Kyoto knows what it is.

It has known for a thousand years and has no particular interest in updating that information for your benefit. You show up, it continues being Kyoto, and eventually you either get it or you go home with photographs.

I almost didn’t get it.

The first day felt like Epcot. Golden Temple behind a line of raised phones. Kiyomizudera with its view half-blocked by someone’s selfie stick. Arashiyama bamboo corridor shoulder to shoulder with strangers who flew twelve hours to look at the same bamboo. The city performing itself for an audience it quietly resents.

Then midnight happened.

Fushimi Inari at midnight

Someone warned me about the wild boars and the spiders. I didn’t take it seriously until I was forty minutes up the mountain and something moved in the dark between the torii gates. Then a spider the size of my hand crossed the path at eye level.

Then the boar.

I filmed it. I don’t know why. Four meters away, rooting at the base of a gate, and it looked up with eyes that have no interest in negotiating. It took one step forward. I took three back. We reached an understanding.

The air the whole way up was completely still. Peaceful in a way that felt conditional. Like the mountain was tolerating me, watching from every direction, waiting to see if I deserved to be there. A thousand eyes and none of them visible.

That’s the real Fushimi Inari. The one that doesn’t make the postcard.

Tenjin-san and the morning logic

The 25th of every month, Kitano Tenmangu opens its gates to one of the oldest flea markets in Japan. Antique ceramics next to street food next to second-hand kimonos next to a man selling things that have no category. The logic is accumulation, not curation. I bought nothing and stayed too long. That’s the correct way to do it.

Nishin soba at Okaru

Kyoto is landlocked. Surrounded by mountains on three sides, cut off from the coast, the city spent centuries solving a problem that coastal Japan never had: how do you eat fish when the fish is already dead by the time it reaches you.

The answer was preservation. Salting, drying, pickling. Techniques that didn’t just keep food alive but transformed it into something the fresh version could never be. Kyoto cuisine is built on this logic. The distance from the sea wasn’t a limitation. It was an instruction.

Nishin soba is that instruction made into a bowl.

Dried herring, not fresh, simmered low for hours until the salt loosens and the flesh softens into something between firm and yielding. The protein concentrates. The fat renders slowly into the braising liquid. What comes out is a piece of fish that tastes more like itself than it did when it was alive, which sounds like a paradox until you eat it.

Laid over buckwheat noodles in a dashi broth so clean it could pass for water until it hits the back of the throat. The herring sweet from the simmering, almost candied, which sounds wrong until the dashi pulls everything into focus and you realize the bowl was engineered for exactly this pairing. The sweetness of the fish needs the restraint of the broth. The broth needs the weight of the fish. Neither works without the other.

Okaru has been running this counter since 1927. Standing room. No theater. A bowl that exists because a landlocked city figured out what to do with a dried fish a thousand years ago and never had a reason to change it.

Cheap. Perfect. No interest in being anything else.

Myobu no Otodo — obanzai

There is a category of restaurant that exists in every serious food city and is almost impossible to explain to someone who has never sat inside one. Not because the food is complicated. Because it is so exactly right that any description sounds like an understatement.

Otodo is that restaurant for Kyoto.

I found it by accident.

I was walking Gion looking for somewhere to eat, the way you do when you’re alone in a city that doesn’t owe you anything, reading doors, reading faces. Most places were full or closed or had the particular energy of somewhere that would rather you kept walking. Then I found a chef standing at his own door. Not a host, not a sign, not a reservation widget. The chef himself, in his apron, standing at the entrance of his restaurant hoping someone would walk in.

He waved me in without a word.

He didn’t speak English. My Japanese began and ended at arigato gozaimasu, which I must have said forty times that night because it was the only tool I had. Everything else went through our phones, his Japanese into my English and back again, two people having a real conversation through a translation app at a small counter in Gion. It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did.

He was not flashy. Nothing about him performed craft. He just had it, the way certain people carry competence so completely it becomes invisible. Quiet hands. Exact movements. A kitchen that ran at the temperature of someone who has been doing this for a very long time and has no interest in doing it any other way.

Obanzai is the cuisine Kyoto families actually eat. Not the lacquered twelve-course performance tourists book six weeks out. The daily stuff. Small dishes, seasonal, techniques passed sideways through generations rather than down from a mountain. The cooking of thrift elevated into philosophy: nothing wasted, nothing overworked, nothing competing for attention it hasn’t earned.

The meal opened with the Suminoe Beautiful Dry. Miyagi, founded 1845, pressed in early spring, cold-aged through summer, the brewery in no hurry to change anything. A sake that calls itself dry and means it. It cut through everything that followed without erasing any of it.

Umekobusha. Before the food, this. Plum, kelp, bonito steeped into a savory drink that lands somewhere between tea and broth. Kyoto has been drinking this before meals for centuries. It is not an amuse-bouche. It is the palate being told to pay attention.

Suguki. Pickled turnip from a specific variety grown only in Kyoto, cured in its own lactic fermentation without vinegar. The sourness is alive, not sharp. It builds slowly. This is the oldest pickle in the Kyoto canon and it arrives first because it is the key that opens everything else.

Dashimaki tamago. Rolled omelette made with dashi folded in at every layer. Softer than tamagoyaki, more liquid at the center, the egg and the broth becoming one thing instead of two. In the wrong hands it falls apart. Here it held its shape and gave way at exactly the right moment. The technique takes years to own and this kitchen owned it.

Hirame with amakuchi shoyu. Flounder, firm and clean, the flesh translucent at the center. Served with the sweeter soy sauce style of Kyushu rather than standard shoyu. The difference matters. Amakuchi shoyu doesn’t compete with a delicate white fish. It frames it. The fish tasted more like itself with this sauce than it would have with anything sharper.

Amadai. Tilefish, the most Kyoto fish there is. Wakasa Bay origin, the traditional supply route that fed this landlocked city from the coast for centuries. Prepared wakasayaki style, scales on, roasted until the skin blisters and the scales puff and crisp into something between chip and cracker while the flesh underneath stays completely intact. You eat both together. The contrast in texture is the whole point.

Katsuo tataki. Skipjack tuna, seared hard on the outside, raw within, served with ponzu, ginger, garlic. The Suminoe Beautiful Dry was the right sake up to this point. Then the katsuo arrived and it wasn’t enough. The dish needed something with more body, more weight behind it, something that could hold its own against the char and the fat and the acid of the ponzu all at once. The Tamagawa Junmai Ginjo Iwai from Kinoshita Shuzo stepped in. Kyotango, Philip Harper brewing, Iwai rice, 2023BY. Fuller, rounder, a texture you feel before you taste. The tataki and the Tamagawa found each other and the table shifted.

Gyusuji nikomi. Beef tendon braised low and slow in dashi, soy, mirin and sake until the collagen collapses completely and the whole thing becomes gelatinous, deeply savory, the fat and the broth indistinguishable from each other. This is izakaya food at its most honest. No pretense. Just time and heat applied to a cheap cut until it becomes something extraordinary. The Tamagawa carried this too, its weight matching the weight of the dish without either one winning.

I said arigato gozaimasu when I walked in. I said it when each dish arrived. I said it when the sake was poured. I said it when I left. It was the only word I had and I meant it every time.

The chef nodded each time like he already knew.

