Speed

When it comes to food, Japan has two speeds - very fast and very slow. Food service can be lightning fast. Sometimes too fast. Sometimes so fast that you wonder if the restaurant tried to guess your order before you even arrived and started cooked six alternatives just to be safe. In the case of chain restaurants like Yoshinoya or Sukiya, it takes me longer to decide which sauce to have with my chicken than it does for the fried bird to be delivered post-ordering. In convenience stores, placed at two hundred metre intervals around the country, attendants sorting stock rush to meet me at the cash register so I don’t have to wait an extra second to get stuck into my pickled plum rice ball.

At other times restaurants move a little slower. On my first night in Onomichi I looked for a place to eat. Onomichi was a small town along the coast of the inland sea. The following night a fireworks festival was scheduled but, by the looks of the streets on my first night, it didn’t seem like many people were going to be attending. The main shopping street was dead quiet with most places closed in the early evening.

I had been in southern Japan a while and had yet to have okonomiyaki, the famous cabbage pancake found around Hiroshima and Osaka. I eventually stumbled on a small, ten-seater restaurant with a man standing behind a long ‘teppan’ (flat grill). This was the type of place I wanted. Despite the absence of any English menu, I made my way inside and took a seat. The previous customers’ plates and cans of beer still sat at the edge of the grill in front of me. A couple arrived at the same time and another man came in soon after them. The restaurant had just gone from zero to five customers. This usually wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

The owner worked meticulously but slowly. I wondered if it had been a while since he had his restaurant half-full. After a while he managed to clear the used plates and handed me a menu. He began cleaning the teppan whilst giving me a chance to read. But the menu, being entirely in Japanese, meant that I did not need time to read it over. Instead I used the time to practise my animal noises and charade skills, anticipating the ordering procedure that would ensue. After a while he came over and, through his limited English, I managed to order. I got the house speciality, the town’s version of okonomiyaki featuring chicken gizzards.

He took everyone else’s order, poured some drinks and began preparing the food. Reaching for his bowl of batter he ladled two circles onto the teppan and gathered some other ingredients while the crepe began cooking. He dropped a mountain of cabbage over each circle and added additional flavourings including sesame and spring onions. He drizzled some batter over the top to keep the ingredients together. He let it cook for a while and refilled my glass of water. On another side of the grill he fried some noodles and the aforementioned gizzards. An egg was fried also and soon all the other ingredients were layered on top of each other before being carefully flipped on to the egg. Every movement was precise, if slow. Japan has two speeds, and this guy was very slow.

A part of me also was wondering why he was only making two portions for four people. I let that thought pass by. Eventually the owner decided the cooking had gone on long enough and he added sauce and dried seaweed flakes over the top of each stack. He dragged each stack onto a pan and transported one to the couple on my left and another to the man on my right. He made a gesture at me that said: a few more minutes. He had not started my dinner yet. I waited as the whole process began again to create my okonomiyaki.

The process did take a while and in the end it tasted very good. But maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe this was how long it took to make a decent okonomiyaki. The next day the crowds for the fireworks festival started arriving around midday. The quiet town of Onomichi was no longer so quiet. I visited a different teppanyaki place for lunch. But this time the same dish I had had the night before was produced in about the time it took the owner from the night before to clear the table. Japan has two speeds and the second okonomiyaki place was very fast.

In the evening thousands of people filled the streets to watch almost an hour of fireworks exploding over the water’s edge. The local Lawson’s convenience store hired extra staff to man the doors and limit the number of people getting inside. A queue ran around the block just to get a doughnut. Groups of students walked around in traditional kimonos alongside other teens in ripped jeans and t-shirts. Food stalls filled the street selling beer, grilled squid, fried octopus balls, yakisoba, slices of pineapple and frozen ice.

When the fireworks started I found myself perched behind a grilled squid vendor, the smell of the charred seafood adulterating my Jewish nostrils.The fireworks display was very well done and full of colour but I found myself transfixed by the squid grill. This was the second fireworks festival I had been to on this trip but the first time I had watched the inner workings of a shellfish fry cook. I had about as much chance of becoming a squid chef as I did a fireworks technician but that didn't stop me from watching the cook intently. He moved the animals to different parts of the grill, controlling the temperature and only ever cooking the squid on one side. He moved fast. He dunked each skewered squid in sauce before handing it to the customer. Japan has two speeds, and the squid cook was very fast.