My mind was scrambled eggs.
Dusty from the road less traveled and a little worn for wear.
I need to clean my boots.
A sign.
Tokyo, like the city,
Glowing in the dusk of polluted desert skies along a busy street 2 hours from nowhere.
Dining alone I walked to the bar, may I was in order.
“Ichiban, tall.”
The chef, Kazu, careful not to be seen in his quick study of customers, cleaning the skin from a salmon filet, sharp is his knife, asks if I’m ready.
I order off the menu, otoro and uni sushi. “If you have it.”
He does.
It’s glorious.
I ask for a plate of sashimi, his choice, “I like everything from tamago to saba” indicating my adventurous side despite my American heritage.
Again he obliges.
Textures, flavors, chile, wasabi, playing with my senses so delightful.
Im floating now in the ether, buying a beer for the chef which he opens to a cheers, the universal language on a plate, a shared emotion, his love for craft apparent.
I almost forgot my jacket by the time I cleared my plate.
I never the question the price of the experience, as it is priceless.
And this man, in this place, at this time in my life is worth every single penny.
2 thumbs up, a cheers and an applause.
Thank you chef.
Thank you.
“In a little hilltop village,
They gambled for my clothes,
I bargained for salvation,
And she gave me a lethal dose,
I offered up my innocence,
I got repaid with scorn,
Come on she said will give ya,
Shelter from the storm.” - Bob Dylan
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