Orient Excess
"I guess we ought to be glad the fucking Japanese don't provide UN food aid often."

Some people look forward to a meal at a Japanese restaurant with Dickensian zeal, but others absolutely detest Japanese food, its philosophy, and the very molecules that comprise its originators. Such was the pacific gulf that scythed through my brother and I as we were treated to lunch at a very respectable Japanese establishment.

Such restaurants may often be divided into two types (or classes even, with all its associated connotation) – there is the sort with the entire Zen philosophy, of minimalism and simplicity (which are unfortunately often also flawless excuses for non-existent portions and charging for the ambience) and usually situated in more upmarket places patronised by those, with the requisite wallet thickness, who appreciate the value (indeed!) of such painstaking efforts. Then there are the more folkish restaurants emphasising more on the general aspects of Japanese food, i.e. the food itself. Often set up to cash in on the unflinching devotion of the public for things Japanese, such restaurants mimic the function, and not the form, of Japanese cuisine, but of course there has to be the imitation of the setting itself, for without the Japanese style décor to eat in one would feel rather cheated and unsettled, for, even if tatami mats and paper screens don't contribute directly to the taste of the food, to eat, say, in a room with plain walls and normal tables would be like eating foie gras out of a grimy tin can.

Though I enjoy the pleasures of many aspects of Japanese culture, which are multi-various, I've always suffered from what I like to call "Nanking Massacre Syndrome", that is, being a Chinese we should not embrace the vile ways of Japanese running dogs and instead bathe away the shame of our forefathers with the blood of our Japanese enemies! In more rational terms, it means that I've been afraid to publicly and totally embrace the seductions of Japanese culture because of the massive enmity between them and us the Chinese. Of course this is totally feudal and anachronistic that even my grandmother, bless her, who suffered interminably under the Japanese boot, enjoys Japanese cooking in her capacity as a seriously good chef. Still, I didn't overcome the syndrome despite the tendrils of Japanese influence creeping further around me (altogether a rather uniquely Japanese image in itself, albeit one of a rather dubious and shocking nature) in culinary, literary and artistic terms. Even though this influence became rather obvious after a while (being caught dead with a volume of Murakami's) I was always reluctant to profess anything more than a limited fascination for it.

Of course I wouldn't talk about something as mundane as a visit to eat the unfortunately-named and hence enormously popular Japanese paper steamboat if it didn't have some significance of sorts. Because, unfunny and inconsequential as it may seem, like a click of the fingers to awaken someone from a hypnotic trance, the words of a waitress (it is rather odd how the nicest of restaurants often have some of the ugliest staff) induced me to snap out of my syndrome. The words themselves are forgettable, but it led me of course to realise that we can have our choice picks of the overflowing global cultural smorgasbord without feeling guilt like having a Pizza Hut buffet on the Atkin's diet. My concern, about historical undertones, amongst others, though inseparable from the culture itself, does not limit us from plucking and enjoying what we adore about it like juicy ripe fruits from a bush. In fact, it is how most cultures have been built up; taking things from here and there, from friends and foes, because the aspects and facets of cultures are, in that sense, without creed or nationality, which we tend to try and impose on any, every iota of it.

So, breathing much easier now, I relished every bit of fishy goodness, and with a renewed vigour, felt a lot more open and earnest about my inclinations towards the bits and bobs of Japanese culture that I enjoy and constantly draw from. Of course, my brother was bubbling in his anger like the gentle pieces of tofu in the stock.