tokyo food life

Some Tokyoites are welcoming the new year with a strawberry or two. That’s all most people can afford with these new Hatsukoinokaori, “Fragrance of First Love” strawberries going for almost 12 dollars a berry. The sales clerk confessed that this recently developed fruit tastes like any other strawberry: the flesh just doesn’t turn red. The berry’s PR flyer reveals that depending on the weather though, (or if the berry finds out how much she costs), she may start to blush pink.

If you like shopping for fruit like you shop for jewelry, head to “Sun Fruits” in Tokyo’s Midtown shopping center. Besides strawberries, the shop sells individual apples, bananas, dried persimmons, assorted fruit baskets, and other seasonal fruits—all in absolutely museum-class condition and at world-class prices.

Now is strawberry season and Sun Fruits offers a dozen choices. If pale berries are not your thing, try Echigohime. She’s billed as big and juicy, with a balanced sweet and sour taste, and a rich berry fragrance. Or Benihoppe, “Red Cheeks,” who is so delicious your cheeks will fall off—her flesh is red inside and out. Perhaps the seductively shaped Yumenoka, or the firm Yayoihime. You won’t be able to resist buying only one Mouikko, “Just One More,” with her plump size and balanced sweet and sour taste. Metaphor lovers will swoon for Hinoshizuku from Kumamoto Prefecture. The area is famous for pure water and this berry is thought to resemble a drop of that famous water. Tochihime is more sweet than sour, but her flesh is yielding and needs to be consumed quickly. Sachinoka boasts great mouthfeel. And Sagahonoka was developed jumbo-sized to be given as a gift.

The ever popular Tochiotome is a well rounded, balance character. And the precocious Amaou is cleverly named after her four attributes: akai (red), marui (round), ooki (big), and umai (delicious).

A box of 24 Amauo will set you back over 100 dollars.

Sun Fruits is open 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. everyday.

www.sunfruits.co.jp

On a quiet side street, a minute or two from the boisterous pressing crowds and hawking rickshaw drivers of Sensoji Temple in Asakusa, is Edosada, a small modest restaurant specializing in kamameshi, a simple rice dish sort of like paella.

Kamameshi was invented in Asakusa some hundred years ago—not by Edosada, but for three generations it’s been a standard bearer serving good, solid, unflashy food made with care and pride.

As with paella, kamameshi can be prepared with various extras cooked with the rice in its individual kama pot, but Edosada’s signature dish is the go moku combination (1050 yen) made with chicken broth, minced chicken, a bright green snow pea, a red shrimp, bamboo shoots, and a shiitake mushroom.

Kamameshi is always made from scratch here and takes 20 minutes to cook. Recommended starters while you wait are the kani salad (730 yen) with its two strips of sweet crab meat, cherry tomatoes and mix of lettuces in a creamy dressing, or the bei nasu dengaku, a “western” eggplant (630 yen) grilled with a sweet miso and minced pork topping. Use the toothed grapefruit spoon to dig out the luscious flesh.

The decor at Edosada is classic, old school with shoji screens, wood accents, an indoor rock garden, and a raised tatami area if you prefer zabuton seating. A tape of koto music plays softly in the background. The waitresses, smart in their dark uniforms with white cotton collars and aprons, are friendly and efficient.

Eventually, your kamameshi will be brought to the table. The wooden kama lids and box-like holders have been used so long and washed so often they’ve taken on the silky patina of driftwood.

Lift the lid to release a fragrant waft of steam and you’ll see inside each kernel of rice glistening, plump and tawny, under the artfully arranged toppings. Don’t be afraid to dig in with the sturdy spoon to get to the caramelized bits at the bottom of the kama.

Along with the kamameshi, try the miso soup with nameko mushrooms (360 yen) and the house-made pickles, nicely crisp and not too salty (420 yen).

If you’re still hungry, check the “If You Want a Little More…” section of the menu for the Green Tea ice cream (360 yen), served with a small square of mille feuille cake.

