At first there was the voice. A broadcasted, striking voice, authoritative and yet feminine. It rang out over the loudspeakers like marching orders. “Hold the knife firmly. Draw the edge across the cutting board. Bring it back with a rapid series of chops.” The speaker was difficult to identify right away. Nine tables, topped with sterile white cutting boards, stretched out into a rectangle of three rows. Around each table toiled four to six women, all dressed identically in white hair nets, white aprons, and white rubber gloves (at one table in the far corner a man did his best to work inconspicuously, his hairnet pulled low over his face). Around another table swarmed a similarly dressed group of children, some barely able to see or reach the cutting boards. But amidst it all, the voice called out steady instructions. The followers, like obedient cult members, hammered and scraped away with heavy, black, knife-like bludgeons. It was like a surgeon’s workshop – except that the patients were fish rather than people.
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I live in Shizuoka City, which is the capital of a prefecture of the same name (Shizuoka, that is). But more importantly, I live in a neighborhood called Sanbancho. Literally, that means No.3 Town. The Japanese have not been particularly diligent about naming streets. Rather, cities are carved up into neighborhoods which are each given a distinct name. In my neck of the woods we have Towns 1 – 8, as well as “Young Pine Town,” “Small Castle Town,” “Gold Seat Town,” “Green Tea Town,” and the like. But I’m of the firm belief that No.3 Town is really at the top of its league. Many of my favorite places are in this neighborhood, and those that fall outside of it are in any case easily accessible.
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Last week my parents made their big debut as world travelers. They landed in Japan on Saturday and managed to navigate the perils of the several hour trip from Narita airport in Tokyo to Shizuoka all of their own steam. That’s something that even after a year being here I’d be a bit wary of. I met them at Shizuoka station around 8 pm and took them to their hotel, where they promptly surrendered to jetlag. Lesser people might have drifted off on the bullet train, only to perish later in the urban wilds of Nagoya or some such place. But through rain, trains, and crowded stations, they made it.
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My heart fluttered, knees weakening as I gazed at the tall, crimson felt-backed knife display, visible through the glass-paned door. I congratulated myself on once again overcoming what I’d come to find were the seemingly insurmountable odds of finding a knife shop in a city world famous for it’s knife production. Then, amidst near tearful revelry as I reached to slide open the rickety wooden door, I stopped short. No knob or hand-hold was to be found. A trick? An illusion?
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My next stop was a planned one. According to my previous research, Ashi Hamono knife shop would be on a nearby block. Stumbling into Mizuno Tanrenjo had been an unforeseen, yet happy coincidence. I was now back on my pre-planned route.
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