The Suspect

My fingers are currently gripping a ceramic bowl that costs more than my first 4 cars combined, and I am paralyzed by a small, translucent cube of something that might be a melon or might be the liver of a deep-sea creature. The chef is standing exactly 4 feet away. He is not moving. He is not blinking. He is waiting for a micro-expression to flicker across my face so he can categorize me as either a connoisseur or a fraud.

In my professional life as a retail theft prevention specialist, I am the one doing the watching. I spend 44 hours a week staring at grainy monitors, tracking the subtle shift of a shoulder that suggests a bottle of expensive bourbon is being slid into a waistband. I know the anatomy of a lie. But here, under the soft glow of a 14-watt bulb in this hidden corner of Kyoto, I am the suspect. I am guilty of not knowing what I am eating, and the weight of that ignorance feels heavier than the 24-karat gold leaf shimmering on the edge of the lacquerware.

I take a bite. It is cold, then suddenly hot. It tastes like the memory of a rainy afternoon in a pine forest, mixed with the sharp metallic tang of a copper coin. I nod. I give him a sharp, appreciative tilt of the head, the kind of gesture I’ve seen 344 times from people trying to look innocent when they have a stolen steak in their boots. He bows slightly and retreats to the prep station. I still have no idea what it was.

The Friction: Naming vs. Feeling

I know that the glutamates in the kelp are supposed to trigger a specific response in my m-Glu-R-4 receptors, sending a signal to my brain that says ‘this is nourishment.’ But knowing the chemistry doesn’t help when the texture feels like a wet velvet glove sliding down your throat. I am trapped in the friction between what I can name and what I can actually feel.

Precision is safety. But here, the precision of the chef is met with the chaotic static of my own palate. I find myself resenting the menu for being written in a calligraphy so stylized it looks like 14 birds having a seizure on a piece of mulberry paper. If I could just read the word for ‘monkfish’ or ‘mountain yam,’ I could relax. I could file the flavor away in a drawer and move on. Instead, I am forced to actually taste it. It’s a violent sort of intimacy. Without the label, I am defenseless. I am forced to admit that my tongue is a stranger to my brain. This is the 4th time tonight I have felt like I am drowning in a sea of exquisite, unidentifiable sensations.

“We let the lack of a vocabulary become an excuse to disengage. We assume that because we cannot translate the experience into a coherent sentence, the experience itself is flawed or we are unworthy of it.”

– The Price of Precision

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Performing Normalcy

I think about Claire F., which is to say, I think about myself when I am back in the aisles. I once caught a woman trying to walk out with 14 silk scarves wrapped around her thighs. She had this look of intense concentration, a performance of normalcy that was so loud it was deafening. I am doing that exact same performance now. I am performing ‘Woman Enjoying Kaiseki.’

I am holding my chopsticks at the correct 24-degree angle. I am sipping the sake-which, by the way, costs 154 dollars a bottle-as if I can detect the notes of cedar and ‘unspoken regret’ that the sommelier mentioned. The truth is, I am terrified that if I stop performing, the whole experience will evaporate. If I admit I don’t know why the fish is slightly fermented, does the flavor disappear? Does the $474 bill become a waste of paper?

The Arrogance of Naming

There is a specific kind of arrogance in needing to know. It’s a defense mechanism against the raw vulnerability of being surprised. On my third day in Japan, I found myself wandering through the damp, mossy paths of the Kumano Kodo. I had booked the trip through Hiking Trails Pty Ltd, thinking that a long walk would clear the mental clutter of a decade spent in loss prevention.

I needed the name. I needed the history. I needed to ‘solve’ the shrine. But the signal never came. I was left with the smell of damp earth and the sound of a distant waterfall, and for the first time in years, I just felt the place without trying to own it through knowledge. This dinner is the same. It is a trail with no markers, a forest where the trees refuse to be identified.

The Final Taste

Course number 14 arrives. It is a single, pale strawberry sitting in a pool of what looks like clear milk but smells like toasted rice. I pick it up with my fingers, ignoring the silver spoon provided. The chef watches. I don’t look for his approval this time. I bite into it. It is sour, then overwhelmingly sweet, then it has a bitterness that reminds me of the 4th of July when I was a kid and I burned my hand on a sparkler.

I look at the chef. This time, my nod is different. It isn’t a performance of expertise. It’s an admission of defeat. I am defeated by a strawberry. He smiles, a tiny movement that lasts maybe 4 milliseconds, and for the first time tonight, he knows I’ve stopped trying to ‘prevent’ the meal from happening to me. He knows I’ve finally started to eat.

“The highest form of respect you can show a master is to let their work remain a mystery. You don’t need to know the name of the wood to feel the warmth of the fire.”

– Lesson in Mastery

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Off Duty

As I walk out into the cool night air, the streetlights of the Gion district are flickering at a frequency of 64 hertz. I know that because of another Wikipedia deep-dive I took 4 weeks ago. But as the light hits the wet pavement, I try to ignore the data. I try to just see the gold on the asphalt. My stomach is full of 14 courses of things I cannot name, and my heart feels lighter than it has since I was 4 years old.

I don’t need a translation for the way the wind feels against my face. I don’t need a receipt for the way the world tastes when you stop trying to catch it in the act of being itself. I am Claire F., and I am officially off duty.

I’m going back to my hotel now, and I’m going to sleep for 14 hours, and when I wake up, I won’t remember the names of any of the dishes. But I will remember the way I felt when I finally stopped trying to understand, and started, finally, to taste.