Edosada pays attention to details. It promises in its error-free English menu to use only the best ingredients such as Koshihikari rice or alkaline water from Kannon Hot Spring in Shimoda. At the end of the meal, you’ll be served a cup of green tea, and should it be neglected during conversation and grow tepid, your waitress will notice and bring you fresh hot cup.

For the complete Edosada review, and more of my reviews, follow this link to Metropolis Magazine: www.metropolis.co.jp/dining/restaurant-reviews/edosada

1-8-6 Asakusa, Taito-ku. Tel: 03-3844-0505. Monday to Friday: 11:30am to 9pm. Saturday/Sundays/Holidays: 11:30am to 8:45pm. www.edosada.com

Bernice, my father’s mother, was of French ancestry and the head cook at the local Eagle’s Club in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. I remember her mostly in her kitchen, almost always wearing an apron, and her hands always busy with a knife or a peeler or a stirring spoon.

Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, my father would herd us into the Rambler and we’d make the two-hour drive to her house for a feast that now seems unimaginable. Such holidays would fill her kitchen and dining room with aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, and sometimes the parish priest. Altogether we must have been close to 30 people, sometimes, sitting down to one of her meals. Thinking about her roast turkeys (two were needed to feed that clan), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, and apple or mincemeat pies still makes my mouth water.

Stuffing, or dressing—the terms were interchangeable—seemed a fantastic and somehow mysterious food to me as a child. How could bread mixed with chopped hearts, gizzards, and liver become so savory and delicious?

For my holiday meals here in Tokyo, I have always taken the shortcut of buying a box of herb-flavored croutons that could be turned into “stuffing” in a few minutes. Last autumn, however, I decided to make a stuffing that my grandmother would approve of.

Autumn is chestnut time, and I had recently discovered Tokyo’s best roasted chestnuts, Hisaya kyo-yakiguri, at a Yamanote Line station kiosk. These chestnuts, the size of golf balls, have a tangy wood-smoke aroma and are conveniently pre-split for very easy snacking. Some ten tiny Hisaya kiosks are scattered about the city in major train stations.

Autumn is also when pears, one of my favorite fruits, finally become affordable. I decided to use both in my stuffing.

Research on the Internet revealed that chestnuts and dried cranberries was a popular stuffing combination. So, after turning to the Joy of Cooking, and experimenting with several recipes, I came up with a recipe that Bernice might have liked.

Ingredients:

• dried cranberries (130 grams)

• two shallots

• one can low fat chicken broth

• roasted chestnuts (300 grams)

• shiitake mushrooms (5 to 6 mushrooms)

• one medium yellow onion

• six-eight slices bread (white and/or whole wheat), less bread means moister stuffing

• one stalk celery

• Italian parsley

• two large pears

• hearty bottle of red wine

First, preheat your oven to 150 degrees centigrade. Arrange eight slices of bread (I use four white and four wheat) on a cookie sheet (or two) in one layer and let them toast lightly for 20 minutes. The bread won’t color much, but the slices will become dry and crisp.

Get small bowls ready for each chopped ingredient. While the bread is drying in the oven, dice one onion and finely chop two shallots.

Dice one stalk of celery (about one cup). Finely chop the parsley to obtain two tablespoons. Peel 300 grams of chestnuts and try not to eat too many. Usually I quarter the chestnut meat because I want big hunks in the stuffing.

Because there are no giblets in this stuffing, I needed something to provide umami, the deep savory taste. Shiitake mushrooms and red wine do the trick by adding richness and depth.

Cut the shiitake into large dice. Wash the pears, core them, then dice—not too small. Make sure to use pears that are quite firm. There is no need to peel them. Measure out ½ cup dried cranberries. Don’t skimp. The Mannao brand cranberries are tart and delicious. They’ll plumb up nicely in the stuffing.

By now the bread should be dried. Remove from oven and turn up oven to 180 degrees C.

Cut the slices of bread into approximately 2 centimeter cubes and put them into the largest bowl you can find. After cutting the bread, you’ll have some breadcrumb dust on the cutting board. Be sure to add it to the bowl of bread cubes.

