Vegetarian Times

The Japanese are strange. I determined this during a trip to Kyoto back in 2006, when it was impressed upon me that as a vegetarian traveler I was privy to a singular experience of Japanese behavior and traditions. Nowhere else in the world, for one thing, have I caused an actual outburst for the simple fact of refusing to eat meat. This arose one afternoon in Kyoto, when a harried friend and I grew tired of walking on the sunbaked pavement, and thankfully turned into a local restaurant. We sat down and, the tea having been served, began the arduous process of explaining my dietary restrictions. It didn't go as planned:

"This is Japan....Japan!" came the shocked voice of one restaurant owner when it was made clear that the all-beef special was not going to fly. As further recrimination, he strode into the kitchen and emerged victorious with his wife in tow: a small and sweet creature with her hair pinned neatly into in a bun. In another lifetime I saw myself benevolently patting her wrist and drawing up a chair for her to join our gathering of world citizens. At the time, however, she ignored any such charitable warmth I emitted, and cast herself as deputy prosecutor, seconding her husband's gesticulations with a series of wise nods and darkening glances in my direction. The latter I found particularly unnerving.

My friend, playing host at the time, gamely began a civilized discussion that, with due time and fluency, would have undoubtedly hit the salient points on freedom of choice, cruelty to animals, health concerns about beef and patron-server relations in the postmodern era. Instead, the exchange quickly dissolved into a 5-round back-and-forth of "no meat...no fish" and "but this is Japan!", with rising vigor on each side. Finally my friend fell back on our strongest defense: "I eat meat! Only she does not," she announced, pointing an incriminating finger my way. Unaware that I had been blacklisted, I smiled widely, hoping to lend a note of cooperation. "Oh! You are like the Japanese! This is Japan; we eat meat" came the delighted response.

Thus diplomacy won the day and goodwill resumed. From that point on, the owner became charm personified. He poured us more tea, cleared the table, and in true Japanese style, repeated our earlier exchange with a series of ill-timed and abortive giggles. His wife eventually presented me a handsome bowl of rice ("just rice?" came a final protest) and an assortment of root vegetables and pickles, neatly tucked into a series of minuscule bowls. I tried to ignore the pickles' resemblance to octopus tentacles (would they dare?), and instead watched as a cauldron of beef was planted in front of my friend, flanked by a side of what I imagine was more beef, fried. While she dove in with chopsticks and a broth spoon, I began my own meal with the delicacy of a trained surgeon.

Such was the luxury of vegetarian cuisine in Japan. I'd like to claim that it was delicious rather than just odd, but I'll at least admit that it was by far the sweeter for having been won.