Turning Japanese? I really think not..

As the months I stay in Japan draw on and I grow more and more acclimatized to the country’s cultural and behavioural differences, the thought of returning to the UK fills me with dread ever more.

I have developed a tendency to make strange noises for no particular reason, curtsey in the corner shop and cheer over enthusiastically at the simplest of conquests, like button bashing my way to success with a photocopier. What have come to be involuntary responses to daily situations would see me lose the respect of family, friends and colleagues back in Blighty.

While on the orient, it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to attend weekend cooking events kitted out in homemade, personalized Hello Kitty aprons and maintain excitement levels telling of borderline retardation at all times - in England even the Queens of Soho would disown them.

Yet as they jump up and down, cheering emphatically as I dice an apple, I find their enthusiasm utterly endearing.

The situation intensifies as we move on to the gymnasium for a spot of ping pong. No matter how bad our serves and how many points are scored against us, they cheer like monkeys on ecstasy, shouting phrases of encouragement such as; “you are magic serve” and “bat job good.”

The excitement of exploring new cities is accelerated by the very fact that, being white, everyone wants to be your friend. Children point at us in shops while adults openly stare for extended periods of time.

Unaware of their subliminal racism, no matter how unnerving it may be, it is difficult to be offended. Especially when nipping into a bar for a swift pint turns into an evening of free drinks and banter with locals who want to know everything about you and a conversation cobbled together through a pocketsize phrasebook.

Many westerners miss out on these experiences. In true American style, why stray from what you know? Arriving in new cities, their immediate reaction is to seek out the Western bar for a burger and a pint, passing up a whole array of culturally superior venues where strangers remain friends they will never meet.

These so-called Gaijin bars are the equivalent of scooping up all those waifs and strays still lingering as the day-glo lights rise at 3am in the seediest clubs along Blackpool seafront in the vain hope of finding a someone to take home to riddle with every venereal disease known to man – as well as some that aren’t – and dumping them together in one sticky, smoke stained room.

Musical preference in these venues is similar to what blared from the blacked out windows of souped up Pergeouts owned by 18 –year-old motorists who frequented the kerbsides outside English high schools circa 1992.

This bargain bin meat market is not as appealing as fraternizing with the locals, which is the reason I wrongly assumed people came to Japan in the first place.

It pains me that such a wonderfully diverse and patriotic culture, paved with traditionality and pride can be totally wasted on the stereotypical lager swilling Westerner abroad.

Slugs and snails and pregnant fish

Considered one of the most highly acclaimed cuisines globally, Japanese fodder had a lot to live up to if it was going to rank anywhere close to the extravagantly lavish concoctions conjured up by my own mother – who is capable of recreating any meal she’s ever enjoyed worldwide by the memory of taste alone.

An overrunning habit from a misspent youth, surviving solely on beer and anything vaguely edible to provide sustenance (including kebab meat salvaged from biffa bins and freeze dried milk by the spoonful), during the Withanail and I-esque student days means I can stomach most things.

And after eight months living in this country, I can vouch that there is nothing wrong with the food. It’s perfectly palatable, even the pregnant fish served up at lunchtime, eyeballs and all, are actually not that bad.

But slapping a whole fish on a plate does not exert any degree of effort. And here we unearth a running theme.

Slicing up a live squid or a fillet of raw fish and assembling it in a pretty(ish) formation on a polystyrene tray does not constitute cooking and, therefore, cannot put the country’s “chefs” in the same league as our very own pig faced Jamie Oliver’s three page guide to making the perfect fish finger sandwich.

Invited to a cookery class in my Junior High School, a student was to teach me a traditional, and very old, recipe using sweet potatoes. Honoured to be let into a culinary secret of a land so far from home, my disappointment upon discovering that the entire process involved boiling the potato whole, slicing it into discs and leaving it on a baking tray over the weekend to dry in the sunlit bug fuelled air, was difficult to mask.

Asking if any seasoning was involved I was told, in no uncertain terms; “No Ellie-sensei, we like to eat natural.”

Which is fine, but don’t label this feral practice a recipe. In the same vein, I cook every morning when I peel my banana.

In preparation for a family party, one of my colleagues explained the foods she would prepare – rice, rice, more rice, and – the piece de resistance - gyoza dumplings.

By the Japanese standards I had encountered so far, I was impressed, until she continued to explain that she would be buying premade Gyoza, because it is “very difficult” to extract a ready-made dumpling sheet from a packet, spoon on lumps of minced meat and fold it over into little pasties.

From a generation hell bent against waste, my grandmother would overcome this great barrier of difficulty to do similar with left over pastry and a bag of raisins.

Attending a cooking class this weekend, we were the entertainment, as the unsung Japanese masterchefs observed us cubing apples to stew before spooning into circles of packet-bought puff pastry. Rightly they were flabbergasted at our outstanding proficiency with a knife and a chopping board, which saw their enthusiasm soaring to unforeseen heights.

We also made chocolate fondue, with dipping products including dried squid, fishy cheese, carrots and cherry tomatoes, which were annihilated by the locals like a pack of sugar addicted rabbits.

Most weekends, as I’m off for visits to various towns and prefectures across the country, fellow teachers will religiously, and without fail, pipe up – “You must try the udon.”

Kagawa, Okayama, Kobe, Kochi, pretty much everywhere is allegedly “very famous for its udon,” possibly one of the most used phrases in the Japanese vocabulary.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, udon is an oriental artform, and a lengthy and difficult process to master.

Take a bowl of water, add a stock cube and some thick noodles, simmer for two minutes and pour into a bowl. If you’re lucky you get a raw egg to crack over the top.

Another highly regarded dish is tempura. We treated ourselves to a pricey and lavish tempura meal in Hiroshima at a top end restaurant to celebrate the forming of new friendships during training week.

There’s not much scope to make a clear differentiation between cheap and expensively deep-fried microscopic slithers of vegetable, doused in enough batter to encapsulate a small child.

Needless to say we were left both lighter in the purse and terribly disappointed.

It is also frowned upon to err from what is expected when eating the poor man’s fish and chips. There is a strict regimental technique to devouring this delicacy. Rumour has it that dipping your food into condiments in the wrong order was once punishable by death.

Raw fish, pregnant fish, fly ridden spuds, I would choose a British Fry Up every time.