Obanzai at this level is not modest food performing modesty. It is completely confident cooking that has nothing to prove and proves everything. And sometimes it finds you standing outside on a Gion street, recognizes that you need to eat, and waves you in from the door.

Marushin Hanten

Between Otodo and Gion Karyo I made a stop I didn’t plan. Tianjin rice is a Japanese interpretation of a Chinese dish that China doesn’t recognize. Crab egg fried rice, soft omelette on top, thick ankake sauce poured over everything. It belongs to no single country and tastes completely at home in Kyoto. The gyoza were correct. The Gyo-sen beer was colder than it needed to be and exactly as cold as I needed it. Sometimes the detour is the meal.

Izuu: anago and sabazushi

Izuu has been pressing sabazushi on Shijo Street since 1781. Mackerel cured just enough to concentrate without disappearing, pressed with vinegared rice, wrapped in kombu that adds a depth you taste before you identify it. Sliced thick. The anago alongside it braised so soft the chopsticks barely needed to work. Two preparations refined for two hundred and forty years. No theater. No explanation. Just the thing itself, exactly as it should be.

Gion Karyo: kaiseki

Kaiseki is not a tasting menu. A tasting menu is a chef’s monologue. Kaiseki is a conversation structured by centuries of protocol between what the season has available and what a trained kitchen can do with it.

Gion Karyo sits on Hanamikoji and operates as though the tourists outside are a rumor. Counter seating. Kitchen three feet from your face. A traditional kamado at the far end of the room cooking your rice over fire in the final act of a meal that has been building toward it for two hours. The choreography behind the counter is not performed. It is practiced. These cooks have been moving around each other long enough that the kitchen has its own grammar.

Suzuki in dashi. Sea bass poached to the exact temperature where the proteins set but the moisture hasn’t left. White fig for the tartness underneath its sweetness, doing acid’s job without announcing itself. Walnut miso puree as the fat and the depth. A pickled flower that wasn’t decorative. Nothing at Gion Karyo is decorative. First course, full thesis.

Amadai suimono. Tilefish, chingensai, yuzu peel. The cook told me to drink first then eat. The dashi was so clean it almost wasn’t there, which is how you know it took days to make. Yuzu vapor hit the nose before the bowl reached the lips. The Japanese understanding of smell as part of eating predates the Western word for it by several centuries. This course was proof.

Maguro and hamachi from Nagasaki. The hamachi fat from cold water. The maguro the deep red of something recently alive. Shiso flower set in ponzu gelée, not as garnish but as the controlling element of the whole plate. You eat the gel with the fish and the bite becomes something no single ingredient can be alone. This is what kaiseki does. Not addition. Multiplication.

Kabu with daikoku shimeji. Turnip braised to the exact moment before it surrenders. Shimeji with a bite clean enough to hear. Kuzu-thickened dashi underneath, milled wheat for texture, ginger because someone decided ginger was what was needed and they were right. No protein. Required none. This dish made every vegetable dish I have ever cooked feel like it was missing the point.

Hotate with braised eggplant and seaweed. Scallop sweet and barely cooked. Eggplant that had taken on the braising liquid until it tasted like the sauce. Seaweed adding the ocean back into a dish that had moved away from it. Shoyu at the end tying everything into one idea.

Satsuma-imo. Sweet potato. Alone. No explanation offered, none needed. Sometimes a kitchen sends you a single perfect thing and the confidence of that gesture says more than a composed plate ever could.

Kamo jibuni. Duck sliced thin, no sauce, no braising liquid pooled underneath. Dry in the way that only makes sense when the meat itself has enough to say. The jibuni preparation coats the duck in starch before cooking, which here produced a faint, almost imperceptible film on each slice that sealed the juices inside rather than letting them run. You got the duck concentrated into itself. No reduction. No glaze. Just the animal, treated with enough precision that it needed nothing added to it. A Kanazawa dish inside a Kyoto kitchen, stripped to its minimum and somehow more itself for it.

Anago under puffed brown rice. Conger eel breaded in puffed brown rice and deep fried. The crust shattered on contact, each grain of rice holding its own air pocket, the whole thing collapsing in sequence rather than all at once the way breadcrumbs do. The eel underneath stayed completely soft, the heat of the fry never reaching the center hard enough to tighten it. Blistered sweet pepper alongside for the only char in the entire meal, placed here deliberately after two hours of nothing scorched. Hondashi underneath so precise and so deep I wanted to ask them to remove everything and just bring me the broth in a bowl with nothing in it.

The puffed rice as breading is the move. It is lighter than panko, more honest than flour, and it carries a toasted grain note that connects the crust back to the rice that closes the meal twenty minutes later. Nothing at this counter is accidental.

Sake meshi in oden, ikura, negi. A cook came to my counter mid-service to offer three options for the main. Chicken and potato. Salmon. Sardines with raw yolk. I told him to choose. He chose salmon without hesitation. Sake rice cooked in oden broth, ikura on top, negi. Miso soup with okra. Sunomono of kombu, daikon and eggplant to begin the descent. He was right. He knew before he asked.

Kiwi, nashi, kaki, apple jelly. The palate used hard for two hours, returned to zero in four bites. Cold, clean, nothing fighting anything. The meal’s final argument: even the ending was designed.

This is the Broadway of meals. The china, the lacquerware, the ceramics from four prefectures, the binchotan, the kamado, the choreography behind the counter. A whole production designed to be tasted, not watched. You sit down and two hours later you stand up a different cook.

The rule held

Kyoto doesn’t need you to like it.

But if you stop performing your own itinerary long enough to let the city choose, it will hand you midnight shrine mountains and a boar that almost decided your trip was over. A counter in Gion where a chef picks your rice course. A mackerel pressed two centuries before you were born. Obanzai that tastes like someone’s grandmother made it because someone’s grandmother invented it.

The crowds are real. The Epcot feeling is real. Go anyway. Go at midnight. Eat what the city tells you to eat.

Then get on the train to Osaka.

Cook’s Notes: Kyoto

Kyoto performs for tourists and ignores them simultaneously. The move is to find the edges. Midnight at Fushimi Inari. The 25th at Tenjin-san. A standing noodle bar open since 1927. A pressed mackerel unchanged for two hundred and forty years. And then, once, the full production. Gion Karyo, Hanamikoji, counter seats. Kaiseki from start to finish. Let them choose your rice course. Trust the cook. The city will teach you everything it knows if you stop trying to photograph it.

Kyoto Rec List 📍(click)

OKARU (おかる) Nishin soba since 1927. Standing counter. Order: nishin soba.

FUSHIMI INARI (伏見稲大社) Go at midnight. Bring a light. Mind the boars.

TENJIN-SAN MARKET (天神さん) 25th of every month, Kitano Tenmangu. Come early. Buy nothing. Stay too long.

IZUU (いづう) Shijo Street since 1781. Order: sabazushi and anago.

MYOBU NO OTODO (命婦のおとど) Obanzai in Gion. Order whatever is seasonal. Drink: Tamagawa Junmai Ginjo Iwai.

MARUSHIN HANTEN (丸心飯店) Tianjin rice, gyoza, Gyo-sen beer. In that order.

GION KARYO (祇園かりょう) Hanamikoji. Counter seats. Let them choose your rice course. The rest takes care of itself.

The train from Kanazawa drops you into a different version of Japan.

