And found this interesting sign, among others.
There were dozens of little restaurants, literal holes in the wall, with a curtain draped over the door and a few scrawled characters to tell you what the place served. We saw one noodle shop with about six seats, with a line of salarymen and teens that stretched out the door, broke apart to divert around a parking garage entrance, and continued to the next corner. We wanted to eat here, but the wait was too long. We kept walking and just a few blocks away found another tiny counter with eight seats, full of businessmen slurping bowls of noodles. We were first in line.
We didn’t know we were about to have our best meal in Japan. After about a five minute wait, we edged into the tiny shop, managing two seats at the counter next to one another. I watched nervously as a hunchbacked white-haired chain-smoking old bear tossed sugar, sloshed soup into bowls, and cracked eggs over a huge pan of chahan, fried rice. His small wife handed out glasses of water and expertly flicked bamboo shoots into the line of bowls, distributing them among the patrons. Our bowls of stock were too hot to drink at first and the salaryman beside me was halfway through his while I was still tentatively patting my slice of pork. First bites of everything and D and I exchanged looks and started to eat in earnest.
Sweet, tangy bamboo, savoury rice, salty pork and a dark, rich stock…I hadn’t learned yet to slurp my noodles, but I practically inhaled them. D and I were out in ten minutes, having had the best ramen of our lives. I'm drooling as I write this blog...A line had formed outside by the time we left.
We walked to our first sightseeing stop, the Imperial Gardens east entrance, and strolled up and down the paths among the flowers with businessmen and couples and a few Japanese tour groups. The gardens were very carefully arranged to make use of hills and corners so that, peering into a koi pond, you would never see the path through the irises that lay just a few feet to one side.
And we rested and enjoyed some refreshing beverages...
We hopped the subway to Ginza, the fancy shopping district, and ducked into the Muji department store. Muji is like IKEA: huge, and you can buy pretty much anything. We reserved bike rentals for the next day—we had the option of three gears or “automatic”, which apparently means the bike changes its own gears, and costs a bit more—then headed straight for the Japanese National Tourist office, on the tenth floor of a nondescript building.
Ginza crossing...
We sat at a counter, in a big room full of brochures and pamphlets and maps, with an old retired volunteer, delighted to practice his English. We were horribly disappointed to learn we had missed Sumo Wrestling tournaments by just a few days. While our helper drew little maps and carefully printed the names of places we wanted to see, the lady at the next counter, who apparently spoke better English, kept popping over silently to slip more pamphlets under his arm and sometimes add a few well-chosen words in whichever language necessary.
Now rather exhausted, we walked around the streets, looking at all the lights and stores, until it started sprinkling rain. We headed back to our hotel. Most of the restaurants around seemed busy, so we entered the most popular looking one, hoping for a repeat experience of lunch. Unfortunately, it was full of smoke, and turned out to be more of a drinking bar with yakitori, little dishes of kebabs that are usually salty to keep the patron drinking. We were too tired to look somewhere else, but reached a new setback: there was no English menu. Darryl managed to order us some pork and chicken kebabs, and the bartender presented us with a tiny salad each, with a raw egg on top. He mimed stirring the egg in, so we both did, and then he watched eagerly while we dipped our spoons and each took a tiny taste of the slimy stuff—then each pushed our bowl away. By hand signals, I managed to ask for a glass of cherry liquor but the bartender, who seemed to like us, gave me a taste of the liquor then reached under the counter and brought out a huge nondescript bottle fill of a delicious liquor that tasted like apricots. I much preferred the second one.
A scary sign advertising noodles outside a shop...
So, smokey and full if not satisfied, we went back to our tiny hotel room and bed. The room was so small that Darryl had to leave his big, hard-walled camera suitcase lying across the front hallway, so to exit the room, we had to clamber over it. This would be a theme in all of our Western style hotels.
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