In a large fry pan or skillet, melt two tablespoons of unsalted butter over medium heat. When the butter foams and starts to sizzle, add the shallots, onions, celery, parsley, and one teaspoon of salt. Cover and let them sweat and soften for about 5 minutes. Stir occasionally. Add one tablespoon of Herbes de Provence (an indispensible herb blend of rosemary, marjoram, basil, bay leaf, and thyme), the chestnuts, shiitake and cranberries. Stir gently to mix well. Let cook uncovered for 2-3 minutes.

Add diced pears and ½ cup of red wine. Make sure the chef gets a sip. A Beaujolais nouveau works well.

Stir gently again and let cook uncovered for another 2-3 minutes.

Now comes the tricky part. Add the contents of the skillet to the bowl of bread cubes. Mix gently but thoroughly until all the bread cubes are coated. Pop open the can of chicken broth and pour over the mixture. Mix gently, but well, again.

Grease a 2-quart casserole dish with one tablespoon of softened butter. Add the stuffing. Cover with aluminum foil and slip it into the oven for 20 minutes. Then remove the foil and bake for 5-10 minutes longer. The top of the stuffing will brown slightly and crisp along the edges.

Of course, instead of baking the whole batch, you can stuff your holiday bird with as much of this ambrosia as it will hold and roast it. The remaining stuffing should be baked as above.

You’ll be surprised how good this stuffing tastes the next day, with the sweetness of the pears nicely balanced by the tartness of the cranberries. In warmer months, when making this stuffing, I substitute a couple of apples for the pears.

Before tasting this dish the other night, Nick, my eldest son, asked, “There’s no liver in this stuffing is there?”

No, not a bit, I assured him, and he proceeded to wolf down three helpings in a row. Maybe even Bernice would ask for seconds.

For more information and locations of Hisaya Kyo-yakiguri kiosks in Tokyo, go to www.kyo-yakiguri.com

Shibuya is the epicenter of youth-oriented Tokyo. Giant television screens blare music videos and cellphone advertisements — every manner of commerce from hip boutique and sleek department store to ramen stand and chestnut roaster vies for attention from the 24-hour throng of consumers that courses along the streets, alleys, and narrow passageways.

A man in a fierce gorilla mask touting a new eatery is not unusual, though he did startle a few young women who hugged their boyfriends’ arm as they hurried past the primate. The gorilla was handing out tickets for free toppings on any dish from the Go!Go!Curry shop down the basement stairs.

Go!Go!Curry hails from Kanazawa Prefecture where, I was told, they always eat curry rice with a side of shredded cabbage. The same ubiquitous pile of shredded cabbage that accompanies any “ros katsu” here in Tokyo. Go!Go!Curry calls itself the “The Champion of Curry” and backs up that claim with color comparison charts, prominently displayed on the red and yellow walls of shop, showing ratings against six other popular curry shop chains. Go!Go!Curry ranks first in taste of rice, sauce, katsu, and water. (They use alkaline ion-filtered water for the drinking water.)

The ¥500-yen “Healthy” curry is the cheapest entree. The  ”ru,” or sauce, which covers the rice like a dark chocolate lacquer, is meaty and packs a mild heat. You can request a spicier version when you hand your pre-paid ticket to the staff.

Portions and prices increase from Healthy to Economy, Business, and First Class dishes. The Business Class Katsu Curry comes in a dish as big as a small canoe.

Shredded cabbage actually goes quite well with curry rice. It adds a fresh crunch and pleasantly bitter undertone to the heat in the curry. You can, of course, have free second or third helpings of cabbage.

Besides cabbage, the shop offers ten different toppings like rakyo (pickled scallions), or egg (raw or boiled), or even natto. The shop is clean, bright, and staffed with cheerful energetic women in baseball caps and GO!GO! T-shirts. They yell out a chorus of  ”Irrashaimase!” as you enter and “Arigato gozaimasu!” as you leave. The service is also fast and efficient.