Smaller. Quieter. Older in a way that doesn’t perform itself.

Takayama sits in the Hida mountains, surrounded by cedar and pine, cut off from the coast, cut off from the cities, running on its own logic for centuries. The streets in the historic district look less like preservation and more like nobody ever got around to tearing them down. Which somehow makes them feel more honest.

The plan was simple.

One night. One dish. One piece of Hida beef, the kind of marbled protein that makes every other beef feel slightly dishonest. Then Kyoto.

That plan lasted exactly one bowl.

Takumiya Yasugawa The bowl that cancelled a train

Hida beef doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t need to.

The mabushi arrived as a lacquered bowl of rice, the beef laid across the top in thin slices, still holding their shape, marbled lines running through them like a precious stone cut open for the first time.

Then the ritual started.

You scoop rice and beef into a separate bowl. Broth poured over. Scallions. Pickled turnip. Umeboshi, which cuts through the fat with the kind of acid that makes you realize the dish was incomplete a second ago.

Each component lands in sequence and the bowl becomes something else entirely with every addition. The fat from the beef moves into the broth. The umeboshi sharpens everything. The pickled turnip gives texture where everything else is giving in.

It is interactive in the way that only the best dishes are. You are not eating what the kitchen built. You are finishing it yourself.

One bowl and the train to Kyoto became a problem for later.

Miyagawa Morning Market The city before the city wakes up

Takayama runs two morning markets. Jinya-mae in front of the old government building, Miyagawa along the river.

Miyagawa is the one worth the early alarm.

Local farmers. Pickled everything. Handmade crafts mixed in with produce the way it should be, not separated into categories for tourist convenience. An older woman handed me a gohei mochi without much ceremony.

Gohei mochi is a regional thing that doesn’t travel. Balls of rice cake pressed around a flat wooden skewer, coated in a walnut and soy glaze, then grilled until the outside catches slightly and the coating darkens into something between sweet and savory and smoky.

It is breakfast food that would embarrass most desserts.

The kind of thing that exists because a region figured out exactly what it wanted and never needed to explain it to anyone else.

Hirase Sake Brewery Thirty minutes and as many sakes as you can manage

Hirase is the oldest sake brewery in Takayama.

They walked me through Homare rice, the local variety used in their brewing. Shorter grain, higher starch, developed specifically for this elevation and climate. The mountains here create cold, clean water which is most of what sake actually is.

Then they handed me thirty minutes and an open tasting table.

Sake that cold, in a mountain brewery, in the middle of the afternoon, operates differently than sake at a restaurant. The temperature hits you first. Then the texture, which is never something you expect to think about with sake until you’re tasting four in a row in the place where they were made.

Light expressions. Richer ones. A few that landed somewhere between the two.

I took notes I probably can’t fully reconstruct now.

The important part is that Hirase understood what they were doing, had been doing it for a very long time, and had exactly zero interest in overexplaining it.

The mountains take care of the rest.

Hidagyu Maruaki The dish I didn’t know I was there for

Nobody told me about hoba miso before Takayama.

I found out about it after the beef already had me reconsidering my itinerary.

The setup is almost too simple to describe. A dried magnolia leaf placed over a charcoal grill. A spoonful of miso paste spread across the center. Enoki mushrooms laid on top. Then you wait.

Takayama is a wood town. Lumber, carpentry, joinery. The forests up here have been feeding the city’s identity for as long as the city has existed. The magnolia leaf is not a coincidence. It is the region thinking through its own landscape and finding a solution.

The heat from the charcoal does two things at once. It dries and chars the edges of the leaf, which releases a faint resinous smokiness that has no equivalent in any other cooking vessel. And it slowly renders everything on top, the mushrooms releasing their moisture, the miso beginning to caramelize at the edges while the center stays soft and glossy.

Eventually the fat from the mushrooms and the miso collapse into each other.

The leaf acts as a flat top. Direct heat, contained flavor, no separation between the fire and what’s cooking.

You eat it off the leaf.

There is something almost prehistoric about it and completely refined at the same time.

This was the dish that made me understand what Takayama actually is.

The rule holds

Kanazawa taught me to let the region decide.

Takayama enforced it.

I came for one piece of beef. The city handed me a bowl that rewrote the afternoon, a market that handed me breakfast off a stick, an old brewery with no interest in performing humility because it doesn’t need to, and a dish cooked on a leaf at Hidagyu Maruaki that has probably looked exactly like this for three hundred years.

Takayama is not a detour.

It is the kind of place that makes you question the logic of wherever you were originally going.

The train to Kyoto eventually left.

Late, obviously.

Cook’s Notes — Takayama

One dish was the plan.

The beef cancelled it.

Four things ended up defining this stop.

Hida beef mabushi that earns every gram of its reputation. Gohei mochi from a woman at the river market who didn’t need to explain it. Sake from a brewery older than most cities take credit for. Hoba miso at Hidagyu Maruaki, cooked on a magnolia leaf, over charcoal, the way Takayama has always done it.

The rule from Kanazawa held.

Let the region decide what you eat.

Takayama will not disappoint you.

Takayama Rec List + 📍Map

TAKUMIYA YASUGAWA (肉の匠家 安川店) Where the Hida beef mabushi lives. Closed Wednesdays. Order: Hida beef mabushi

https://maps.google.com/?cid=9060382366232500265

MIYAGAWA MORNING MARKET (宮川朝市) Along the Miyagawa river. Local farmers, pickled goods, the real morning. Open daily 7AM–12PM. Order: gohei mochi

https://maps.google.com/?cid=5487124927485698262

HIRASE SAKE BREWERY (平瀬酒造) Oldest brewery in Takayama. ¥1,000 for 30 minutes. Taste as many as you can. Open daily 9AM–5PM.

https://maps.google.com/?cid=2040030558383286064

HIDAGYU MARUAKI (飛騨牛まるあき) Where the hoba miso lives. Magnolia leaf. Charcoal. Miso. Enoki. Order it. Open daily 11AM–8:30PM.

https://maps.google.com/?cid=16973717307963851632

The shinkansen launches you out of Tokyo like a cork from a champagne bottle.

One minute you are drowning in neon, an overwhelming amount of restaurants surrounding you, and crowds moving with the urgency of a dinner rush. The next, the doors slide open in Kanazawa and the entire country seems to lower its voice to an unfamiliar level.

Tokyo shouts.

Kanazawa speaks quietly.

Unfortunately the rain had something to say too.

A steady drizzle followed me from day one and stayed there like a stubborn dinner guest. Plans had to adapt. Routes had to improvise. But Japan has a funny way of making even a backup plan feel deliberate.

Omicho Market

The pantry of the Sea of Japan

Omicho Market has been feeding this city for centuries. It feels less like a tourist stop (unlike Tsukiji) and more like someone’s walk-in refrigerator. Snow crab stacked like trophies. Sweet shrimp glowing like gems under the lights. Nodoguro laid out like expensive jewelry.

Everything looks absurdly fresh. Almost fake.

Markets like this trigger a familiar instinct. Order everything. Taste everything. Turn the whole thing into a personal tasting menu.

But places like Omicho don’t really need that treatment.

The market itself is the tasting menu, even for the eyes.

So I kept it simple.

A couple raw scallops. Soy sauce. That’s it.

Sweet. Clean. Creamy. The kind of ingredient that makes you realize the smartest move a cook can make is sometimes the laziest one.

