On the margin of the market are rows of tiny restaurants,
really just counters with a half a dozen stools, where you can
eat elbow-to-elbow with the fish guys. (It's ninety-eight percent
male at the fish market.) Their breakfast: various kinds of fish,
mostly raw, sometimes cooked, some noodles, green tea, Kirin beer
and cigarettes. The sushi is cheap and literally as fresh as it's
possible for sushi to get. You're supposed to just eat with your
hands, and let me reiterate: to pick up a pink slice of fatty
tuna that merely hours earlier was part of a living animal in
the ocean, dunk it in soy sauce, eat it and wash it down with
beer at seven in the morning is to spoil you for any fish you
may ever eat again.
The owner of this place spoke English and enthusiastically
filled us in on basic Japanese vocabulary, diagrammed the various
parts of the tuna, and did a hilarious rundown of the various
Asian races straight out of a Dave Chapelle skit, except without
irony. It was like being in the fifties. The guy was literally
pushing the corners of his eyes up and down to different angles
to illustrate Chinese vs Korean. He also advised us that the Chinese
are all thieving pickpockets and are not to be trusted. Did I
mention that this is an extremely homogenous society? Manic xenophobia
lurks not far below the surface.