However, one oba-san staffer was perplexed by the order of a recent customer. He handed her his ticket for Healthy Curry and the free topping stamp card he received from gorilla man outside. The staffer asked him which free topping he would like.

“None,” he replied.

The staffer paused, confused. “But you can have a free topping—rakyo, raw egg or boiled egg. Which one do you choose?”

“I don’t want to choose any of them,” said the customer.

“Why not?” asked the staffer. “They’re free.”

“Because none of them are anything I want to choose,” he replied.

The oba-san was nonplussed. She stared for a few seconds at his stamp card. “Just a moment,” she said. “I’ll check with the manager.”

She went into the back room then, after a minute or two, returned.

“Okay,” she said, stating the obvious. “Just use this ticket another time.”

The customer got his curry unadorned with any free topping.

GO!GO!Curry, by the way, gets its name from baseball hero Hideki Matsui, who was born in Kanazawa Prefecture, and who sports the number 55 (go go in Japanese) on his jersey. There is a framed shikishi in the restaurant signed by Matsui after he ate curry there. Presumably, the first class dish.

12-12 Udagawa-cho, Cigma Bldg. #5, B1

Shibuya-ku, Tel: 03.6231.5534.

Open everyday 10:55a.m to 22:55p.m.

Summer is over. And Japan’s loveliest season has arrived wearing her many colored robe. But the summer season lingers on at any outside table of Tokio Plage Lunatique riverside in Futagotamagawa. From the funky patio, with its mismatched chairs and rattan sofa, you can enjoy a chilled glass of wine or a cold beer under the  spreading branches of a towering linden tree, listening the rustle of the bamboo grove as the wide Tama river flows silently on in front of you.

Inside are ruby red walls, linen laid tables, and a casual eclectic decor that Amélie of Paris would appreciate. The dinner menu offers pastas, and other Italian-accented entrees.

My favorite lunch is the vegetable curry—spicy and filling with chunks of pumpkin, eggplant, tomato, green pepper, and a deep- fried egg to top it off. With its green salad and glass of iced tea, the ¥1,500 price is a bargain.

After lunch, spend some time browsing in the next door shop selling kitchenware, dining, and other living accessories from popular French designer, Genevieve Lethu, the only such shop in Japan. Dogs are welcome in both establishments.

Tokio Plage is open everyday from 11:45 a.m. to 11 p.m.

The best way to arrive is to ride your bicycle down the lovely paved paths along either the Sengawa river, or the Nogawa river, until you reach the Tama river at Futagotamagawa. You could also walk, less than ten minutes, from Futagotamagawa station.

1-1-4 Tamagawa, Setagaya Ward. Tel: 03-3708-1118. http://tokioplage.jp.

As to which pasta sauce reigns supreme in our house, it’s a toss up between “red sauce” and “pepperoncini.” I’ll save the pepperoncini recipe for another day.

The “red sauce” is my version of the tomato-based pasta dish my mother made so often when I was growing up. Unfortunately, we’ve got no Italian blood in our family, but I’ve eaten so much pasta over the years, I consider myself an honorary Italian.

My cupboard is always stocked with packets of dried porcini, cans of whole Italian tomatoes, and spaghettini. So all I need to do for a quick, easy, and delicious meal is bicycle over to my local supermarket to pick up a couple of ripe avocados, a packet of shiitake mushrooms, some ground beef, and salad greens. I’ve been making this pasta sauce for so many years, I do it on automatic pilot while listening to National Public Radio and sipping a tumbler of red wine.

Basically, you’re making a marinara sauce. For marinara, tomatoes are the most important ingredient. Any brand of whole Italian plum tomatoes will do. I’ve made this sauce many times with the cheapest canned tomatoes I could find, but it’s worth seeking out San Marzano tomatoes. They are richer tasting and meatier than any other type.

First, let’s do the prep work. Get yourself a glass of red wine. All right? Let’s go.