Leave it alone.

Kanazawa sits on the Sea of Japan, one of the richest seafood corridors in the country. Cold northern waters move down from Hokkaido. Warmer currents creep up from the south. Nutrients collide. Fish thrive.

It explains why the displays look like they belong in an aquarium curated by a perfectionist.

Those scallops carried another small meaning for me. On this trip, Kanazawa was the closest I would get to Hokkaido. The northern kingdom of scallops. So that bite became a small symbolic nod to a place I still hadn’t reached.

A taste of the north without actually making it there.

Then the rain pushed me along again.

Samurai streets and geisha echoes

Kanazawa carries its past differently than Tokyo.

Tokyo reinvents itself every few minutes. Kanazawa preserves and evolves much like miso.

During the Edo period this was one of the most powerful castle towns in Japan. The Maeda clan ruled here, second only to the shogunate in wealth and influence. Samurai trained in these streets. Served their lords here. Built entire neighborhoods around discipline, loyalty, and hierarchy.

Walking through the old samurai district today still feels structured. Earthen walls. Wooden gates. Narrow lanes that look like they were designed to keep people humble.

And where samurai gathered, entertainment followed.

Geisha districts grew nearby. Not the costume version most tourists imagine, but professional entertainers trained in music, poetry, dance, and conversation. Cultural diplomacy disguised as nightlife.

Power has always needed a place to relax.

The rain actually improved the walk.

Fellow tourists disappeared. Footsteps softened. The streets felt like they were finally operating at their natural volume.

Quiet places tell better stories.

Kenrokuen

Patience as architecture

Eventually the walk led me to Kenrokuen Garden.

If Tokyo shows you Japanese efficiency, Kenrokuen shows you Japanese patience and craftsmanship.

The garden was completed over generations. Not seasons. Generations. Trees trained like disciplined apprentices. Stones placed like chess pieces. Ponds reflecting clouds that probably look the same today as they did three hundred years ago.

In theory you are just walking through a garden.

In reality you are witnessing a cultural philosophy.

Balance. Restraint. Precision.

The rain helped again. Moss glowed brighter. Water turned every surface into a mirror. The whole place looked like it had been painted five minutes earlier.

Some landscapes shout.

This one whispers.

Turban Curry

Eventually hunger wins.

And this is where the day takes a turn.

Turban Curry.

Not exactly the headline meal you expect in a city famous for refined seafood and elegant kaiseki. But sometimes the meals that stick with you are the ones that understand their role perfectly.

Kanazawa has its own style of curry. Locals simply call it Kanazawa curry.

The sauce is darker than most Japanese curries. Thicker too. Somewhere between gravy and sauce. It arrives on a stainless steel plate. Rice underneath. Shredded cabbage on the side. Tsukemono at discretion. A fried pork cutlet sliced into strips and laid across the top.

And the utensil choice says everything.

Spork. Not chopsticks.

It is technically fast food.

But very competent fast food.

Kanazawa curry developed during the postwar boom years when workers needed meals that were quick, heavy, and satisfying. Restaurants built systems to deliver exactly that. Large batches of sauce. Fast plating. Efficient turnover.

The operation becomes the craft.

Curry ladled. Cutlet sliced. Plate pushed across the counter. Next customer.

A well-built machine feeding hungry people.

Sometimes craft is not about elegance.

Sometimes it is about repetition done perfectly.

Turban Curry had that figured out.

Jibuni

The quiet heavyweight

Before catching the train I managed to squeeze in one last regional dish.

Jibuni.

It does not look like much. Honestly, not particularly appetizing at first glance. Duck simmered in a soy-based broth that has been slightly thickened with starch. A few vegetables. Pieces of wheat gluten soaking up the sauce like sponges.

Nothing too exciting to the eye.

But the dish carries centuries of history. It belongs to the culinary tradition known as Kaga cuisine, shaped by the samurai households that once dominated Kanazawa.

Seasonal ingredients. Controlled flavors. Nothing wasted.

The duck comes out tender but still firm, the broth glossy, jiggly, and comforting without being heavy. A bit of grated wasabi gives the dish a spark, cutting through the richness just enough to keep everything in balance.

It is the kind of food that does not try to impress you immediately.

Instead it slowly wins you over with patience.

Compared to the fireworks of Tokyo it almost feels modest.

But dishes like this are exactly why traveling through Japan region by region makes sense. They are easy to overlook if you are chasing the famous hits.

Yet when you find them in the right place, cooked the way locals expect, they punch far above their weight.

Jibuni is one of those quiet champions.

The rule of the trip

By this point a rule had started to form.

It is easy to repeat the same greatest hits everywhere. Sushi in Tokyo. Sushi in Kanazawa. Sushi in Takayama. By the end of the trip you have eaten “Japanese food,” but you have not really learned much about Japan.

The more interesting move is the opposite.

Let the region decide what you eat.

That is how you end up eating braised offal in a seafood market in Tokyo. Or curry in a city famous for kaiseki. Or duck stew that rarely appears outside this region.

Japan rewards curiosity.

Every region hides its own specialties. Quiet dishes that never became international ambassadors but still carry centuries of local identity.

Kanazawa reminded me of that.

Back on the train

One rainy day was not enough to understand a place like Kanazawa.

But it was enough to notice something important.

Tokyo proves Japan can scale perfection.

Kanazawa proves it can preserve it.

The train doors closed. The mountains started getting closer.

Next stop.

Takayama.
The Hida beef realm.

Cook’s Notes — Kanazawa

One rule guided this stop.

Don’t chase the national greatest hits.

Let the region decide what you eat.

Kanazawa rewarded that approach with three dishes that explain the city better than any guidebook.

Scallops from the Sea of Japan.
Kanazawa-style curry built for workers.
Jibuni, a quiet samurai-era stew.

Different dishes.

Same lesson.

Every region has its own voice.

You just have to listen.

Kanazawa Rec List + Map

Map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/cy143rDPmKv2y6YZ6

Omicho MARKET (近江町市場)

Kanazawa’s seafood pantry.
Skip the flashy stalls and follow the ones feeding locals.

Order: raw scallops with soy sauce

Area pin:
50 Kamiomicho, Kanazawa, Ishikawa 920-0905

KENROKUEN GARDEN (兼六園)

One of the three great gardens of Japan.
Proof that patience can be a form of architecture.

Address:
1 Kenrokumachi, Kanazawa, Ishikawa 920-0936

NAGAMACHI SAMURAI DISTRICT (長町武家屋敷跡)

Where samurai once lived and trained under the Maeda clan.

Address:
1 Chome-3 Nagamachi, Kanazawa, Ishikawa 920-0865

HIGASHI CHAYA DISTRICT (東茶屋街)

Historic geisha district with preserved teahouses.

Address:
1 Chome Higashiyama, Kanazawa, Ishikawa 920-0831

TURBAN CURRY (ターバンカレー)

Kanazawa curry done the way locals expect it.
Dark sauce. Stainless steel plate. Fork required.

Order: katsu curry

Address:
1 Chome-1-48 Hirooka, Kanazawa, Ishikawa 920-0031

KAGAYA — Kanazawa Station

Where I ended up having jibuni after several recommended places were closed.

Station restaurants are usually where culinary expectations go to die. This one proved the opposite.

