Missing food

When I was in Cambridge, I used to miss Japanese food. Naturally, I missed sushi. I missed the cheap kaiten (conveyor belt) sushi at 105 yen per plate. I missed eating 18 plates of it in one sitting, washed down with ice glass or two of Japanese beer. I missed the softness, texture and taste of the noble fish - tuna, or salmon - in the nigiri sushi, but I also missed the taste of not so traditional combinations: onion salmon, salmon with burned cheese on top, the ubiquitous Californian rolls.

I missed karaage chicken (aka Japanese Fried Chicken, or JFC) so much that I learned to cook it after despairing to find it in England. I cooked it so many times that in the end my karaage tasted just like the original.

I missed the furai (from the English 'fry') foods - the ebi furai being the most desired of the whole family. The chicken katsu (you guessed it right - 'cuts') with mayonnaise on it I missed too - in fact, it was the only dish in the world with which I could tolerate mayonnaise.

I missed the salty liquid and the tasty noodles of ramen. I missed the little strips of nori seaweed on top and the tiny boiled quail eggs that rested on the noodle. I missed the soba and udon noodles served in huge earthenware bowls, their endless varieties, of course, but most often the inaka soba and the kitsune soba. And, speaking of earthenware, it was impossible not to miss the nabe stew (but is it stew?). I missed the white fish and cabbage and little shiitake mushrooms that you can fish out of the huge earthenware pot that cooks on the portable stove on your table while you wait.

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Now, in Tokyo, I miss the sandwiches. I used to eat them because they were a cheap and quick option to college food, but in the end they became a habit. I realise this now as I miss them - I would probably say no if asked, in Cambridge, whether I loved sandwiches. I miss especially the M&S ones - the Coronation Chicken, the BLT, the prawn mayonnaise (I lied - here's another food in which I am happy to tolerate mayonnaise), the chicken salad. Sometimes I crave the Sainsbury's ham hock and extra mature cheddar sandwich. And it was hard to beat the Boots (yes, the chemists who make sandwiches too) bumper sandwiches when you were really hungry.

I also miss the cheese. With all due respect, Japan, you can't handle cheese. Especially the English cheeses - I know I can get mozzarella here, as you're crazy about all things Italian. And maybe some Edam or Gouda if I try really hard. But not cheddar, or red Leicester. I might be wrong, though - I barely know Tokyo after only two and a half months here - so prove me wrong, Japan, do prove me wrong.

A train encounter

A little boy - two years old, maybe three - was travelling on a Tokyo train with his father - a tall, bearded man, who was reading a book in Arabic and paid little attention to his son. The man had silver streaks in his beard - if it was not for the way the boy called him - baba, which, as far as I know, means "father" in Arabic-speaking lands - I would easily have taken him for the little boy's grandfather.

The boy was cute, his smile was sweet and his soft brownish hair fluttered under the breath of train ventilation. He prattled unintelligible words to himself, sang childish songs. At times he fell silent and studied with his innocent round eyes the surrounding bustle, the sleepless metropolis and its inhabitants on various errands on a warm Saturday evening. I couldn't get my eyes off of him. Inside, I wished him a long and beautiful life - he felt my gaze and stared back with curious eyes, not knowing that the words I hastily jotted down in my notebook were about him. His father kept on reading his book with enthusiasm.

I thought about the boy for a moment, about the way he made me reach for my bag for a pen and paper. The way he inspired me. I imagined a world depraved of this kind of inspiration - the world of a desk and a chair in a quiet, gloomy room. Of pale paper and a lonely pen that runs back and forth on it, without touching the real world, detached from the things outside of it. This made me think about the importance of seeing other people. I thought about Auster, his long walks on New York streets, his fondness for observing people.

At one station the boy got off his seat and straddled hesitatingly towards a rail handle in the centre of the car. The train was motionless and the boy almost made it, his eyes glowing with adventurous joy. I watched him with a smile, encouraging him to take the challenge with my sympathetic eyes. But right at the moment he extended his white plumpy hand towards the rail the train launched abruptly towards the next station. The boy's face changed immediately: the expression of alert took the place of adventure and he quickly climbed back into the safety of his train seat. The father had at last noticed he was not travelling alone; he picked the boy up into his lap. For the rest of the journey the boy cuddled there, his eyes moving thoughtfully from one commuter to another. He saw me off with his eyes, when I got up and off the train on Tokyo station.