• 3 cans (14 oz. each) San Marzano tomatoes

• two bay leaves (preferably Turkish, the most flavorful)

• one package dried porcini (30 grams)

• 6 to 8 fresh shiitake mushrooms (caps only: sliced or roughly chopped)

• one medium onion (finely diced)

• 4 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

• 200 grams ground beef or pork

• 4-5 large cloves of garlic (whole and peeled)

• 1 tsp.salt (preferably sea salt)

• 1 tsp. herbes de provence

500 grams spaghetti or spaghettini

• freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

For the Starter: two ripe avocados, one lemon, olive oil, balsamic vinegar

In a small bowl, add a half cup of luke-warm water to the dried porcini to cover. Let them soak and soften for 20-30 minutes. The water will become a deeply perfumed, dark brown broth.

Dice the onion. Peel 4 or 5 large cloves of garlic. The easiest way to do this is to smash the cloves with the flat side of a chef’s knife. The papery skin will come right off. Open the three cans of tomatoes. Remove the stems from the shiitake and slice the caps.

Add 4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive to a large saucepan. My family loves garlic, but I don’t want it to dominate the sauce, so I saute the garlic cloves on medium-low heat until they’re colored a pale gold. Be careful to turn the garlic frequently so that it doesn’t burn. When nicely colored, remove the garlic to a paper towel.

At this point one of my sons will come over and snag a crisp clove or two. They’re delicious. Add the chopped onion, turn up the heat to medium and saute the onions until they’re translucent: maybe five minutes.

Now add the San Marzano tomatoes. I use a potato masher to crush the whole tomatoes to an even consistency in the sauce pan. Toss in a bay leaf or two and a teaspoon of sea salt. Most marinara recipes call for oregano, but I’m partial to herbes de provence and use a teaspoon of that fragrant melange instead.

Add the sliced shiitake mushrooms. Squeeze the reconstituted porcini in your fist to drain them, reserving the broth. Chop the wrung out porcini roughly. Add them to the sauce. Pour the porcini broth, but not the grit at the bottom of the bowl, into the sauce. Stir.

In a separate fry pan, brown the ground beef, then add it to the sauce. Stir and let the sauce simmer and thicken uncovered on low heat for at least 45 minutes.

The great thing about this sauce is that it’s so versatile. You can add other types of mushrooms. Use ground pork or chicken instead of beef, or leave out the meat entirely. I’ve got no name for this sauce, but I’m sure my mother would approve of naming it after her: “Pasta alla Elaine.”

A couple of points to note when cooking the pasta: Make sure the water is properly salted. And don’t rely on the timing written on the package. Set your timer a minute or two earlier than the recommended timing and keep tasting the pasta until is done al dente. Drain then immediately toss the pasta with a cup or two of the sauce.  Serve with some extra sauce on top and some freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

My son, Christopher, who always votes for “red sauce” says if you add more cheese, it’s double the goodness.

The starter is easy too. Halve an avocado, remove the stone, peel and slice the avocado. Arrange the slices on a plate. Mix one tablespoon of fresh lemon juice with two tablespoons of olive oil. Drizzle the lemony oil over the sliced avocado, add a few drops of balsamic vinegar, sprinkle with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Finito.

Serve these dishes with some crusty bread and a green salad and Buono Appetito!

I never get to eat right away, though, because at this point my dog starts pestering me until I dust her kibble with freshly grated cheese.

Bartender Koji Ozaki is an artist though he would politely disagree. For over forty years he has been pursuing beauty and perfection as poured from a cocktail shaker. Order a gimlet at his Radio Bar and you run the risk of not being able to drink one anywhere else. At least that’s what happened to Ryu Murakami, the famed novelist and Radio Bar regular, who recounts this delicious dilemma in an essay dedicated to the gimlet in Ozaki’s sumptuous Radio Bar Cocktail Book.

Ozaki, 65, is dapper and trim, perfectly at ease in his summer uniform of stiff-collared white shirt, white bow tie and white vest. His movements behind the long walnut bar are graceful and precise. Though he has a reputation for reticence, when he talks about his craft smiles come easily.

