I never made a good foodie, because I feel memories of places or people last longer than those of any meal. When traveling to a new country, it feels like a waste of time to spend it on food — because food isn’t fully tied to a place: you can eat sushi in Shanghai — or hotpot in Vegas. Moreover, if I remember any meal, it’s probably because of the setting or the conversation — meaning it may have been over instant noodles. Lastly: even if the meal was great, I can’t really recall the taste anymore. So I never really understood the point of food tourism.

But here I am in Tokyo, with a 22-hour transfer flight — with a plate in front of me that proves me otherwise. There’s a brave soup that is just water with some chopped spring onions and a slice of beef — and I guess it takes some restraint not to add anything more to it and overrule the taste. There’s crispy fried pork unlike I ever had before, and a cold sauce I’m not sure what it is (egg?), plus salad, a dash of mustard, a lemon slice, iced water in a glass, and porcelain bowls that feel right. Even the rice isn’t just normal white rice.

Everything shows diligence, from the jazz music playing to the waitresses. I see the chef behind the glass preparing meals for other guests. Now I understand why people in Japan eat fugu — a fish that if prepared wrong, kills you. I’d trust this guy with my life. Maybe meals are still about people and places, but for once I’m a foodie.