earth on foot 2
3 June 2025
There is a soba shop in Ueno Station, a hub for 15 transit lines including the Tokyo Ginza and Hibiya Lines and Shinkansen bullet trains.
I walked 20 minutes and arrived at the cozy restaurant during the very active lunch hour.
I place my order at the touch screen, pay, and get a ticket which I then give to a quick-moving woman at the entrance who asks, “How many?” She points where to sit, which I do while looking about indirectly at the other soba eaters. Behind a raised counter, a cook sounds a constant call and response, announcing things to the crowd in Japanese, of course, a language I don’t speak except for a few words like arigato (thank you), onegaishimasu (please), and Kon’nichiwa (hello). I pay attention and parrot back words in my mind as I wait, looking often at the TV screen which lists everyone’s numbers. A completed order fills half the screen in blue. I look for 126.
I had ordered soba with broth, a simple, safe choice, I believed, though I knew I would put a lot of the chili powder and two spoonfuls of tempura bits on top. I had spied the condiments by the water station.
My number flashed. I leaped up and the chef smiled and nodded at me as he pointed to my tray with the steaming noodles, then pointed to an enormous container of chopsticks. He seemed pleased, amused. I was grinning broadly and nodding excessively, repeating Arigatos, bowing like it’s going out of style. It’s my belief that I can’t say thank you too many times.
As I ate, I casually compared others’ chopstick techniques. There’s something elusive to me about the placement of the middle finger—if it goes below the bottom chopstick or in the middle between the two. As it turned out, people around me did both. I wondered how meaningful this was. Briefly, I considered people’s attire as if this held a clue to a refined way of holding a chopstick, but everyone there was dressed in black, navy, white, or gray, as was I. (Recently I had noticed I was the only one on the Metro wearing bright pink. No more!)
I’ve been told that while the Japanese have many rules and formalities around human interaction, when it comes to actual eating, all bets are off. Slurping, making loud noises, eating immediately—with gusto—picking up your bowl, downing your broth—all perfectly acceptable.
The soba was salty on my lips. I inhaled the hot noodles, cooling them with my breath as I chewed. Occasionally I paused and tapped my lip with the towelette they provided, placing my chopsticks down with care. By the end, my face was flushed.
What a perfect lunch. Nodding and smiling, I said my Arigatos to the chef; the bustling host waved. I emerged from the darkened station fortified, ready for an afternoon of museums and shrines— and I strode forth in Tokyo.