“The gimlet is a simple drink but difficult to make well,” explains Ozaki. “You’ve got to put aijo, love, into it,” he adds flashing a smile. ”Making a delicious cocktail,” he says, “is exactly like preparing a delicious bowl of green tea.”

Since he was 17, Ozaki has studied tea ceremony and Japanese flower arrangement. He is a licensed teacher of both. Everything at Radio Bar—the service, the drinks, the decor and accoutrements—are informed by biishiki, an aesthetic consciousness, and by the desire for utsukushii ugoki, beautiful movement with no wasted motion. Both types of awareness, says Ozaki, are essential to bartending.

Every detail of Radio Bar has been thoughtfully designed by Ozaki. On an antique cupboard stands a large, dramatically lighted flower arrangement. Smaller arrangements too are spaced along the bar. Art Nouveau lamps with thick glass shades drop soft pools of light on the walnut counter and gently illuminate the hundreds of bottles that line the long shelves. Several vintage radios sit silently among the collection of gleaming antique cocktail shakers. Jazz drifts unobtrusively from hidden speakers.

Ozaki hails from Tokushima Prefecture. He started his working career as a salary man, but quickly tired of it. He fled to Tokyo at 24 and found employment in a coffee shop that also served drinks in the evening. He taught himself the rudiments of bartending from an old copy of the Savoy Cocktail Book. Eventually he got a job as a bartender in the Ginza where he worked for six months. In 1972, he opened his first bar, Bar Radio, in Jingumae. His next bar, 2nd Radio, in Gaienmae followed in 1986 and 3rd Radio, in Minami Aoyama, opened in 1998. The first two establishments have since closed, and 3rd Radio, after an extensive remodeling, is now simply the Radio Bar.

“The gimlet should contain only fresh lime juice and dry gin,” Ozaki explains as he twists a lime wedge inside a small square of white cotton cloth—a traditional Japanese method of extracting juice. All fruit-based cocktails at his bars are prepared in this manner.

The tea ceremony has clearly influenced his cocktail shaker technique—no brusque movements that might disturb a guest. Ozaki holds the shaker in his fingertips. The elbows are kept close to the body and the shaking is performed only with the wrists. “It must be done elegantly, like a lovely dance,” he says.

He pours the gimlet into a delicately etched cone-shaped, 100-year-old glass from England. The lime juice and gin have married to form a pale jade opalescence rimmed with foam as fine as diamond dust. He sets the glass on a coaster then pushes it five centimeters forward until it rests, like a fashion model, under a spotlight.

When designing cocktails, Ozaki believes the glass is the most important factor. “If you think of fashion,” he says, “the glass is like a dress, the clothes on a model.”

The shelves behind the bar sparkle with glassware from the finest crystal makers of Europe and Japan: Baccarat, Saint Louis, Lalique, Hoya, and others. Many are antiques or “one of a kind” pieces. Glasses for champagne cocktails, highballs, and water were designed by Ozaki himself. But he won’t take all the credit. Many of his customers are artists and designers, he explains. “They are very good teachers.”

Creating a new cocktail is not difficult, he says. Every night he invents many, then forgets them the next day. Eventually the popular ones become standards. “The most difficult thing about making a new drink is naming it,” he confides. Cocktails usually get their names from flowers, fruits, or places, but such labels are dull. Ozaki came up with naming his original cocktails after Hollywood movie stars, such as the Marilyn Monroe, the Greta Garbo, the Marlene Dietrich, the Humphrey Bogart, or after jazz composers and compositions like the Duke Ellington, the Satin Doll, the Mood Indigo, and the Prelude to a Kiss. Ozaki says the spirit used in the drink outlines the star’s character—the other ingredients and the glass provide the story and drama.

He has experimented with cocktails flavored with chocolate from the boutiques of Jean-Paul Hevin or Pierre Marcolini. They have proven to be quite popular—as are his “healthy cocktails.” Made with fresh fruit like mango or Kyoho grapes, these drinks have a low alcohol content. “They don’t cause hangovers,” explains Ozaki. “And are good for a woman’s skin.”

