Entering an Izakaya with Japanese friends means accepting a total stripping of your autonomy. In these noisy, dimly lit taverns, everything moves fast. Orders are shouted out, menus are forests of Katakana and Kanji indecipherable to the novice. I remember that feeling of pure frustration, sitting there, unable to choose what I was going to ingest. I was totally dependent on my colleagues, a passive passenger of my own meal.
But the real dilemma was moral. I had arrived in Japan with my vegetarian convictions. A major strategic error in a country where fish broth (dashi) is everywhere. After two weeks of circling through Konbini curry trays—which all end up tasting like industrial melancholy—I felt my body weakening. I couldn't continue exploring this country if I didn't change my fuel.
I had to resolve to eat fish, then meat. It was an intimate betrayal, a renunciation of my principles for the sake of survival and integration. But once the first step was taken, a world of flavors and sharing opened up. Ordering was no longer just a linguistic challenge; it had become an act of radical adaptation. I understood that to understand Japan, one sometimes has to accept eating one's own convictions.