Nothing Short of Magnetic
Following Taste, Finding More
Maguro Bito Ueno | Tokyo, Japan
When I first walked past Maguro Bito Ueno, there was already a small crowd of people queueing out front. A quick peek inside revealed just a stand-up counter, no chairs or stools, and room for maybe a dozen or so diners.
I may have an erratic, sometimes disastrous track record of picking a restaurant in Tokyo, but I knew a line of locals was a good sign. I made a note to swing back by.
It was 11:00 a.m. My quest to find a soufflé pancake earlier that morning after visiting the Buddhist temple Sensō-ji had tragically failed. I was every bit as ravenous as my growling stomach was noisily claiming to be.
There were a few other restaurants on or around Ueno Ameyoko Street that had caught my eye as I browsed shops and stalls, sipping yet another matcha tea. But none had held my attention like Maguro Bito Ueno. The draw was nothing short of magnetic.
Before long, I, too, was in the queue.
Eighth in line, I watched from the glass doorway as the sushi chefs performed their opening rituals. I grew more curious and hungry as knives were sharpened, huge, glistening cuts of fish were tenderly laid out and counters and cutting boards were fastidiously wiped down. I was completely mesmerized by the energy building in the room, and I hadn’t even crossed the threshold yet.
Tokyo has always been a place that has teased me with feast or famine. I’ve had some incredible meals there, including my first omakase. But I’ve also felt the searing, sickening sense of failing to do it just right. There never seems to be enough time to see or taste enough of Tokyo. The stakes are insanely high. Every bite must count.
But standing there, I could feel from the bottom of my gut that everything was about to change. I stood at the counter and pointed at the picture menu, ordering unbelievably fresh cuts of fatty tuna, salmon and eel. And their uni? Simply unforgettable.
I wondered if I was ever in danger of being cut off, but the vibe was always friendly and fun. I had to imagine, too, as I did the math, that my real estate at the counter was churning out the kind of return that made me a most valuable, though unlikely, customer. I was both the only tourist and the only woman in the restaurant that Tuesday afternoon.
No one, not the waitstaff, the chefs or the customers, spoke any English. But I never felt isolated or alone. If anything, I felt like I was living inside a moment that I was going to remember for the rest of my life.
At one point, the two Japanese businessmen in suits to the right of me raised their beer glasses to clink with mine, razzing me through breathy, staccatic giggles, “Trump. Trump. Trump,” they taunted. “No. No. No,” I laughed in good humor, clinking my glass into theirs.
They encouraged me to try their sushi of choice, which I did, to another round of clanking. After my new friends had left, I stood there for a few more beats, watching the chefs fill orders with precision and focus. While I wished I could have made room for a few more pieces, I knew it was time to pack up and fly home.
My stomach had finally been satisfied and silenced in Tokyo.