Ozaki says Tokyo bars are the best in the world for their vast selection of spirits and high level of bartending. He stocks over 250 brands of Scotch single malt whiskey, thirty some brands of bourbon and rum, plus a dozen varieties each of brandy, marc, cognac, calvados, grappa, gin, vodka, tequila, and, of course, many liqueurs. He doesn’t, however, use Japanese alcohols. They don’t suit cocktails, he says. “Sake and shochu are most delicious just as they are.”

Every week Ozaki gives lessons in tea ceremony and flower arrangement to all his bartenders. Once a year he conducts a seminar in which he lectures to some 150 bartenders, mostly from the Ginza area, on the fine points of drinks like the Martini or the Sidecar. Ozaki estimates there are about 20 bars around the city run by his “graduates,” bartenders who have worked and studied with him. “If a person is unusually sensitive, and pays attention to details, he can learn to be a good bartender in three years,” he explains. “The average person needs ten years.”

Ozaki’s passion for beauty and design is exemplified in the Bar Radio Cocktail Book displayed on the bar. The book is lush with color photos of cocktails in exquisite glasses and settings, essays by famous customers, and hundreds of bilingual recipes.

His passion for design also extends to the type of customer he prefers. “The drinking should be done without any commotion,“ he says. “Sometimes I have to ask a person to leave.” Groups of two or maybe three are best—with four people, voices get too loud. “The most important thing,” he stresses, “is that customers should enjoy the atmosphere here.”

His table charge is one of the highest in the city—2,000 yen per person, and a drink, on average, costs about 1,500 yen. The plate of otsumami, however, the tidbits that traditionally come with a first drink in Japan, are of extraordinary quality: slices of plum marinated in white wine with vanilla, Parma ham with fresh figs, cream cheese with walnuts and raisins, fresh kiwi fruit with mint cream, and tiny scallops marinated with olive oil and parsley. These savories are served on Italian porcelain with a fork and knife procured in a Paris antique market—sterling silver with turned wooden handles.

Ozaki’s art is fleeting. It lasts an hour or an evening. Yet it leaves a lasting impression—a stunning drink, an alluring encounter you can have nowhere else. Calling oneself an artist, he says, would be awkward. He prefers the term artisan. “But I would be honored to be considered an artist,” he adds with a quick smile. “A good artisan can someday become an artist.”

Radio Bar 3-10-34 Minami Aoyama, Minato-ku. Tel: 03-3402-2668. Open Monday to Saturday 6pm to 1am. Closed Sundays and Holidays. www.bar-radio.com

Northside Asagaya is a hip, bohemian enclave of easily a hundred bars, pubs, restaurants, wine bars, snack pubs, coffee shops, and assorted spots for entertainment.

Spots like Buchi Yakiniku (above), or what must be Tokyo’s narrowest Italian restaurant, the newly-opened Don Tsucchi, barely wider that its double door entrance.

Lovely little shops like the art gallery/milk bar, Inelle, (below) are crowded up against raucous-sounding bars like Jamb Jamb and bars overgrown with potted plants and lost umbrellas hanging from door jambs.

Left out of the station and left again takes you into the delta area called Star Road, the main branch of which runs parallel to the tracks. But like any great river, Star Road is fed by many smaller alleys, lanes, and passageways, all of which also seem to be named Star Road.

The bars, shops, pubs and eateries are crowded shoulder to shoulder, like passengers on a rush hour train. There are coffee shops open for breakfast and joints that open only after 10 pm, places for Japanese saké and places for “Jazz ‘N Boozz.”

Most of the places are slowly deteriorating into rust and sun-rotted wood. But the owners, both young and old, have spunk and grit: new wire will hold up a sagging sign, a poster thumb-tacked to a door will serve as remodeling, and a fresh coat of paint on the door will hopefully attract enough customers to pay the bills.

Anywhere along your way down Star Road, look up and you’ll see a Tokyo trademark—the skein of power lines and telephone wires, connecting each place to every other place in a web of electric energy.

