jiro dreams of sushi smh
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When you see a Tweet you love, tap the heart — it lets the person who wrote it know you shared the love. Add your thoughts about any Tweet with a Reply. Find a topic you’re passionate about, and jump right in. Get instant insight into what people are talking about now. Get more of what you love Follow more accounts to get instant updates about topics you care about. See the latest conversations about any topic instantly. Never miss a Moment Catch up instantly on the best stories happening as they unfold.Shibuya crossing: Keep an eye out for the city's iconic characters – the salary men, the Lolita girls and the black-clad rightwing activists. It is far too early in the morning, my head inflamed and breath sour, in a quiet street of Tokyo's Asakusa district. I should be in bed for hours yet, but couldn't say no to my mother, who lured me here as her date to watch a training session of sumo wrestlers under the tutelage of one of Japan's pre-eminent sumo masters.
Beholding gruesomely corpulent boys in leather thongs as they pant and kick dirt and strain on their immense glutes like birthing hippos, as I scoff Tylenol and antacids and sweat nearly as profusely as they do, is not my idea of a good time.We sit on a mat like second graders, knees to chest. My back can't take it for long and I give Mum the sign and slip out.It's a 30-minute stroll back to the station, along the Sumida River, under the sakura trees, with the locals and their dogs, the footpath strewn with cherry blossom petals, the near horizon dominated by the Skytower and the Asahi Beer Hall (tip: save yourself the entry fee), Philippe Starck's enduring memorial to the 1989 asset bubble. And they're still paying for it. While the PM prays for inflation, Japan's fast fashion giant Uniqlo is slashing its prices, flipping Abenomics the big middle finger. Jiro Ono and his eldest son Yoshikazu Ono, at their famed Ginza 10-seat restaurant Sukiyabashi Jiro, where Joe Aston and his brother Lachy experience "maximum satisfaction".
For a first-timer, which I am, Tokyo is overwhelmingly foreign. Save a trifling American influence (steak, baseball, cheap ciggies), the place shares as much with Western metropoles as it does with Mars, as Sofia Coppola so adorably captured with Lost in Translation (indeed the night before, Mum, my brother and were slamming back Suntorys at the New York Bar atop the Park Hyatt, but no sign of ScarJo or Bill Murray). My senses just couldn't cope with Shibuya crossing, Manga commercials reflected on the surging, melting multitudes, traversing the intersection from every direction, at every angle, an extraterrestrial Times Square, its traffic lights like Moses at the Dead Sea. Food, glorious food The food here has also engulfed my senses, but in a good way. In salubrious Ginza, Lachy and I hit a tempura joint called Ten-Ichi (pricey) for a 24-piece smash-up, our forebears including Gorbachev, Kissinger and Sinatra. In nefarious Roppongi, we slurp ramen at Ippudo, yet more sushi at the Tsukiji fish markets and in rickety Piss Alley we tear yakitori off skewers.
In staid Nihonbashi, we lunch at Yoshino Sushi (bargain), our chef the fifth generation of his family to stand behind the bar since it opened in 1879. In Omotesandō, just off Tokyo's Champs-Élysées, where the street is wide and the shops are fine, we dine at the impeccable Sushi Masuda, then head nearby to Two Rooms, for rosé in the sun, with a view.But today I am heading back to Ginza to meet Lachy. We have a date with destiny. Yes, somehow, I've wangled us a reservation at 10-seater, three-Michelin-starred restaurant, Sukiyabashi Jiro (subject of 2011 documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi). As we are seated, the nerves jangle. Jiro's son Yoshikazu regards us grimly. But these considerations are pushed to the periphery as we devour 19 pieces of culinary perfection. This may be the pinnacle of human achievement thus far.As far as life highlights go, this was better than the time I injected a speedball and endured a torrid threesome with Emily Ratajkowski and Lara Stone at Christian Bale's weekender in Malibu (Prince, MPBUH, was upstairs jamming with Gary Oldman).
The view from the rooms at The Palace Hotel in Tokyo, one of Joe Aston's new favourites. But at least this rapture lasted an entire 19 minutes. Yes, we parted with ¥64,800 ($806) for 19 mouthfuls of grub and a mug of green tea (nope, not a drop of liquor) and, after our 12:30pm sitting, we were halfway back to the hotel by the top of the hour.No holding backLachy barely spoke all afternoon, on the walk back uttering only two words: "maximum satisfaction". Much later, he turned to me and said "I just can't stop thinking about that 20 minutes of ecstasy we just experienced!"And then that night, to the Franco-Japanese eatery, Crown, at The Palace Hotel, where the Aston boys, suited and booted, are in residence. We don't hold back, murdering six courses of foie gras and rouget and sweet breads and French cheese, all the while swilling 2009 Château Margaux. Customers enjoy a variety of cuisine in Omoideyokocho, or "Remeniscenses Alley" - sometimes referred to as Shonbenyokocho (Piss Alley) in Shinjuku.
In The Palace, I have discovered one of the world's great hotels, and it instantly enters my global top 10 (sadly pushing Athens' Grand Bretagne to 11). Most rooms have balconies, a nonpareil in this town, all facing the vast open space (another local rarity) of the Imperial Palace Gardens. In the lobby, I run into Harvey Norman chief Katie Page.After dinner, to the poky few blocks known as Golden Gai, a favela of small bars, where we find an establishment with just seven seats but many more local whiskys, named Zuma, for the Neil Young album.If only we stayed there. Back in Roppongi, we're badgered by Nigerian scammers. "Kama Sutra?" they tender, unaware we'd already had it for lunch. "You want big titties? Entirely by mistake, we duck into an Australian bar. It's ostensible theme is confounding, given the draught beer is Irish, the bartender is Russian, the bouncer is Nigerian and the hookers are Filipina. Other than Lachy and me, there's nothing Aussie about it. Which, I suppose, is exactly why we're here in this strange, strange land.