Jibuni here was far better than your regular station or airport meal has any right to be.

Order: jibuni

Address:
Kanazawa Station area (Hyakubangai food complex)

🎵 Music

DUMDUM — Dumdum
Oved Pinchover Quintet — Trio in A Minor

I’ve spent most of my life inside kitchens.
Not the romantic kind you see on TV.
The real ones.
Hot. Loud. Slightly unhinged. Full of misfits.

I’ve worked elbow to elbow with people from all over the world — Mexicans, Venezuelans, Haitians, Argentinians, Israelis, Arabs, Russians, Ukrainians, Americans and more. Some religious. Some secular. Some politically loud. Some quietly carrying heavy histories.

Every day:

We shared prep lists.
We stole each other’s rags.
We laughed at dumb orders.
We cursed during the rush.
We crouched behind the line to eat family meal in five stolen minutes.
We drank a beer after service like we had survived something together.

And somewhere in that ritual, something kept happening.

The mundane tasks did what debates never could.

Peeling hundreds of garlic cloves.
Cooking 50 steaks at different temperatures.
Taking turns cleaning the fryer.
Scrubbing floors at 2 a.m.
Showing up hungover before a busy brunch.

Shared work lowered our guards.

Conversations that would have felt impossible in a formal setting just… happened. No moderator. No podium. No agenda.

Just two humans cutting onions.

It took me years to understand that this wasn’t accidental.

The kitchen is one of the few spaces left where hierarchy collapses into function. You don’t care where someone was born when tickets are flooding in. You care if they can hold their station. If they show up. If they have your back.

And that trust opens something.

For the last year, I’ve been thinking about what would happen if I intentionally recreated that dynamic outside a professional kitchen.

Not to solve anything.
Not to debate.
Not to defend.

Just to cook.
And see what happens.

That’s where Wandering Cook comes from.

The name plays with an old libel — the “Wandering Jew,” a figure cast as rootless and suspect. I grew up as a third-generation Jewish Mexican, descendant of people who fled Europe and rebuilt their lives somewhere new. In my family, wandering was never a curse. It was survival. Adaptation. Reinvention.

So I wondered:

What if wandering became a method?

What if I went to markets and kitchens around the world and applied the same formula that shaped me as a cook?

Shared work.
Shared food.
Shared time.

And then, at the table, one honest question.

Not to fix anything.
Just to listen.

The pilot you’re about to watch was filmed in Tel Aviv.

An Argentinian chef.
A Mexican chef.
Both Jewish.
Neither born here.
Cooking in a country that has carried more than its share of history these past months.

We went to the market.
We cooked a torta blending schnitzel, black beans, Yemenite tomato sauce, halloumi, hummus, avocado and pickles in pita. A sandwich that made no sense on paper and perfect sense in context.

And while we were cooking, the conversation started.

About October 7th.
About fear and uncertainty.
About being in Gaza and wanting nothing but peace.
About holding pride and pain at the same time.

There was no climax.
No dramatic conclusion.

We didn’t solve anything.

We listened.

And that was enough.

This project isn’t about convincing anyone of anything.
It isn’t a political panel disguised as food.
It isn’t a viral recipe format.

It’s slower than that.

It’s about acting on values instead of announcing them. Hospitality. Curiosity. Responsibility. Humility. The willingness to sit with complexity without trying to win.

If it works, it won’t feel like a statement.

It will feel like family meal.

And if it doesn’t work, that’s fine too.

This is a pilot.
A test.
A first attempt at translating something I’ve lived for years into something you can witness.

Maybe it grows into a series.
Maybe it remains a small archive of tables and markets and conversations that didn’t explode.

Either way, I’m wandering.

And you’re welcome to pull up a chair.

—

If this resonates, share it.
If it makes you uncomfortable, even better.
If the most meaningful conversations in your life have happened while doing something ordinary, you already understand the premise.

Welcome to Wandering Cook.

Tokyo’s first lesson

I took advantage of insomnia and got to the market as early as I could. I’d heard Tsukiji had turned into a tourist attraction, an Epcot version of itself, and I wanted to catch whatever authenticity was still left before the crowds arrived. That decision didn’t disappoint.

I wanted the tuna auction, but getting into one now isn’t casual. You need connections. Still, arriving early bought me something close enough. I stumbled onto one of the prized auctioned tunas being prepped for the big show. A first-row seat to a non-committal spectacle. No ticket, no narration, just a quiet moment with one of these beauties before it becomes content and commerce.

As the shutters started to roll up, I watched the real consistency kick in. Merchants who’ve pulled those stall curtains ten thousand times, selling the best product they can get their hands on. And in a place like this, the “best” is just everywhere. Perfect cantaloupes. Fresh wasabi root. Mushrooms that look too clean to be real. Bonito loins ready to be flaked. Seafood so fresh it still looked stiff with rigor. Just standing there, you get spoiled purely by looking.

And then the dream starts to melt. More gaijins like me arrive. The amusement turns into a park. Hunger creeps in, and after all that visual privilege, I refused to settle for a tourist-trap bowl. So I took my sweet time and hunted for a place with no English signage. Well, no perfectly spelled English signage. That’s when my first unknown rule of the trip was born. The more misspelled the English on the menu, the better the odds.

I ended up in a stall I couldn’t find again if my life depended on it. I pointed at the menu, and they handed me a dainty Styrofoam bowl packed with rice and sea goodies. It felt as casual as a street taco stand. Taste-wise, though, plenty of fine dining sushi places in the West would kill to serve that level of quality without having to explain themselves.

Kitsuneya, the heresy that proves the point

That donburi was the amuse-bouche. The real punchline, the thing that felt miles away from the tourist version of a seafood market, was a stall doing beef bowls. Offal. Miso stew. The kind of decision that makes no sense if you’re here chasing headlines, and perfect sense if you’re here chasing what people actually eat.

I checked all my boxes immediately. No English in sight, no gaijins hovering with cameras, just office workers and neighboring merchants who looked like they’ve done this a hundred times without ever thinking it was special. So I gave in. And right there, early in the trip, I had that quiet moment of relief. Okay, I’m in good hands. Japan is going to do this properly.

Key word: craft. Expertise. No distractions. Just a large simmering pot of stewed goodness asking to be ladled over rice. Broth coating each grain, tender strips of beef tangled up with sweet onions, everything doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. And then, like they know what they just did to your body, they hand you a complimentary glass of green tea to wash it down and keep you moving so you don’t crash after loading yourself with something that decadent.

The rule of the trip

And so we keep walking to prevent the system from crashing. I realized early that for the rest of the trip, walking would be our reboot. The only way to make room for whatever Tokyo was about to throw at us next. And so we walk and kill two birds in one shot. We get to know the city from the ground up, and we digest for our life’s and bucket list’s sake.

Men Mitsui, Tokyo’s language is ramen

After strolling Ginza, my body reminded me what jet lag and insomnia do to a human being. So I started heading back to home base in Asakusa to recharge with what became my trip’s healing remedy any time I felt sick, off, or slightly out of alignment. A bowl of noodles.

Later in the trip that bowl could’ve been tom yum goong, braised beef noodles, phở, bún riêu, char siu. Whatever the city speaks fluently. But in Tokyo, the language is ramen.

