It is enough to say that this city is about the pleasure of taste. You can go the overwhelming, extravagant route, or the unassuming, down-to-earth eatery just around the corner.
Which is how I found myself one night during my first visit. Alone, hungry, and very confidently relying on Google Maps, searching for the “best restaurants near me”. There were easier options, of course. I could have gone to a well-loved ramen chain everyone adores, ordered something predictable, and been perfectly satisfied. But there is always a certain stubbornness that appears at times like this – that if you just walk a little further, there might be something better waiting. So I kept walking.
Not hyped or photographed to death. Not TikTok discover. Not Instagram discover. Real-life, unexpected goodness.
Fast forward a few months later, and I am back in Tokyo – with my husband in tow and with a very different kind of determination. This time I was almost rigid with meals – I had lists, scribbled notes, recommendations, saved pins. I wanted to get my hands on everything. To eat as much as I possibly could. A tempura lunch here, a cozy winter dish there, a small pilgrimage out to the suburbs in search for the “perfect” tonkatsu, and for good measure, a wagyu spot in demand it took a month or two to lock down. At one point, it felt like a feeding frenzy, going from one meal to the next, until we were still full by the time the next one came around.
And somehow, in between all that, Tsukiji is one of those places we always end up going back to whenever we’re in the city. Almost automatic at this point. But if I’m being candid, I was never really a fan of standing around the market itself. I mean, I get it… the energy, the chaos, the dizzying amount of choices around you. It feels like some kind of ongoing party you’ve walked into. But it can also be a bit much. The long queues, the confusion of trying to work out which line belongs to which stall, or if it’s even worth it. There’s dried fish, seaweed, shirts, keychains, and those very serious looking kitchen knives that make you feel like you should probably know more about fish than you do.
We’ve done our fair share of omakase / kaiseki too – and don’t get me wrong, I love it. Those beautifully choreographed experiences, especially when the chef is so clearly, almost obsessively, passionate about what they do. But some days, you’re just not in the mood for all that formality. On those days, my husband has a very clear philosophy: he would like to order four pieces of otoro nigiri without explanation, justification, or the mild social pressure of anyone raising an eyebrow. So yes, you want middle ground. So we went in search of something halfway between the two.
On this days, my husband has a very clear philosophy: he would like to order four pieces of otoro nigiri without explanation, justification, or the mild social pressure of anyone raising an eyebrow.
And that’s how we found ourselves in front of a small, unassuming brown restaurant, a narrow carpet leading us inside. Once inside, we were shown to a booth, each with its own little grill. Immediately intimate, immediately unpretentious. Specialty: grilled fish.
What can I say… it felt like discovering a secret level of eating you didn’t know you were allowed to access. It began with cuttlefish. (At the time I thought it was just an interesting little appetizer. But after having a lovely encounter with cuttlefish in Coron, I don’t think I can eat them anymore.) Then came the rice. Two bowls, sticky, warm, lightly seasoned with vinegar, and topped with what can only be described as a ridiculous amount of sea urchin and salmon roe.
And then the tuna. Big, fatty pieces. He marinates it in soy sauce, rolls it around, and then places it on the grill. You watch it, you really watch it. The smoke starts rising, slow and almost teasing, and suddenly you’re completely invested in this piece of fish like it’s going to change your life. And when you think you can’t wait any longer, he takes it off and places it on top of the rice. Like a crown jewel of a Harry Winston collection. You take a bite, a bit of everything at once because it feels wrong not to. The salmon roe is the first to give in. It pops very gently, a small salty burst. Then the uni. Very fresh, almost too fresh in a way. It has that soft, custard-like texture that you don’t really think about until you’re actually eating it. It disappears, leaving this richness in your mouth. And then the tuna. You expect a bit of bite, something firmer to chew on, but there isn’t any. It’s fatty, hot from the grill, deeply savory in that very straightforward way good tuna can be. If someone had told you it was wagyu, you probably won’t argue.
More fish comes out. Red snapper sashimi. Tuna cheek sashimi. Then, more grilling. Conger eel. Different cuts of tuna in all levels of fattiness, even fugu (blowfish). At this point you’re just eating. No overthinking. No asking question what fish is what. Otoro, obviously. Clams. Cold noodles at the end. Dessert comes after, but by then you’re already in that full, dazed state.
And maybe that's the appeal. You come in with your habits, and leave with a few of them rearranged.
And in the end, it isn’t just food. For people who prefer things to arrive as expected and behave accordingly, this way of eating can feel a touch off-kilter. Nothing is ever fixed, and nothing really repeats the same way. And maybe that’s the charm of it. You come in with your habits – what you order, how you eat, what you avoid – and leave with a few of them rearranged.