Edomae sushi

What could be better than returning to a place you love and finding it just as wonderful as the first time?

I like sushi. I stumbled upon a great place by accident. I’ve been there five times, each time with people I care about most. Every visit was joyful. The only sad part is that since then, I no longer feel like eating sushi anywhere else.

I used to think sushi was simply a slice of raw sashimi placed on top of a small mound of white rice. Dip it in soy sauce, add some ginger, a bit of wasabi. Most Japanese restaurants I tried in Vietnam and California served it that way. And most of them were… bad.

Some places were beautifully decorated. Servers in kimono, every sentence dripping with politeness. Everything looked right. Only the food was wrong.

The fish selection was predictable: tuna, hamachi, salmon. Tuna was acceptable. But hamachi in many places felt like biting into a kitchen sponge, bland and oddly soft. To be fair, I’ve never actually eaten a sponge. It’s just a feeling.

I especially disliked salmon. It tasted like boiled chicken disguised as fish. Later I learned that salmon sushi became popular thanks to a Norwegian marketing campaign decades ago. Traditionally, Japanese people didn’t eat salmon raw that way. Neither did a Vietnamese man named Thai.

So on my first trip to Japan, I didn’t even bother with sushi. I drifted between izakayas and ramen shops. Very stupid. But completely unaware of my stupidity.

The most dangerous thing about being stupid is the confidence that comes with it. How many things in life do we think we understand, when in fact we don’t understand them at all?

It wasn’t until I returned to Tokyo three years ago that I accidentally learned how to eat sushi.

M and I were walking in Ginza when we found a sushi restaurant over a hundred years old, tucked quietly among modern buildings. A tiny wooden house standing between glass towers. Time erodes many things (though not my belly), but what survives it is rarely accidental.

The restaurant had only eleven seats. Luckily, no reservation was needed. Later I learned that with sushi, the number of seats is often inversely proportional to quality. The grander the restaurant, the more forgettable the sushi.

We sat at the counter, facing the chef. This is the traditional way. The chef places the sushi in front of you, and you eat it within thirty seconds.

Three people ran the place: two chefs, one older, one younger, and a waitress. No ordering. Omakase—leave it to the chef. About ten pieces per set.

That was the first time I encountered Edomae sushi. Edo was the old name of Tokyo. Edomae literally means “in front of Edo,” referring to Tokyo Bay.

There are many types of sushi. Edomae is nigiri made with fish originally caught in Tokyo Bay. Originally, anyway. Who knows where the fish comes from now.

People in Edo were busy, so sushi began as fast food. Even though some places have turned it into fine dining, the preparation and eating style still value efficiency. The most famous sushi restaurant in the world limits each seating to thirty minutes.

A piece of Edomae sushi comes already seasoned. You pick it up with your hands and eat it whole. No dipping. Ginger isn’t a side dish—it’s a reset button between bites.

The rice is meticulously prepared. I love fish, but the rice determines the quality. Fish is the surface. Rice is the foundation. As in many things in life, the most important part lies underneath.

Each chef uses a specific type of rice, cooked in ceramic pots to control temperature precisely. The rice is mixed with vinegar and seasoning according to a private formula. The result is slightly brownish, perfectly balanced.

Fish changes with the seasons. Beyond raw, it may be marinated, cured, grilled, lightly torched. Each type treated differently. Some chefs add their own creative touch.

After that accidental encounter with true Edomae sushi, I kept finding excuses to return to Tokyo. I never managed to revisit that century-old shop, but I found another place.

That time, M and I arrived in Tokyo at night. I now “knew how to eat sushi” and was determined to eat properly. But most good places required reservations.

We wandered for an hour, rejected everywhere. No waiting inside. If you wanted to wait, you had to do it outside. The space was small; they didn’t want to disturb other customers’ experience.

I believe in miracles, so we kept walking. We like wandering without plans anyway. Eventually, we found a place with a line.

The first time I saw people lining up in Japan, I thought they were waiting for job interviews. Everyone dressed so neatly. When I reached the front, I realized they were lining up for ramen. So I lined up too. Now, every time I go to Kyoto, I return to that ramen shop. The fried rice there is dangerously addictive. First lesson about Japan: if people are lining up, join them. There’s probably something good ahead.

Back to sushi. That night I lined up and was told to draw a number. Too late—they had stopped issuing tickets. Come back at 3 p.m. tomorrow. Outside, a couple offered to sell me their ticket for 10,000 yen. After a quick calculation, I laughed and told them to enjoy it themselves.

The next day we arrived early. No one was there. I thought about taking a walk. The moment I turned away, a crowd appeared. In Tokyo, crowds materialize suddenly. On time. In silence.

Tickets at 3. Service at 4. Eighteen spots. No chairs. Ninety minutes. Standing.

The main branch has seats, but requires reservations. This branch makes you stand. Sometimes I wonder if they made you kneel, would I still eat? Probably. Food can be humiliating.

Three chefs, one assistant, two servers. Each chef serves six guests before switching. Rice prepared in advance, wrapped in cloth to stay warm. When it runs out, they quietly bring more. They don’t let you see how it’s made—family secrets.

I like trying everything once, then ordering my favorites or seasonal specialties.

I love otoro, fatty tuna belly, melting in your mouth. But my favorite is kohada, vinegared gizzard shad. I say the name confidently, but if I saw the fish alive, I wouldn’t recognize it.

Sushi demands sake. They serve Taito sake, smooth and gentle. I always have two glasses. Slightly tipsy. What could be better than being full and pleasantly drunk beside the people you love?

I have a friend obsessed with Mi Cat on Truong Dinh Street. He grew up at the Truong Dinh–Ly Tu Trong intersection, eating that noodle soup since childhood. After decades in America, he returns and eats several bowls every time. He knows there might be better places. But what if they’re not? Losing one bowl would be too costly. The opportunity cost is too high.

Humans are wired to chase novelty. But in truth, we live by habits. Habits become traditions. Traditions become culture. One day we simply say, “That’s how our family does it.”

Life is finite. Everything is countable. The number of times you return to a place, the number of times you eat your favorite dish, the number of complete family gatherings—you can count them. Sometimes they don’t even fill one hand.

Have you ever loved a place or a person, knowing you might not see them again for a very long time?

I’m writing this on my way back to Saigon for Lunar New Year. How many more Tets are left? The old will die. The young will fly away. One day, the New Year’s Eve dinner will miss familiar faces.

While we can still sit together and share a proper meal, we should.