I headed to Men Mitsui. And oh… men mi-tsu-into this. Tiny place, no more than eight seats. A chef who looks like a designer. White buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled up, moving with that calm precision that makes you shut up and watch. Ladling, plating, placing. Using chopsticks like a surgeon working with a scalpel and tweezers.

And then it arrives. Shoyu ramen, chashu in two styles, a perfectly cooked egg with a silky, running yolk, and bouncy noodles that make you understand why people become insufferable about ramen. Even the dishwasher looked at me like, thanks for doing ninety percent of my job already.

The Auditorium, craft in a glass

I caught a second wind and wanted to chase that same level of craftsmanship beyond a plate. How about in a glass?

The Auditorium was the place for that. A dope setlist coming off a turntable, vinyl doing the talking, and a wall of bottles that looks impossible for the size of the room. Too many for the space, but necessary. The droppers alone made it feel like an apothecary, each one holding some essential potion to elevate whatever they were building behind the bar.

My stomach had been working overtime all day. So I went for something soothing. Ginger, honey, and yes, a little booze for “digestion purposes.” In comes the cure. A Penicillin. Which happens to be in my top three cocktails. And this one was too good to be a point of reference. I need to forget it if I ever want to enjoy a Penicillin again outside Japan.

After that night, I finally checked off one of my most yearned-for events in Tokyo. Spotting one of those mythical office workers who’s had a bit too much after work, wobbling and stumbling their way back home like a ghost story you’re supposed to witness at least once. I saw it, and that was my sign. It was time to go to bed and start all over again tomorrow morning.

Chatei Hatou, kissaten as ritual

The next morning I woke up and had a not-so-healthy breakfast at a kissaten. No protein in sight. But the level of artistry more than made up for whatever nutritional points I missed.

I’d heard about kissatens for years and figured I should see one for myself while I was in Tokyo. Honestly, I wasn’t that excited. I love coffee, but most days it’s “good enough” in a Yeti cup on the way to work. A kissaten is the opposite of that mindset. These people curate a museum-level experience around a simple cup of Joe. They slow you down, make you sit, and somehow convince you that the cup, the plate, the cream, the silence, every detail, actually matters.

Porcelain dinnerware covered the back wall. Rows of it like an archive. Relics everywhere. The room felt gloomy and serene at the same time, like it decided a long time ago it didn’t need to change for anyone.

In Chatei Hatou, you don’t get a blue-haired, overly sensitive barista performing hospitality. You get a master. Someone who treats brewing coffee like craft, not service. He even whips fresh cream for the desserts with the kind of control that made me think: if you handed this man a whisk and told him to make hollandaise, he’d ruin every hollandaise you’ve ever had.

So it was my turn to order. A house blend drip coffee and a slice of matcha angel food cake. The coffee was ridiculous, served in a porcelain cup he pulled from the wall of options. When he set it down it felt like it had been destiny-chosen. And the cake. I’m not even a dessert guy, but this wasn’t “dessert.” It was its own category. So simple it almost looks like nothing, and somehow so perfect it makes you angry. Fluffy like a memory-foam pillow, drowned, in the best way, in fresh cream whipped à la minute. Breakfast of kings.

Shibuya, kill time, build hunger

Time to hit another “must” from the tourist bucket list. Honestly, I also needed to kill time so I could build some real hunger, because what’s coming next needs space.

I swung by Shibuya, wandered through the district, the stores, and of course the overhyped crossing. Don’t get me wrong, you do feel “special” for being the 100,000,000,000th tourist to cross it that day. But if you want to feel something real, try crossing a busy street in Mexico City.

Kan-Agari, robatayaki as museum

Alright. Time for the real treat of the day. Robatayaki. Fire cooking turned into a museum. It makes the Louvre feel a little overrated.

You walk into a flavor lair. A horseshoe-shaped counter that immediately tells you you’re not the main character here. First you take your shoes off. The hostess hands you slippers like it’s a ceremony. Then you slide down into this hollowed step that becomes your seat for the show.

Right in front of you: sea and land bounty, ready to be pierced with a skewer and, depending on its fate, either left alone or aggressively salted so the ingredient can’t hide behind anything. Everything cooks under the ripping heat of glowing red binchotan embers. As fat drips onto the coals, the place fills with that sizzle and a thin smoke that feels like a message being translated into air. And unless you’re a psychopath, you catch yourself just staring. Flabbergasted by what’s unfolding in front of you.

After walking back and forth behind the counter, making a couple people uncomfortable and fulfilling my peeking desire, I finally took my seat. A few seconds later came the first course. What a lot of Japanese spots, especially izakayas, treat as “mandatory.” Otoshi. Usually it’s something simple. A little sunomono, some edamame, a small pickled thing to get you started. None of that here.

They dropped an abalone shell in front of me carrying an assorted selection of the day. Maguro, mackerel, scallop. Joined by the first of many doses of sake. You saw the clip. You can imagine how good that tasted.

Up next: donko shiitake. A single mushroom cooked over the grill and carefully placed on the “giving” paddle. Then the cook hits me with instructions. Crown facing down, hold it by the stem, keep the juices trapped in the gills, and slurp it like a soup dumpling. Meticulous? Exaggerated? Absolutely. Worth it? Even more.

Then the chawanmushi arrives. Something I can only describe as a warm savory flan. Silky egg custard topped with shimeji mushrooms and tobiko. A truly unique mouth experience. I immediately started drafting ideas on how to Mexican-ize this technique. Stay tuned.

Then: oh-nion. An Awaji onion, Osaka Bay territory, roasted whole until each layer turns into a soft, mouth-melting surrender. But don’t forget the move. Sprinkle that umami-powered salt before you go in.

Alongside the onion came what I can only call the improved version of gefilte fish: satsuma-age. Instead of a cold, slimy piece of emulsified fish forcemeat topped with carrot and chrein, this one fixes the whole problem with a single decision. Charcoal. Grilled over the coals, served with freshly grated ginger instead of horseradish. I now know how to make gefilte fish palatable for the kids in my family next Passover.

Alright. Openers done. Main act: madai no shioyaki, salt-grilled sea bream. Sprinkled with salt like fairy dust, then left to the low, patient heat of the coals until the skin goes crisp and the flesh stays juicy as hell. Served with grated daikon and what felt like a blessing from the cook.

And then, just when you think the show is over, the Hendrix moment. Imagine you’re at a Beatles concert and in the middle of the set Jimi Hendrix walks onstage and starts soloing with the Fab Four. That’s what it felt like when the waiter brought a cast-iron pot to my side, said san, ni, ichi, and unveiled it. Steam rolling out like a perfume.

Then he pulls out a flash card with a portrait and tells me: Yoshimitsu Honda. A rice master with gold medals, cooking Koshihikari rice from Minakami in a Nambu iron pot. Yeah, you might think it’s “just rice.” I did too. I hope you keep that under-hyped expectation so if you ever try it, it humbles you the way it humbled me.

I couldn’t finish everything, but they took the leftover rice and fish and turned it into an onigiri for me to eat later. Fuck your over-explained mignardises at any three-Michelin-star place.

And let’s not forget the rule of the game. Eat, then walk.

Golden Gai, the quietest bar in the maze

So we head to Shinjuku to experience one of Tokyo’s sleazy yet somehow “charming” districts. This time we’re aiming straight at a tourist trap that still holds a nostalgia I wish I could’ve experienced, alive and of drinking age, thirty years ago.

