The first year I lived in Tokyo by myself, there was one restaurant that I’d go to when I felt lonely or needed a little pickup: a small French restaurant in the quiet corner of a noble neighbourhood. I’d go there for my weekend lunch.
The place was usually quiet when I got there. I cannot remember if it was because I arrived too early or too late – probably the latter. I’d take a seat at one of the colourful tables by the window and look through the lunch menu, though I always ordered the same thing: a fish salad. It’s a bowl of fresh green leaves and subtly grilled white fish that came with an amazing dressing. The first time I had it was by chance, but since then, I became a religious fan of the dish.
While waiting for the meal, I often wrote my diary, reflecting on my days. Soft French music timbered in the background, and a few other customers were engaged in a conversation on the other side of the room. Momentarily, my mind would be transported to somewhere far away – a restaurant on a seaside in Southern France.
Soon, a bowl of fresh salad arrived at my table, and its heavenly taste became the only thing that occupied my mind.