Shinpuku Saikan Honten - Kyoto, Japan

A lot of people say Tokyo isn't for tourists, but I think what they're saying is that Tokyo isn't for California tourists. Fast-paced, tightly-timed Tokyo brings out the best of my northeastern instincts, but it must be a nightmare after a life of SoCal leisure. I loved Tokyo, but after four fast-paced days, I could handle a change. And what a change Kyoto turned out to be. 

I stepped out of Kyoto Station to a sweltering sun. I hauled my suitcase through a dry, heavy heat, feeling like I was being fried alive on the single block walk between the station and my hotel.

Starving but reluctant to walk much farther, I picked one of two adjacent ramen shops, the one without the line. There was a reason everyone formed a sweaty line for the other one. Shinpuku Saiten's Shoyu Ramen is very heavy on the shoyu. The bowls are the color of mud, though the pork broth interspered with leaner chashu is still savory beneath the salty soy.

A side of Fried Rice costs nearly nothing. Equally heavy on the shoyu, but actually quite good. I was chugging water after so much soy and salt, but at least I was staying hydrated in the heat.

I might have enjoyed Shinpuku Saiten more if I hadn't just had a brilliant bowl at Uchi. I'd heard so much about the food in Kyoto, and this meal fell a little short of satisfying.

Omoide Yokocho - Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan

I've learned a lot from Tokyo, important life lessons and the like. One of the more important lessons is letting go of stranger danger. Everywhere you go in Tokyo, you'll inevitably share something with someone you've never met. Whether it's two couples casually ignoring each other's conversations at a table for four or awkward elbow bumping at a beer and/or noodle bar, your personal space is not sacred.

It's a tight fit at the bar of all izakaya, but you can't even have a beer gut to sit at this counter. A large Asahi makes the two inches between you and the nearest salary man seem like four, but you can still smell each other's breath.

But not to worry, food is the ultimate social lubricant, and you learn to converse without worrying about other people hearing because well, no one at this counter has any idea what I'm saying. Combine a Set of skewers with a Special Set of skewers, and I don't have much to say anyway.

Small slices of bilious intensity comprise a skewer of chicken liver. Chicken gizzard's chewy texture provides a contextual contrast. The chicken wings require a little bony dissection, but the flame-scorched flavor goes all the way through the juicy pieces. Chicken breast is boring, but they keep the pieces small enough so the limited flavor won't make you don't fall asleep. Chicken skin is still my favorite, thin, dissolving strips zig-zagging up a toothpick trellis. The chicken meatball is dense yet light, meat marbled with savory fillers. Fatty pork bursts intensely, draping its gristle over slices of scallion.

Steak tastes like steak, and chicken cartilage crunches under a bland piece of breast.

Roasted Garlic loses some of the pungency and softens into a sweeter chew. Shishitos are slightly bitter and finish with a hint of hot.

A couple beers and a dozen skewers later, I've lost all semblance of shyness. Thanks Tokyo, I've learned so much from you: how to be comfortable when uncomfortably close and how to squeeze into very small spaces.

Uchi - Toshima, Tokyo, Japan

I haven't had breakfast yet, but I'm itching for some Uchi. I've heard good things, and I had to work to find it, wading through some pretty suburban-looking streets.

First good sign: I really have to work for a bowl of noodles. The prepaid ticket machine is harder than it looks, and the owner, who speaks not a word of English (second good sign) pantomimes me through quite the ordeal... Which I have to go through twice.

The ticket takes longer than the ramen. It appears almost instantly, and the broth is thick and dark. The pork bone is rich, and the marrow-y warmth cuts deep. A hint of seafood lightens each deep slurp, and the noodles are as thick as a bonsai branch.

You'd think that's plenty for under $10, but surprise, there's a rice bowl, too. Ramen is so filling, how could anyone have ramen AND take down a bowl of rice? Oh but there are seductive little scraps of chashu on the rice, and it's the softest, meltiest chashu I've ever had... wait, who just ate all my rice?

Unagi & Beer - Toshima, Tokyo, Japan

Second dinner. I think Japan is turning me into a hobbit. But hey, I've done 20,000 steps in one day if my Fitbit is to be believed so I'll consider those calories earned! Yes... Yes, I wore my Fitbit to Japan. More on that addiction later.

The addiction of choice here is food. Amazing, perfect, can't-imagine-anything-better food. A gorgeous lid of an exquisite lacquered box smolders like charcoal from a hearth. Thick, premium fillets of grilled freshwater eel are brushed with a deep, sweet sauce, and the flesh slips like silk. The sauce sinks into the rice beneath, and each steamy spoonful lets the flavor linger.

Unagi & Beer is small, and I dare say it's a well-kept secret. it's so local that even Yelp hasn't got wind of it yet. If all second dinners taste this good, I'll never eat just once again.

Oragasoba Shinshu, Isetan – Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan

A lighter lunch later, we were famished by 4. No patience for the Isetan food court so we sat down for some soba.

