Yakitori, Escorts, and New Friends
My friend Cam and I wandered into an ominously empty restaurant in Ginza I believed was a Yakitori place. Immediately we wanted to leave. Four disheveled workers greeted us with far less enthusiasm than we’ve grown accustomed to in this country, and the setting gave me the feeling of an empty cafeteria. After a few moments of debating whether or not to get up and go, afraid of being rude in a country known for having so many do’s and don’ts, the door was wide open behind us and we didn’t turn back.
I placed myself in charge of finding dinner that night, and with a slightly bruised ego after the first mishap, I suggested a more lively place that we walked by during our escape. I was still craving yakitori - Japanese chicken skewers grilled over an open flame. Without any clue if this was something our new restaurant offered, we headed inside, inspired by the lot of people who seemed to be enjoying themselves. There was only one other white person in the place, which I viewed as a good sign. She was an older woman and was conveniently sat at the table right next to us.
Much to my delight, Tonton, a little restaurant nestled underneath a highway (or a train line I can’t remember) was a yakitori place. Cam and I ordered an 8-piece skewer set to share, as well as personal orders of stewed pork innards.
The skewer set came and I was immediately disappointed, mostly in myself. Sometimes I get a bit peeved when something isn’t how I imagined it would be. The skewer set came with 8 different chicken parts. I wasn’t feeling in a particularly adventurous mood, I was starving, and I was staring at chicken tendons on a stick.
Upon further examination of the menu, this was completely my fault. I didn’t look close enough at the photo provided, and if I had thought about it for a moment it would have dawned on me that an 8-piece chicken set probably isn’t just cuts of breast and thigh with 8 different flavors or sauces… especially when you take into consideration that they asked me what type of seasoning I’d want. I knew I wasn’t getting what I initially thought I would, but the language barrier and a hint of embarrassment stopped me from changing the order.
I dreaded the sinuous chomp I was about to take out of the tendons. It was exactly how I expected it to be. After about 3 crunchy bites I was wishing that I didn’t have to continue this tedious process, but here I was in a prison of my design. The stewed pork innards, by the way, were phenomenal. The rest of the yakitori bites, featuring, heart, gizzard, chicken wing, liver, and a few others were also enjoyable, some more so than others. I am moaning about this bite of tendon, but it is only because of an expectation I set when there didn’t have to be one.
Despite being a bit peeved, there was also some excitement. I had never eaten whole tendons before. I can now say I don’t like it, but at least I know.
I find that the degree to which I enjoy food is often overshadowed by preemptive expectations I set for it before even seeing it on a plate. I love trying new things, but this is different than ordering something unknown with intention, I was accidentally receiving something unexpected. During this trip to Tokyo, I ate a piece of sushi adorned with raw baby sardines. I had never tried anything like it in my life, but I knew exactly what I was getting and had prepared myself. I was not prepared to eat the ACLs of some sacrificial poultry, but there was still a fun and different sort of excitement powered by the complete lack of anticipation.
On the topic of expectations, the kind-looking older white woman sitting right next to us was about to shatter a few throughout the night. She would eventually introduce herself as Caroline. When she heard us discussing music (Cam is a talented musician), Caroline asked if Cam was a musician. He humbly replied, “of sorts.” Unbeknownst to us, this simple question would result in me dancing hand in hand not with Caroline and an elderly Japanese businessman to “Hey Ya” by Outkast while his escort filmed us and threw up peace signs.
Caroline’s question about music and the conversations that followed prompted her to invite us to a bar with live music. With time to kill and hardly a plan for the night, Cam and I said yes. The first bar was a miss, but the patrons suggested a different place not too far away called Kentos. We tried our luck.
After a few minutes of searching, we discovered our destination was on the 9th floor. As we waited for the elevator, I caught the attention of an old man and a much younger woman as I hit a little dance while reading a sign that said “live music and dancing.” The much younger woman mirrored my moves. She was bursting with energy despite having enormous bags under her eyes, and the undeniable flirtations directed towards the man twice her age made it impossible to arrive at any other conclusion than that she was paid to be there.
We struck up a conversation in very broken English as we shot to the top floor, and immediately it was apparent that this wasn’t just some bar with live music. There was a cover charge which we we were hesitant to pay because we thought we’d be leaving soon. The older gentleman introduced himself as Aoki-San and his companion introduced herself as Ai. They paid the cover and implored us to come in for just a moment. One Kirin became 2 Kirins, and soon a bottle of whiskey was being passed around like a football at recess. We were sucked into the atmosphere of this place, it was a full-on show.
A flamboyant man with jeans so tight they could be used for castration, dominated the stage with criminally smooth dance moves. He was backed by a full band with horns. His renditions of Queen in a language unlikely to be his own were inspiring. I think they also played Celine Dion. They definitely played Avici. Caroline was grooving, Aoki was getting down, Ai was hucking peace signs left and right, and my friends and I couldn’t stop cracking up at the absurdity of our situation.
While taking a break from the dance floor, Aoki-San and I discussed cultural differences through the glitchiness of Google Translate. I don’t know how we got to this place but I was glad it happened. After yelling into my phone, Aoki-san showed me the translation it came up with. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we met each other tonight.”
Eventually, the energy faded from the crowd and our host. Aoki-san and Ai said their goodbyes. Ai threw down a shot and said she’d miss us. She was a hero. We owe the night to her. Soon, we decided our time had come. Caroline, still going stronger than anyone, decided she’d go check out the club we were going to meet our friends.
I never expected that she would outlast us. She crushed it the whole night, earplugs in, champagne glass in hand, watching me drink a few more vodka sodas than were necessary. It was us, the 23 year olds, that said we were ready to go at 3 am. Not her. Cam and I walked her back to her hotel when she insisted on having breakfast with us before she had to leave for the airport. The caveat is that it would happen at 8 am. I told her how great of a night I had but Kendall Jenner offering a million dollars and an oil massage couldn’t get me up that early given my state of mind. We hugged goodnight.
Expectations are funny. You order chicken and might get a mouth full of tendons. You might also get a bottle of whiskey with a tenured employee of a Japanese shipping company, an escort, and a badass named Caroline.