Reserve an evening for wandering about North- and Southside Asagaya. Then, on another night, do the same for other equally worthwhile “boozz”  and nightlife destinations along the Chuo Line: Kichijoji, Ogikubo, Nishi-Ogikubo, Koenji, and Nakano.

Northside Asagaya is one of Tokyo’s hippest, most bohemian neighborhoods, but Fuji Lunch is definitely not hip. It’s blissfully unconcerned with trendiness.  The plastic food displays in the front window have probably changed over the decades, but most everything else—the green vinyl stools, the tile floor, the faded turquoise faux-marble counter top, and the milky light filtering through the frosted glass windows—is the same as it ever was since the early 1950s when Fuji Lunch first opened.

The chef in white toque, T-shirt, and apron will serve up standard yoshoku fare such as “Pork Sauté” (¥860), or “Mixed Grill” (¥980), or “Hamburg Egg with Rice” (¥620) with speed and aplomb. It won’t be of gourmet standard, but the cabbage will be freshly shredded, the egg newly fried, the strands of pasta recently sauced red with tomato, and the peppery meat patty probably ground and shaped that morning.

What does it mean to go out to eat? For most folks, it’s a chance to escape the small kitchens of their cramped apartments, to be waited on, to be served something different from their usual regimen of meals. And it’s the little things that will make a difference, like how the napkin is folded differently, or the chilled water glass is opaque with condensation.

Over the drone of the television perched atop the refridgerator, customers at Fuji Lunch read the day’s newspaper, talk with a spouse about the afternoon’s shopping,  or just silently enjoy their meal.

Most every Tokyo neighborhood has a yoshoku “Western” restaurant somewhere on the shotengai shopping street. Fuji Lunch is a classic.

A fire broke out the other day in southside Asagaya. Southside Asagaya is an “entertainment” area—a warren of narrow alleys and streets with bars, restaurants, snack pubs, dry cleaners, ramen shops, a chanko restaurant, green grocers, several joints serving French, and a funky little blues club called Chicago, where Naomi-san, the master, worships at the altar of Guitar Slim and serves Red Eye beer, tomato juice and beer, for 500 yen the glass.

Sirens wailed and a small fire truck made especially for such narrow streets rounded the corner quickly followed by another. They moved through the crowded streets about as fast as I could walk, so I followed—past the snazzy Snack Yuu, past the Sen Sen Record emporium, until Snack Kurumi, where from the other direction, two more engines had pulled up and parked along with an ambulance.

Several policemen had already arrived on their bicycles. The man from the dry cleaners stepped out of his tiny shop to take a look. Curious pedestrians started to mill about. The firemen started to congregate in front of a snack bar called “Pub Pollen.” A small wire-strengthened kitchen window of the snack bar had been shattered and thin wisps of smoke were leaking out.

Now over two dozen firemen in full gear—helmets, hoods, and oxygen tanks—had crowded into the narrow alley in front of the shop. A large flat hose was unrolled. Coils of rope were made ready. One fireman with a megaphone started speaking to another fireman a meter away, realized the loudspeaker was not necessary, and put it back into the truck. Another fireman stood with a long pick ax. The police tried to keep the onlookers back.

Nothing much seemed to be happening. The firemen spoke excitedly to each other. More wispy smoke, as from a cigarette, slipped out the jagged hole in the window. After a few minutes of walkie-talkie chatter, the hose was rolled back up and stowed. The firemen began loading up their trucks.

At that moment the elderly mama-san, a bent-backed woman wearing athletic pants, a flower print blouse, and a brown knit sweater vest came out, bowed and apologized to the police and the fire department. Evidently, it was literally a flash in the pan that had flared up while heating some oil for fried rice. The window was broken to let out the smoke. The woman apologized several times then hurriedly went upstairs to apologize to those neighbors.

The efficiency of the Tokyo Fire Department was noteworthy. They had arrived within minutes of the emergency call. Fire has always been Tokyo’s number one enemy, followed closely by real estate agents.

Soon the fire trucks left, southside Asagaya went back to minding its own business. The next day a new window glass had been fitted and snack bar Pub Pollen was back in operation.