No Tomatoes

Noting the date on this entry, you will have immediately recognised that this is my birthday. It didn’t seem like others had: they had not brought a present dammit. Nothing makes you feel lower than repeated shelling outs followed by gormless grins as friends fail to read one’s ‘where on earth is it’ expression. It turns out there was some logic to this, albeit one I don’t agree with: as everyone in our pack has had one gift, they decided not to go around again this year; dinner and party thought to be enough. That’s a mean way to judge a celebration: I would have partied harder last year had I suspected. Nevertheless, dear Felix and Honda newbies usurped their –ahem –cautious counterparts: I got a pink tie, fuchsia belt, and depending on whether you ask me or Lyndsey, a Union Jack cravat/bandana.

This blog is meant to be about food, so I apologise if it seems a page torn from my diary at times. What I intend to be a lead up, an aperitif to the meal, often dissolves into mumble, and in this instance my latest wardrobe expansion. I really mean to focus on the day: it was superb. Before the disappointment there was some hesitation about going to Kamakura, a town on coast below Tokyo. It is, after all rainy season. I bullishly stated stop worrying –and I wish people wouldn’t. Much healthier just to go with it and roll with what comes. Preparing for the worst (rain) on a beach picnic already dilutes some of the joy of hoping for the best, which is what a birthday is all about.

Part of the plan was to see the Buddha Kamakura is famous for, or in my case be reunited: its about 25 years since I was last mistaken for him as a plump white blue-eyed baby in Bangkok. Mum tells of how she forged her way through well-wishers and worshippers all attempting to place gold on my forehead. Alas these days it is just Mina who worships me, though I note that I have yet to be given gold. Perhaps in another 25 years when I’m round enough again.

We didn’t see Buddha –instead we had awesome sandwiches in a cemetery. That sentence would deserve an exclamation mark, but in Japan one can omit such fripperies. Cool, calm, peaceful, green: graveyards here are not the raven-stalked lands that scratch your fears in Britain. Here, your mind conjures souls not bodies.

By this time we were running late for meeting the others, as I am now for work: damn, I wanted to revel once more in receiving my tie and belt, watching Peter picking at the sashimi (highly enjoyed), and the stream of beers and conversation in a restaurant Yuuki recommended and Mina booked. As everyone else is still talking about the immense tuna steaks almost a week later, I shall not comment that I found them a touch dry. The potato salad however was a perfect accompaniment, but I feel the sashimi worthy of more inches than I have allotted so far. Imagine smoke from a camp-fire in still morning air, not quite rising and at times quite motionless. Now imagine a fish. If possible overlay one upon the other, and you might see our plate of corpse curling to ceiling, stripped of flesh that instead lies piled around with micro-garnish. I recommended it with yuzu paste, which Peter likened to a gin. With that thought, I shall buy this citrus tonight for our drinks, though hoping they won’t taste like fish.