Tsubohachi

Anyway, I finally remembered that on an earlier occasion where I was alone at night in Kanagawa, I'd found this little restaurant that was perfect: You sat at a counter, the chefs were behind it cooking and making sushi, and people drank lots of beer. Best of all, the paper placemat was a pictorial menu that had prices in Arabic numerals (as opposed to Japanese), and even the number of calories for each dish. Plus, most of the food was straightforward, like grilled fish, so the picture actually imparted useful information to a goob like me.

We sat down, ordered some beer, and a bowl of edamame (boiled salted-in-the-pod soy beans, you can see them there in the midst of the alcohol). And as we ate, we gradually began to exchange smiles and nods with the man to my left. He spoke no English, and my Japanese is not much more than menu-speak and train talk. At some point we bought a little bottle of Suntory whiskey and shared it with him, so he shook our hands. This was memorable, because he had the largest, roughest, most calloused hand I'd ever felt.

Under construction. Wait here for exciting descriptions of: This guy's hands. This guy's invention. Where this guy worked. Why he is in the picture. What Tsubohachi is. What tsubohachi are. Picture/calorie menus.
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