Golden Gai is a cluster of narrow alleys packed with over 200 tiny bars. And I mean tiny. The biggest one felt like eight seats, max. Born out of the post-WWII era, it still holds a unique atmosphere and decor. And now it also holds hundreds of tourists at the same time.

I know, I’m gaijin too. But even in my own neck of the woods, I can’t stand crowds. So I gave myself a mission. Find the quietest, emptiest bar in the whole maze.

I found it. A pour of Nikka Miyagikyo, another gem out of Sendai. A ramekin of salted nuts. Jazz rolling out of a McIntosh system. And the best part. I was by myself.

The day closed the right way, so there was nothing left to do but rest and digest.

Skytree, doom scrolls and bad timing

The next morning I woke up and, during my usual doom scroll to plan the day, I saw people on X talking about an imminent massive earthquake looming over Japan. What a perfect preamble for my planned visit to the Tokyo Skytree.

At 634 meters (2,080 ft), the tallest structure in Tokyo definitely wouldn’t be my first choice of place to be when a megaquake hits. So I crossed my fingers, enjoyed the view, and kept moving. I only had a few hours left before heading to my next destination.

Edo-style standing sushi, the real point of sushi

After a failed attempt to make it before closing time to a sushi place in old Asakusa that’s been open for more than a hundred years (allow me to reiterate: double-check opening times in Japan, I learned that lesson the hard way), I had to reroute.

I needed one last meal in Tokyo, and it had to be sushi. Not just any sushi. Edo-style.

As hard as it is for Westerners to distinguish the styles, there’s logic behind each one. Preservation. Technique. And maybe most interesting to me, efficiency. Edo-style has a bit of all that, but what stuck with me was the original purpose. It was built for busy working people and travelers.

I wasn’t working, but I was traveling. So, when in Rome. Or when in Tokyo.

I found another highly regarded spot across the street. From the outside, it wasn’t charming at all. I almost turned around and kept walking. Then this old, kind hostess basically pushed me into position. Not a seat. A spot. Standing sushi bar.

I actually loved that. I do the same thing back home in Mexico, standing on the street with tacos or quesadillas. So what’s not to like when instead of a trompo al pastor or a suadero pot, you’ve got sea bounty and a sculptor firing off three nigiri per second.

First glance: a tin of complimentary matcha powder and a hot-water spout so you can mix your own green tea in the coolest mug I’ve ever seen. Then the otoshi. Miso soup with salmon trimmings. I ordered a lemon sour highball. Scene set.

And then the run. Maguro, chūtoro, madai, tamago, ikura, unagi, ika, hotate, tai, sake, ebi. The classics, but hands down the best I’ve ever had.

And then the master pulled out a saku block of ōtoro from the chilled display. It wasn’t like seeing a diamond. More like seeing someone pull out a fresh pack of smokes right when the rush hits and you’re out. I had to order a piece. Just one.

I was in awe of what I’d just had. Probably not even in the top 100 sushi places in the city, and still the best sushi I’ve had in my life. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that, but there it is. That’s what happened.

Ekiben, the real fast food

A few photos around Asakusa to feed my inner amateur photographer before heading to the station. And most importantly, hungry again. Which meant the next and last, truly last, meal in Tokyo.

The ekiben. What Bourdain called the real fast food. Built for eating on the move, commonly enjoyed while riding the shinkansen. The bullet train that’s fast. Like 260 km/h (160 mph) fast.

The train was fast. Me? Not so much.

I showed up late to the party and the only option left was vegetarian. Still pretty good. But not what I would’ve chosen if I had my pick.

Next stop: Kanazawa

Now stuffed, traveling at an unthinkable speed, I head toward my next destination. Kanazawa. A city known for gold leaf, samurai and geisha culture, and most importantly, more regional food waiting for me. Tokyo Rec List + Map

Map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/jaza9XbUfpJH1e5N7

TSUKIJI OUTER MARKET (築地場外市場)

Ignore the loudest lines. Follow the stalls that look like they feed people who work.
Area pin: 4-16-2 Tsukiji, Chuo City, Tokyo 104-0045
Order: assorted sashimi donburi (stall name unknown)
Address: unknown (I don’t remember the exact stall—follow your gut, dodge the flashy signs, and find a spot that feels this quiet and real).

KITSUNEYA (きつねや)

Yes, in a seafood market, eat beef. Braised beef/offal + onions in hatcho miso over rice. Tea after like a mercy offering.
Order: beef bowl / horumon-don
Address: 4-9-12 Tsukiji, Chuo City, Tokyo 104-0045

MEN MITSUI (麺 みつヰ)

Small room, few seats, short menu tuned like a weapon.
Order: shoyu ramen
Address: 2-9-15 Kotobuki, Taito City, Tokyo 111-0042

THE AUDITORIUM (Ueno)

Great records, serious bottles, and a Penicillin that ruins you for other Penicillins.
Order: Penicillin
Address: Hashimoto Building 1F, 7-6-7 Ueno, Taito City, Tokyo 110-0005

CHATEI HATOU (茶亭 羽當)

Kissaten done right: porcelain museum vibes, “simple” menu (allegedly), brew-master-level craft.
Order: house blend drip + matcha angel food cake
Address: Futaba Building 2F, 1-15-19 Shibuya, Shibuya City, Tokyo 150-0002

KAN-AGARI (燗アガリ)

Robatayaki that turns dinner into a controlled burn.
Order: course menu
Address: Shin YS Building 3F, 7-16-12 Nishi-Shinjuku, Shinjuku City, Tokyo 160-0023

GOLDEN GAI (Shinjuku)

Crowded now. Still worth it as a living relic. Treat it like a scavenger hunt: quietest door, not loudest.
Area pin: 1-1-6 Kabukicho, Shinjuku City, Tokyo 160-0021

HINATOMARU — Kaminarimon Yanagikoji (standing sushi bar)

Standing sushi, Edo-era logic: feed the traveler, keep them moving.
Order: omakase/assorted nigiri + chūtoro (and if you see it: one piece of ōtoro)
Address: 1-20-3 Asakusa, Taito City, Tokyo 111-0032

SHINKANSEN EKIBEN

Disposable packaging, non-disposable standards. Buy the bento at the station, eat like a commuter.
Order: ekiben (whatever’s left—ideally not the last vegetarian option like me)

• 🎵 Music:
  

  • DAN ZEITUNE - SIARA
    

  • ALON OHANA - FREEZE
    

  • DUMDUM - LET’S DO IT
    

  • DAN ZEITUNE - BARTOKANI

A Fishing Story (But Not Really)

One of the few “musts” I carried with me on my trip to Southeast Asia was to go on a real fishing trip with local fishermen, not tourists. And if the day was kind, I’d cook for whoever happened to be around.

When I arrived at a guesthouse in Koh Lanta called Serendipity (yes, that’s really what it was called), I told the host about this dream. He made a few calls and arranged something.

“My buddy has a boat,” he said.

Spoiler: it wasn’t a boat. It was more like a canoe with a rusty car battery. Not even a pier in sight, just rocks and a shallow beach. Starting the motor required jumper cables and some prayer. But I didn’t care.

Set Adrift

5:00 a.m.

