The Best Meal I Never Ate

The Best Meal I Never Ate

This story is of the best meal I never ate. If that sounds confusing, I will ask your indulgence and patience – I hope to explain everything soon enough. But, first let me assure you that what is written about here is true. The photographic evidence is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. The experience was real. And, yes, it was funny. Our story begins, as most such stories often do, aboard a bus touring the ancient temples of Kyoto.

A small tangent: Kyoto is known the world over for its magnificent temples. The city was once the capital of the Japanese empire, and its rich cultural history is safely enshrined – literally. These structures are more than houses of worship – visitors can also see manicured gardens, gorgeous architecture and décor, and meditative ponds. In some of these ponds swim coy fish. That is to say, fish who are shy, reserved, and demure. Some of them may be Koi fish as well, but that’s neither here nor there (well, okay it might be there, but we’re getting sidetracked now). The whole experience is quite memorable, and on this particular occasion, I was quite happy to be there.

After the temple tour, our group was to be treated to an authentic Japanese lunch at a nearby inn. We removed our shoes, entered the small bamboo house, and were seated at low tables. Soon, those tables began to fill up with plates and dishes set before us. The kimono-wearing staff moved so efficiently, and seemed so, well, Japanese that I thought that this might be like one of those themed restaurants… like where the waiters dress up like cowboys or renaissance characters or something. But this was the real deal – every Japanese meal cliché I ever conceived of was suddenly right in front of my eyes. Amused, I started to chuckle softy. But as a wise man once said, “Those who chuckle too much get royally screwed.” (Okay, so I’m the wise man who said that, but that’s not the point.) My chuckles stopped short when I remembered another Japanese cliché: the Japanese are seriously offended if a guest refuses or rejects their food. For most—not a problem. But for a table composed of vegetarian Hare Krishna (no meat, fish, eggs, onion, garlic, or mushroom), fasting Jain (no meat, fish, eggs, root vegetables, green leafy vegetables), kosher Jews (no mixing of meat and dairy, no non-Kosher meat, and a host off other restrictions), Canadian allergic (no rice, noodles, pastas, boiled grain), this could spark an international incident and bring Japan into war after 60 years of peaceful existence.

With metaphoric straw between my teeth, I requested a vegetarian meal from my esteemed Japanese hosts. They looked at me with a smile and bow that made it clear that they understood nothing of what I had said. But, true gentlemen and ladies, they brought over an English translator to help. Through the translator we asked for vegetarian and other special options. They became flustered, and in an instant I knew that this feast had probably taken them all day to prepare and that there was no other food in the whole joint. I tried to downplay the whole thing, but by now the word was spreading like a bad rash. Disturbed voices whispered amongst themselves, and some of the organizers began to let us know that we were stirring up problems.

The Japanese hosts informed us of the many vegetarian preps in the dishes before us. “Thank you so much,” I exclaimed a little too eagerly, “This will be just fine.” They seemed appeased for the moment, but we knew that they’d be back to make sure that we weren’t just being polite. Which, if you need to be told, we were. One whiff of the bowls of rice, rolls, soups, and deep fried items, and I felt like I was in a fishing boat. I had been warned about the Japanese using fish oil for almost everything – even bejiteran item – and now I had irrefutable evidence of that shooting up my nostrils.

We quickly and silently decided, unanimously, that eating the food was simply not an option. Now that we had removed the possibility, all that remained was to somehow make it appear to our hosts that we had eaten and eaten well. My eyes scanned my surroundings for something that could aid in our mission. No napkins, no containers, no plastic bags, no open windows. No restroom in walking distance, no Halloween pumpkin basket, no place to hide. I spotted a dustpan at the far end of the room, but to involve it in the plan seemed too ambitious.

Time had joined the big bowls of food to conspire against us. The hands of the my watch seemed to race round and round, and the bowls of food remained untouched. In fact, I am fairly certain that they began to grow in size. Something had to be done, and it had to be done fast. The hosts were circling our way. Quickly grabbing my noodle and soup bowl, I held my breath and stuck my face close enough to the bowl so that it looked like I was drinking the stuff. The icing on the (fish flavored) cake: I made a surprisingly authentic-sounding slurping noise. My quick thinking: in Japan this noise is considered a sign of appreciation and enjoyment, and my hosts broke into big smiles and seemed satisfied enough for now. But what about when we would get up to leave?

And that’s when the group creativity kicked in. Seeing my friend “Carol” was done with her rice, I quickly switched bowls with her. Now I had an empty rice bowl, and she was content in eating another bowl of sticky Japanese rice (fish oil or not). That left the soup and other dishes. “Chirag” began to methodically re-arrange his portions, making holes in piles, drawing intricate patterns with the semi-liquid preps. There was a method to his madness, though: the portions seemed smaller. With no time to spare, and with chopsticks blazing, I began to imitate him. Noodles, I discovered, could easily cover large amounts of other items without appearing to change size. Dry items could absorb wet ones; dumplings could be cut open and re-stuffed with smaller items. Finally, as the finishing touch, I haphazardly re-arranged all my dishes, being sure to spill some stuff of the table in front of me and to leave my chopsticks methodically arbitrary I looked down at the unholy mess in front of me, and for a moment I convinced even myself that I had just eaten a meal. I quickly snapped this picture, and then got up and left, my hosts smiling and bowing as I fled the scene:

The funny thing, though, is that in all of that re-arranging of the food, somehow, my hunger was satisfied. I suppose that one some level, some very deep non-physical level, we did eat that food. Or maybe I just enjoy playing with my food. Either way, mission accomplished.

vbd