In Osaka in 2017, at the end of a trip to Japan, I decided to treat myself at Torisho Ishii, a yakitori joint (that is, specialising in skewered grilled chicken) with a Michelin star. My calls to the restaurant went unanswered so I decided to try my luck in person.
Behind its discreet entrance not far from Naniwabashi station, I found an intimate, minimalist space with counter seating for 10, a few small tables and a private dining room.
Serendipitously, there was one spot left at the counter. But for reasons unknown (at least to me), the waiter wouldn’t seat me. I whipped out my phone, hoping Google Translate would help. What came back from the waiter’s Japanese was nonsensical, but the message was clear: there’d be no yakitori for me tonight.
I was about to leave when a man at the counter intervened. The chef weighed in, and within 15 minutes I was seated with a menu and a glass of beaujolais. An English-speaking waiter rushed in from another restaurant, on loan especially to wait on me.
Here was the omotenashi (Japanese hospitality) I had read about and experienced in ryokan and tea ceremonies, one that puts the comfort of the guest above all else. In my head I had concocted a million reasons for being denied a table. Little did I realise it was my comfort at stake: no one at the restaurant spoke English.
What followed was an extraordinary beak-to-tail omakase (where the food selection is left up to the chef): fried sweetbread, harami (diaphragm) punchy with wasabi, crispy neck, mizutaki (chicken hotpot), chicken breast sashimi, plus gizzards and a fallopian tube skewered and grilled, served with two golden yolks.
My knight in dining armour was a man named Kenji, on an evening out with his hilarious, well-heeled sisters. In faltering English, he recounted how as a tourist on a gap year in the United States he’d had his wallet and ID stolen, and a stranger had come to his rescue. I was his chance to pay it forward.
I was touched, not just by the story, but his desire to give back to someone – me – two decades later. Like Kenji, I was trying to navigate a foreign culture and didn’t understand the language.
That night, little did I know I was on the receiving end of another kind of omotenashi – the kindness towards a stranger in Japan. Close to midnight, and long after Kenji had left with his sisters, I went to pay the bill only to find there wasn’t one. Kenji hadn’t just wrangled me a seat, he’d arranged for me to dine as his guest – the only way to get the counter seat at Torisho Ishii that night.
Thanks to Kenji, these days, whenever I see a traveller looking lost, I always stop to help.
