This evening my friend Izumi and I went to a small restaurant in nearby Akasaka to eat poisonous blowfish. Since this may very well be my last blog post before death sets in, I will take a moment to say that I love you all!
Blowfish or “fugu” has been a taste treat in Japan since the medieval period. The best time to eat the dish is in the winter, when the fugu get fat in order to survive the icy waters. The dish is famous due to the poisonous toxins found in certain parts of the meat. If not prepared correctly, the fish meat can retain enough poison to cause death if ingested. Every year a handful of people die from fugu poisoning. Since 1958, fugu chefs have been required by the Japanese Ministry of Health to be officially licensed to serve the meat (this license should be visible in any eatery you dine at) and must also cut the flesh with a special, ultra-sharp fugu knife.
The most poisonous part of the fish is the liver, which cannot be served in Japan. Also, establishments that specialize in fugu are required to dispose of the fish remains in special waste receptacles, so as to not kill any animals or homeless people by mistake. The preparation and serving of fugu is illegal in the United States, so don’t ask for it at your local sushi bar unless you want people to laugh at you.
Izumi didn’t want to go to a fugu joint; that much was clear. She kept asking me to have Korean food or Thai food instead as we set out from work. We arrived at the no-name establishment and went inside. It quickly became apparent that we were the only two people in the entire place, which immediately led Izumi to say “This is because they kill everyone.” I managed a wry grin.
Two elderly ladies came out and brought us tea and water. Next, the chef came over to our table and gave us our last bow. He looked to be in his late sixties, which didn’t help the feeling of uneasiness. As long as I pushed the image of a shaky, spotted, wrinkled hand cutting up the fish out of my consciousness, I was fine.
Izumi told me she wasn’t going to order fugu because she was afraid, and stayed true to her word, ordering a regular sushi dinner instead. I ordered fugu sashimi and grilled fugu. There was also fugu stew, fugu soup, fugu tempura, and fugu Pocky available as well, but I didn’t have enough cash to sample every type. Fugu is very expensive and the set meal featuring ten different varieties cost well over $150. There was even a tank with live fugu swimming around, so you could see your dinner, or see your murderer for that matter.
First up was the fugu sashimi, served with green onions and dipped in soy sauce. The meat was cut paper thin and was white and semi-translucent. For the most part, the texture was extremely soft, but the edges were just firm enough to create a little bit of resistance while chewing.
A skilled fugu chef will leave a trace amount of the poisonous section on the top of the meat so that one receives a slight tingly sensation on their tongue while eating. This was the case with my fugu sashimi, which produced a slight tingly sensation similar to the lingering punch of chili oil on one’s lips. The fugu’s natural flavor is fresh and clean, with just a hint of oil.
Just FYI, if the tingling sensation turns into a numbing sensation, which leads to a shaking sensation, followed lastly by a cold sensation, then you know that they added too much “flavoring.”
I kept trying to offer Izumi thin slices of death sashimi, because I didn’t think it was fair that I should be the only person to die, but she wouldn’t have any, snapping her lips shut and saying “muri muri muri!” which translates into “no way no way NO WAY!” I tried to explain to her the concept of living dangerously, but she shook her head and said “we don’t have that saying in Japanese.”
Oh well…a white boy dies, a Japanese girl lives…fair trade.
Next up was the equally delicious grilled fugu. The chef brought the dish to my seat. I think he wanted an excuse to ask me where I was from. He also brought his atlas and set it down in front of me, so I pointed out Washington State and the City of Seattle.
He grilled the flat pieces of fugu for me over the small flame and than stood within two feet of my face to watch me eat the entire dish. Izumi was holding back laughter at the zoo-worthy Ben Whaley feeding show. Occasionally, I would turn to my side and tell the chef how good I thought everything tasted (this wasn’t a lie). He would beam, smiling ear to ear, and throw one of the remaining pieces of fish onto the fire.
Having already conquered basashi (raw horse meat) and kujira (whale meat), fugu was the only remaining item that I wanted to eat before leaving Japan. And honestly, if it does turn out to be my last meal, eating fugu wouldn’t be so terrible of a way to go.
B.E.W.
No comments:
Post a Comment