Buckwheat Soba is the best, and we had it zaru. Grated yam, tororo, thickens the lighter mirin-dashi-soy with a starchy-mochi coating.

There’s also a bird’s nest of small shrimp in a tub of barely-there tempura, punctuated with sharper slices of scallion. The whole mess is just so-so.

Sobayu softens the zaru broth at the end, a surprisingly savory mix of what’s left with a wholesome buckwheat soba-juice. Still, I only somewhat satisfied – these soba noodles were a little too stiff. It’s still hard to say no to soba; it’s just that Torrance’s Ichimi-An is so much better.

Nakajima – Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan

The Metro is Tokyo’s buried treasure, and you have to see it to believe it. It surprises me…because it never does. Even during the busiest of rush hours, the next train pulls up predictably, and you never wait more than a minute. You’ll wait way more than a minute at Shinjuku’s Nakajima, but this one is worth the wait.

At a mere 800 yen for lunch, you may think you’re getting shafted. After all, this is a kaiseki restaurant whose delectably varied dinner earned a Michelin star. But these sardines are from another world, a more affordable preview of just how divine the dinner must be.

Breaded and Fried sardines are easy, especially for those who don’t like the stinging sensation of an oily, fishy fish. Each piece is perfect in Panko, crisp, and surprisingly airy and light.

With all the other fish out there, the sushi chefs have bigger fish to fry and easier fish to filet. Sashimi usually comes in thick, generous slices, and chefs crank them out in minutes. Sardine Sashimi is not so easy. Each sliver is barely half a centimeter, dissected precariously from the several spiky sets of bone.

You have to work to get to the good stuff. The Broiled Sardines in Sweet Soy Sauce are a satisfying mix of savory, salty, and sweet. The meat is soft and tender, and it strips off the bones in self-made slices. Still there is some wrangling when bones won’t leave the flesh, and I can only imagine how much harder it is when the fish is raw.

Tokyo is the very soul of streamlining, efficiency in all its elan. The uniform is a stiff suit or a blouse and skirt, salarymen packed like sardines on the subway and at the bar. Striding through Tokyo subway awakened my long-dormant New Yorker, and it was too easy to fall into a perilous pattern of on-the-train, off-the-train, do-something-in-between-the-train-rides. But sometimes something makes you stop and smell the sardines, and it’s places like Nakajima that make you see just how amazing the small stuff can be.

Sushi Bar Yasuda – Roppongi, Tokyo, Japan

The first time I had good sushi, I sat in front of Yasuda-san at Sushi Yasuda, New York. I felt so small, surrounded by skyscrapers, on my own for the first time, just trying to find where I really fit into the much bigger world that lay at my fingertips. I was losing my way on this quest to find myself.

Back then, Yasuda-san was stern, serious. But even then he taught. The sushi, the seaweed, the wasabi; everything had levels and grades, and so much of the same thing could be so different. I’d tried mediocre sushi, but this was something else. Each bite was biting back, and every chew channeled a chill, a whole-body thrill, and somehow this meal made me dare to be different, to aim high and land even higher.

Like much of New York, things are constantly changing, and they have changed a lot since that day ten years ago. New York's Sushi Yasuda still bears his name with none of his association, but some things stay with us. Yasuda-san returned to Japan to do what he always wanted to do – just make sushi. I moved to California and did what I always wanted to do – just EAT sushi. Life has a way of sweeping round and round, until a full circle has formed, and once again, I’m facing a less stern, more experienced Yasuda-san ten years later. I think I was the only person who wasn't there because of Anthony Bourdain.

The first thing I notice is the décor. The sushi bar is beautiful, a single slice of wood and a kitchen set in stone. Minimalist sophistication, personified in Blue Fin Tuna.

The Shumaji Yellowtail lands softly on the wood and hits even softer notes on the palate. A subtle impact, a refreshing contrast to a bold blue fin.

I've never seen a chef so animated. This once-serious, calm and calculated man now darts back and forth, fingers pressing, rolling, snapping small pieces onto each round of rice like a pro. 

He keeps up a lively chatter, covering every topic from the origin of our sushi to his participation in a local bodybuilding competition. He is very proud of those biceps. There are no sous-chefs, no sushi slicers, no worker bees. Yasuda-san is a one-man show, staffing a ten-seater bar and a four-seater table at lightning speed.

His cheery conversation floods with laughter as a slice of Toro dissolves in a cold, fatty rush. The thrill of simultaneously seeing and tasting his work tingles from the tongue clear through the toes.

This restaurant is his, and everything is his to control, his to mold as he likes. Everything bears his signature, an homage to a career well-spent.

One thing that makes him different is his frequent servings of salmon. I don't see it from the west coast chefs, but sweet cuts like the Norwegian Salmon slide slick and finish firmly.

