slow to take my order, and I later realised why.

After I pointed to ‘Una-ju’ 鰻重, the chef reached into the tank, grabbed a healthy eel and pushed a 3-inch golden nail through its eyes onto the big chopping board.

Now that he’s established a support point, he grabbed the tail, and ran the knife through the spine in one motion from head to tail — like how I slice my zucchinis in half.

Bones out in one piece, still moving, in the bowl.
Like a finishing move in Mortal Kombat.
The blood and guts get brushed off the now dark red wooden board, in the bowl.

My brain was yelling close to the pitch of boiling point.

I wanted unagi, but I did not expect this.

Service was slow because they kill, debone and cook an eel for every customer on the spot.

Next thing I know, the eel’s been poked through eight skewers, transferred to the grill.

The other younger man came to me.

My tamagoyaki entrée was served with a tiny tomato and shiso leaf.

Cut back to the older man and the sticks, he flipped them over once.

I finished my entree, and he transferred the skewers to another sink filled with tare.

He chopped the unagi into pieces, plated them on top of the rice, already pressed in a box, with a cover precious enough to store jewellery, and served.

Why bother?
Unlike Detective Mills in Se7en, I knew exactly what was in the box.

The unagi was charred to brown perfection.
The meat melts, and the skin, crispy with the soy marinade.

I had a chopstick of rice, and I took a bite of my pickle.
I drank my soup with mitsuba, directly from the bowl.

More salarymen came in.

“The usual, half the rice”, one said.
I looked down at my box, ignoring the next three eels turning from ‘beings’ to ‘dishes’ in the next 10 minutes.

My chopstick holder was also an unagi.

Two men fillet, cook, serve and wash in this space.
Rice was also prepared fresh on the premise, the dashi boiling away on the stove.
They danced with the skill and confidence of what we call ‘only in Japan.’

I finished everything on my plate, paying respect to mister unagi.

And with bittersweetness, I realised everything I eat, whether in plain view, or hidden behind a fine dining kitchen, goes through the same process.

To naively say “No, no, just show me the dish”, to pick the way you want food to be prepared is hypocritical.

I finished my tea, saw him flip the eels one last time, and got up to pay.

Chika and I once had a heated, open-air argument in the middle of Ueno because I refused to pay 7000 yen for unagi.

Today’s lunch was 3300 yen.

And I’m sure it’s much better than the ones in Ueno.

I told the man in exact words:
“This delicious unagi, me first time.”

He said thank you.

I asked if I could take a photo, and he gave me a shrug.
It made me feel not so guilty by sneaking a shot with my phone before this.
I took a proper photo of the shop.

As I left the shop, I saw a giant black car with a driver waiting outside.
Must be waiting for his bosses inside.

I have to tell Chika about this right now, I thought to myself.

<End flashback>

Tastes infinitely better than it looks.

Time skipped to 2017, and I was in Tokyo.

I asked my host for their best unagi recommendation, and they mentioned Nodaiwa.

If a random shop I Googled in Osaka would leave such a lasting impression, then a decent one with a 200-year history should smack me like the god of hammers.

Una-ju set from Nodaiwa, Shimokitazawa branch, 2018.

At one stage, you will learn to accept that, just like your parents, not everything in Japan is perfect.