Wearing my kurta from a friend’s wedding in India, a Tiger Beer baseball cap I bought in Saigon, and a quarter bottle of sunscreen slathered across my pale legs, I climbed aboard with nothing but a camera and a few words in Thai: sabaidee krab, khop khun krab.

The “captain” wore a soccer jersey from what looked like a neighborhood team. His bandana barely held back the wind.

I had no idea what would happen. And that openness made the entire day feel like a gift. The opposite of planned. Just presence.

Then, bam! A barracuda.
Then a grouper. Then a snapper. Then a beautiful mackerel.

It was happening. I was doing exactly what I had dreamed of. And it wasn’t about the gear. No Shimano rods. No sonar. No luxury yacht. Just salt, wind, sweat, and luck.

The Cookout

When we got back, I cleaned the fish crouched on the sidewalk, breaking every health code in the book. The host handed me a cooler and a knife, then showed me a dusty grill.

I rode a scooter to the local market to grab ingredient. Mini eggplants, lotus stems, tamarind, limes. Then I was invited into the host’s own kitchen. Her home. My studio.

Here’s what I made:

• Snapper Ceviche, marinated in a Thai-style leche de tigre with coconut milk and green curry paste

• Mackerel Tiradito, lightly coal-kissed, served over tamarind ponzu with local crisp vegetables and citrus

• Grilled barracuda and grouper, rubbed with a Thai-Mexican marinade of chilies and kaffir lime leaves

There was enough food for 15 people. But I was alone.

So as guests walked by, I invited them to eat.
Only a few stayed: the host, a German guy, a Polish guy. Complete strangers. But that didn’t matter.

I wasn’t cooking to impress. I wasn’t even trying to connect.

I was just… cooking.
Blowing on the coals.
Playing music.
Sitting in the act.

That was the moment it clicked.

This, this is what I love.
Not the spotlight. Not the show. Just creating the space.
Backstage, with a grill, some good music, and maybe a cheap bottle of wine. (No VRC on the island, but the kangaroo one did just fine.)

The Real Catch

Months later, I was back in Mexico, flipping through photos from that day. I paused at one where the captain’s back was turned. His jersey had a name on it in Thai.

Curious, I posted it on Reddit, asking if anyone could translate.

The answer?

อุ่นใจ
(Oonjai)
Peace of mind. Warm heart.

That was the real catch of the day.
The biggest one by far

And That’s What Life Is All About

It’s not about executing a perfect plan.

It’s about showing up with openness. With warmth. With readiness to respond to what the day hands you.

Sometimes we think we need to be the captain.

But maybe the better life, the fuller one is about being captained by Oonjai.

Proper Planning Prevents Poor Plenitude

As a systems-driven cook by trade, with a flair for structure and more than a few neurotic tendencies, I couldn’t resist naming this post after one of my core mantras: the 5 P’s: Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance. It’s a staple in kitchens, a cornerstone of operational success. But here, I’m reimagining it through a personal lens. This is not just about restaurant systems. It’s about how I plan, how I cope, and how I’m learning to live.

The Loop Between Regret and Fear

What is all this fear I’ve carried throughout my life really about?

I’m not referring to the primal fear hardwired into us to avoid threats, like our ancestors dodging predators in the wild. I’m talking about something else entirely: a modern, self-imposed fear, crafted out of internal noise and social conditioning. The kind of fear that creeps in when your own standards and society’s expectations stop feeling like guidance and start feeling like a cage.

This fear created a sense of detachment from how I actually wanted to live. I justified that detachment by calling it ambition. Sacrifice. Vision. But in truth, it was avoidance. I wasn’t chasing success, I was trying to outrun failure. I constructed rituals and routines with the same energy that someone with OCD might pour into compulsions: wake up, execute, repeat. Anything to avoid disaster.

And like many high-functioning systems, it worked. At least from the outside. I achieved things. I earned praise. But inside? I was numb. The victories felt hollow. They weren’t celebrations, they were chores. For nearly eight years, I kept crossing finish lines that didn’t fulfill me.

I started thinking something was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I feel proud? Why didn’t anything feel like enough? I was hitting goals that once felt impossible. And yet every time I arrived, it felt like... nothing.

Still, it was hard to argue with the results. My strategy had “worked.” I moved to the U.S. alone at 18. I lived in New York and Miami. I dedicated 95% of my time to work, the rest to survival logistics: laundry, groceries, sleep, maybe a workout if I could squeeze it in. The dream life, right? But I wasn’t living. I was executing.

Then came regret. Real, aching, paralyzing regret.

I once wrote a song (amateur musician alert), called "Reoffender." It was about the cycle of chasing empty goals. One line still hits me: “It’s regret that’ll make me stop, but it’s fear that’ll make me run.” And that was the loop I lived in for years. Fear and regret, chasing and collapsing, over and over again.

When the Script Breaks

Eventually, my formula cracked. An external event forced me back to the place I had worked so hard to avoid, home, in Mexico with all the weight that carried. It had always been my mental image of failure. And there I was, living it.

It felt like ego death. Like the universe had finally shown its hand, and the hand didn’t care how many boxes I had checked or how many sacrifices I’d made. My illusion of control was shattered.

It took over a year, and a three-month solo trip across Asia to begin processing what happened. When I returned, everything was the same… and nothing was. I didn’t know what to chase anymore. I didn’t even know what I wanted.

The Shower Realization

And then, one night, standing under hot water mid-shampoo, it hit me:

“I’m deciding this life is a failure because I’m acting out a script I wrote years ago.”

I laughed. Out loud. For the first time in weeks. Who would’ve thought that my breakthrough would come in my shower in Mexico instead of a Buddhist temple in the hills of Chiang Mai? Something cracked, maybe it was therapy, maybe the sertraline, maybe just that I was finally exhausted enough to hear myself think.

That was the moment I realized I didn’t have control over how life unfolded. But I did have control over how I met it.

Trusting Autopilot

The next few weeks were strange. Traffic didn’t enrage me. I noticed the color of the sky. Everything felt… not perfect, but open.

It didn’t last forever, and I feared it might be some manic swing. But no, it settled into something more sustainable. I moved from gripping the controls 24/7 to turning on autopilot.

That was the revelation: not all turbulence is constant. I don’t have to be in crisis mode every minute of every day. I had been burning myself out managing risks that weren’t even happening.

I had spent years bracing for a crash. But this time, I leaned back. I let the system fly.

A Different Kind of Planning

For the first time in my life, I felt full, not because I had arrived, but because I stopped trying to outrun everything.

This was the beginning of what I now call plen-ification, the act of planning from a place of fullness, not fear. Planning that aligns with who I am, not who I used to think I had to become.

Life isn’t about not planning. It’s about learning to plan in sync with what gives us plenitude. Not from fear. Not from scarcity. Not from avoidance. But from a real place inside.

Planning itself isn’t the enemy. But planning from fear? That’s the trap.

Now when I think about what’s next, I ask:

• Will this bring me closer to myself, or further into performance?

• Am I seeking expansion, or avoiding discomfort?

• Does this reflect who I am now, or who I was trying to become before I knew better?

I don’t want a life that looks good on paper but hollows me out in practice.

Plenitude doesn’t come after the goal.

It’s available right now, if I stop trying to earn it.

So I plan. Slowly. Gently. From within.

Not to control life. But to respond to it.

Because I’m able to.

And for the first time, that feels like enough.