Finally. The day had finally dawned when I was destined to open the doors of the famous Momiji restaurant. Although the word restaurant might not be very appropriate here. It is the alpha and omega of the real Japanese community, where you can meet a simple carpenter, a housewife, the director of a company with a turnover of hundreds of millions of dollars, or a famous lawyer, politician or television star. Everyone will be sitting at the same table and will be able to find a common language, because there is a real zen, a presence here and now.
Momiji is a suppon ryori a turtle eatery. You won’t find anything special about this place in the annals of the internet because it’s like a legend that spreads by word of mouth. I can only mention that Momiji has appeared on the blue TV screens eighteen times.
Momiji can be written about from all angles in all contexts: the restaurant as a place for socialising and socialising, the economic model, the cuisine of Japanese dishes, the cuisine of the weirdest dishes, etc.
The clock strikes seven, I wave the noren (curtains) with my hand and take a step inside, closing the door behind me. Before I can get my foot in I hear the door slide back. Oh yeah, it’s quarantine now, it’s like ventilating the rooms and avoiding san mitsu (gatherings of people in confined spaces). Today,yesterday and tomorrow the restaurant is fully booked.
I kneel next to the old man on my left. He pretends not to be interested in who has come. I think, wait a minute, I know I’m terribly curious where this white-faced has come from. Five minutes later, the question comes – so where is the gentleman from. I say Lithuania. Aaa, Baruto. Shit, it’s those Estonians again. Baruto is a former sumo wrestler who has now been elected to the Estonian Parliament. No, I’m not, ritoania. Ah, says the old man with five teeth, Baruto sankoku, the three Baltic States. Correct. The old man greedily takes a sip from a small mug of the light brownish solution and continues to amaze with his knowledge. I help him remember – Gorbi (that’s how the Japanese abbreviate Gorbachev’s surname) – you stood in front of the tanks. Sipping obscure liquid again. He tells me I am already 79, and in a couple of months I will be eighty. Meanwhile the other kleints listen quietly and assess the situation.
OK, time to order something. I look at the master and say toriaezu nama biru – beer first. Ok, the tap turns. A piece of paper is lying on the table, torn out, and the foreman reads, here’s what you’re going to order. The prices are stuck in time. I’d say some thirty years ago. Inflation hasn’t found its way into this eatery yet. Hm. So what to order, half the menus are kind of vague. I order fugu (poisonous fish) breast fried in oil and tuna sashimi. Five minutes later the fugu delicacy arrives. Old man gives an advice, try the Momiji 45 omelette. Hm, what is this 45, I ask the new interlocutor. Here the master turns around and says 45 years. Next year I will be 46 when I cook. Aha, I see.
The owner of the five teeth on the left – and you don’t have eggs and omelettes over there in Europe – asks me fundemental questions to my face. I feel the whole inn brightening up. Miyazawa san – replies the costumed third speaker, a director of some sort, and you know the difference between a Spanish, French and Chinese omelette. And gives my colleague a culinary lesson. Ten minutes later, the subject is exhausted. I repeat the beer.
Miyazawa san do you visit Momiji often? The owner of seven teeth squints his eye and starts trolling Miyazawa san. He sits here every day. He’s been coming here from four pm. While the master is still resting from yesterday, Miyazawa san will open the restaurant for him and pour himself a drink. My colleague on the left likes this assessment. He sighs as he straightens his chest – I’m a poor pensioner, if I don’t get a drink for myself, who will. I know those pensioners. A million euros in the bank. The beer is finished. I turn to the master – please give metthe same thing here as Miyazawa. It looks delicious, such a light brownish colour, I think in my mind I’m going to swap sake. The master looks at me and says, take a Momiji cocktail. Said done.
I watch the master. A true professional at his job. I guess he’s about eighty years old. Momiji opens at about five o’clock in the evening and stays open until two in the morning. There is no chair for the master to sit down, and there is no time. I am most interested in watching the production of the brownish cocktail. He opens the fridge and takes out a plastic bag. Master starts to break up the ice block with a fork of some kind. aaa. the ice cube is frozen, and I get some ice cubes in my cocktail. Then he adds a splash of sake. The fridge door opens again.
The master takes out a bottle of sprite. He unscrews the cap and drops something into my cocktail. Miyasawa san on the left, eagerly looks at me. I didn’t smell alcohol. I see some reddish texture oozing in my glass. Nothing special. Turtle’s blood cocktail. I can feel the haemoglobin sniffing with the allocochol. Miyazawa san – how do you like that? Yeah, very good, I like it very much. Like some kind of turtle vampire. I smell my mug it’s really like the smell of bloodied fish. Miyazawa san- I make about ten cups of this every day. Poor pensioner.
Time for tonight’s hero. The Master pulls the polythene bag out of his fridge again. This time it’s a turtle that demands our attention. So cute. The other customers are getting lively too. One of them leans over the table and sticks his finger out and says – look. He runs his forefinger along the turtle’s head, and the turtle stretches his neck as far as he can and tries to catch and bite his finger. The master wraps the hero in plastic and puts him back in the refrigerator to cool.
I shake my cerebellum. I say, Mr. Master, can we have some of the turtle dishes. Of course you just have to make a reservation the night before. It takes at least two hours to prepare the turtle platters. And what are these dishes, I ask a newcomer to the inn. Well, first the turtle sashimi (raw meat), then something fried and finally the soup.
Yeah, time to update the alcohol ration. I’m looking at the fugu within atsukan (hot sake). I grab a pencil and write fugu atsukan. Master grills those skeletons of gutted fugu and then pours hot sake over them. That’s fugu atsukan for you. The only thing is that you have to baste it at least a few times, because that’s when the fantastic aroma comes out. While I’m already enjoying the atsukan in my mind the master doesn’t miss the opportunity to patrol Miyazawa san. He says Miyazawa san never ordered a fugu dressing himself, only Mimijo cocktails. Miyazawa san once again retorts, “I’m a poor pensioner.”