The short-grain sushi rice hails from his mother's home town, and so does the sake he recommends. The rice is cohesive without being adhesive, leaving a minimal mark on your fingers when you scoop up a single bite. The sake is seamless, finishing sweet and clear like a babbling brook. It finishes much like the Needlefish; new, exciting, a smooth thrill that makes a minimal splash.

He sees that I love salmon so he lets a soft slice of Alaskan Salmon compete with the Norwegian. Neither wins – I could eat both forever.

Then comes the King Salmon, a final showdown. This one is more firm, the flavor more robust.

And then there is Uni. And there my whole world stops.

Just when I expect another excerpt of something familiar, he brings out a "secret shrimp", the tail of a white Chinese shrimp, one that no one else uses, one that I’ve never seen. It's gooey and sticky like mochi, every bursting flavor-bubble clinging to every taste bud.

You need a piece of pickled ginger to scrape off the uni. I’m reluctant to replace something so sweet with a harsh palate-stripper, but the Ayu Trout demands it. Finely fleshy, too delicate to compete with umami fat or shrimp.

The ginger is house-pickled and turns out to be much milder and far less offensive in flavor than anything else I've had. Just another satisfying Yasuda-san touch.  

Each nigiri is so airy, vinegar highlighting wasabi with just a dab of house-made shoyu. Each piece is so easy to eat, I don’t even notice how quickly I work my way through what seems to be every piece of fish in the bar.

I certainly don’t notice how full I should be when I get a new type of Toro. Trout to toro, a swift transition from flesh to fatfatfat, pure, microglobules of spreading, smothering fat.

Another Toro is lighter and colder than the first. It literally melts when it touches the tongue, leaving a savory sheen.

These Squid Legs don't shrink when they’re cooked his way. These stay juicy and plump, and with coarse grains of sea salt to accentuate the tentacular texture, this simple preparation may be one of my all-time favorites.

When I told Yasuda-san I had followed him from New York, his humility was genuine but no less impressive. "Have I improved?" He asked. I couldn’t come up with an answer. He was a master then, and he is still a master now, but I think he is more like the Steel Head Salmon he describes. He narrates, under certain conditions, the rainbow trout becomes the salmon. And so has he. He's evolved into someone more seasoned, someone more smiley and savvy, content with this new twist on his profession of passion. I saw stars all those years ago, and today I'm no less starstruck. And I’ll always prefer salmon to trout.

The lively chatter continues, Yasuda-san’s jests roll off his tongue like Butter Fish. Seamless transitions between topics, but still enough to make you pause.

I pause again when he sets down a piece of Mackerel. It’s a large, juicy-looking piece, fleshy white with an edge of burgundy. I hate mackerel. How anyone can love the assault of vinegar, the forceful, fishy taste on a hardened slab that slaps me in the mouth is beyond my comprehension. But this. This isn't even mackerel. It's Yasuda-san's favorite preparation, and it is far less pickled, far less singeing, with a paucity of pungency. I dare say this is delicious. 

I don’t linger on the mackerel for long. My mood is lightened by an Orange Clam, chewy and as bright as the logo on Sunny D.

A plump Oyster has more butter than brine, bursting with juices, brought out by a dash of lemon and salt.

I’m a little apprehensive about the cooked Shrimp. Shrimp is great in a ceviche and sizzles in a scampi, but I’ve always viewed it as the chicken of sushi. Shrimp just tastes like shrimp. This one tastes like shrimp, but the moisture is locked into this juicy piece, and it preserves all the flavor, each chew releasing more fragrance.

The Scallop is sandwiched between a shrimp and another squid. Slides sweet and raw for a break from so much chewing.

The squid legs are still my favorite, but these small, slightly sinewy Squids have best of several sushi-worlds, combining the texture of the tentacles with a smooth body and a popping eye.

Mackerel “special parts”. Yasuda-san waits until I've started chewing to elaborate on just what that entails. It’s the mackerel sex organ, and it may be the best thing I had all night. Sweetened by sake and sugar and having the texture of smelt roe, this is a special I won’t soon forget.

Wrapping up because I’m dying a slow and most delightful death by sushi. Sea Eel with "no tar from construction site" smolders fresh off the grill. It’s so light it seems to float.

The Freshwater Eel is less fine in texture, a little bit meatier, and a little bit earthier.

This is when I realize that 25 pieces of sushi may have been a bad idea. But the Green Grass is surprisingly settling for the stomach, thin sprigs of scallion sprouts that tell your churning gut to shush. It tastes like spring, fresh seedlings and dirt.

I’m so stuffed that I contemplate rolling myself out…and up the stairs, but Yasuda-san insists we finish with his favorite maki, a Toro Scallion Roll. It's hard to say no, and it's a decision I'll never regret. I've had my share of rolls, but this is the roll to end all rolls. The rice throws the toro for a melty-meaty, vinegary loop; a rich rush of pure ecstasy tempered by a biting onion-scallion.

25 pieces of sushi and a roll for the road. This has to be some sort of record. That or Yasuda-san was trying to kill me. I can't wait to come back in another ten years so he can try again.