On a Delicate Kohada Strip

A new daughter.  At this age, I oughtn’t to be embarking on such challenges.  But it’s alright.  She’s already an absolutely, wonderful, fully formed adult.  Our son has gotten married, and only a few days after the engagement announcement this is a bit of a surprise, but they are moving to our town and need to get some paper work done to do so, and the deed's been done.  Tonight then, should be a fine evening to celebrate. 

I want fish.  Last night I accompanied my guests from Bangalore to a veg joint, so it's overdue.  I ask and they want fish too.  This should be easy.  They won't be free till late, so my son books a place for nine, which is a lot of hungry time to kill.  I pick at the complementary hotel buffet so I won't be ravenous when I arrive and eat myself into debt.  

Down past Meguro Station and over the canal we turn left, which is new and two hundred yards later I'm dropped off in what looks to be a dark, residential area.  I walk around the building once and twice past one and then another wrong doors before the attendant in the parking lot (Sushi des, kudasai?) shows me where I’m heading.  Rinda is a minimalist, gorgeous atmosphere.  The young chef, Takahashi-san heartily welcomes me to the back corner of the bar, where three seats are waiting and begins to drive the evening for me, laying out a few small pieces of yellow tail sahshimi for me  to sample  

He asks if I like sake.  Of course, I like sake.  Now I have a teardrop vessel and a small cup of dry rice wine.   The young couple haven't arrived yet.  I make small talk with the chef who has English enough for some small sentences and a big warm personality that fills in the gaps.   I'm offered a small piece of tako.  To my reckoning this is one of the least portable of Japanese delicacies.  Every other time I've had octopus in a land beside Japan, it tastes rubber bands. This is splendid.  It’s clear that everything will be splendid.  The bill too, will certainly be splendid.   

Takahashi-san notices me groaning with pleasure and asks if I am enjoying what he is serving up, omakase.  (Hai, hai.  Oishi Oishi) And it occurs to me I should let him know what I actually do adore.  My limited Japanese vocabulary does include a spike of richness when it comes to naming the fish I like to eat.  “Well, as long as you’re asking I do like “saba and aji and kohada and . . . all the slaty fishes please.  This pleases him greatly and tells me that his sardines are really spectacular and gets to work on a delicate kohada strip. 

Now we are a trio.  The evening unfolds in a lovely way.  I’m impressed, as always with my son’s confident Japanese.  And I tell them the truth: that the both look lovely and that they are both very  fortunate.  And I try though one never can stop the world, to fully enjoy each bit of Takahashi-san's omakase journey for the next ninety minutes.  Each new morsel demands glacial consumption and tastes like something God forbade the seminal couple to sample back in the Garden.  And then it happens again. 

Wednesday 12/19/18