Tokyo Diner

It's past ten by the time the day's demands are over. I venture out, hungry, into the wet, wintry night, and stumble into a little diner not too far from the hotel. The proprietor, a middle-aged Japanese man with thinning hair, bellows out a greeting and gestures me towards a free table. It's late, and the tone of conversation in the diner is mellow. I settle between a group of salary men (tucking somewhat incongruously into a shared plate of sliced tomatoes and some vegetable sticks poked into a tumbler of ice) and a slightly intoxicated mixed group prone to bouts of immoderate female laughter. Above the conviviality, every so often, came the soft tinkle of a wind-chime catching a draught from the air-conditioner.

The menu set before me is entirely in Japanese – a little sheet of elegant squiggles that I cannot decipher.
'Sumimasen, Ingrishu menu,' I ask.
'No Ingrish menu,' replies the proprietor. Had he just responded in English? Rare in this country! Instead, he proposes some grilled fish and rice, and a bowl of miso soup. The thought of miso makes me thirsty, and I order a 'small biru' as well.

The beer, when it arrives, is surprisingly rich and malty. Someone once told me that most Far Eastern breweries had learnt their craft from the Germans. There is nothing in the Japanese draught to disprove the hypothesis – it is superbly drinkable. I've had a long flight, and it's been a long day. On an empty stomach, the brew goes straight to my head, and I slowly drowse off in the warm interior...

When I next open my eyes, a simple meal has been set in front of me. A whole grilled fish, looking something like mackerel, on a square ceramic dish; some sticky Japanese rice; a side serving of tofu; and some piping hot miso soup dished up in a black lacquer bowl. The proprietor looks at me quizzically, and I nod to show him I'm all right - and grateful for the meal.

A small and slightly stooped lady emerges from the kitchen to clear up when I'm done. Was this the proprietor's wife and the good lady who had cooked my dinner? Her eyes are kindly, and the glances she gives me are strangely maternal, although there are probably not more than ten years between us. She has no English, but accompanies me to the door as I leave.
'Arigato,' I say, with a stiff little bow.
'Arigatou gozaimashita,' she says, bowing as well, and waving a little wave as I step back out into the cold, dark night.