Sometimes it’s my birthday. This year, though I’d rather have lost a year and gone back to 21, I turned 23. Mom came to visit me in Tokyo, and we celebrated together. However, through my adamant denial that time had progressed, and my silent hope that I could just stay 22 forever, I had neglected to make any substantial plans. So after a relaxed day back in Tokyo, strolling through the busy neighbourhoods, we weren’t sure what to do.

I did some digital sleuthing and settled on a small underground restaurant in Ginza. It had almost no reviews, with the latest from over a year ago. But the few comments that existed were glowing, so I decided to give it a shot and called to make a reservation. 

Mom and I found ourselves sitting across from a nearly silent Japanese chef, separated from his compact, cluttered kitchen only by a low wooden counter. He did not expect any other clients tonight, and as such gave us his complete and undivided attention. He made just a single comment: tonight, we would have no choice. It is a birthday celebration, the food will be to standard, and it will continue on coming, until my tricks are finished. All you have to do is be impressed.

To be fair he didn’t add that last bit, but the sentiment was clearly in his almost imperceptible smirk. Without another sound he started working, with a quickness only made possible through years of experience, fully without a sense of haste. He spun deftly between stove, cutting board, fridge, and sink, assembling tiny displays of mastery, each topped with a dollop of fresh wasabi or a red maple leaf to mark the season.

Both Mom and I felt quite moved to see this man put so much effort, dedication, and love into every last detail of each little plate. All without betraying a single emotion on his concentrated face, simply naming the hand-selected ingredients upon each serving, before returning to his workshop, to continue on the next creation, without skipping a beat.

Only after the final sweet bite, as we applauded and thanked him, did he bow deeply and allow himself a single, fleeting smile, a quiet acknowledgment of our shared joy. Only in Japan.