Tokyo Means Sushi for Breakfast

Even with the benefit of jet lag, I am not a morning person, so let’s be real: there was no way I was going to the tuna auction at Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market, where people line up at 3am to get one of 120 spots to watch dudes buy super expensive fish in a warehouse-sized walk-in fridge. So on our first morning in Tokyo, I felt pretty good about our 6:30 wake up. I showered in the tiny cube of a bathroom, plastic-walled so everything could be hosed down. I dressed for suffocating heat and humidity, and I spent more than a little time looking very closely at my face in the mirror in search of new fine lines and wrinkles, as the dawn had brought along with it my 31^st birthday.

Lotuses bigger than my FACE (and tbh I have a big face)

Armed with our wifi egg to give us the Immeasurable Wealth of the Internet (and to power Google Translate, thank God), we set off past the lake of lotuses at Ueno Park toward the subway, leery of tales of people packed like sardines (excuse me, like iwashi.) We were ready for crowded trains—We’ve lived in New York and studied in Moscow, where the Russian train conductors like to keep you on your toes by opening and closing the doors while the train is still in motion. It’s very exciting.

As it was morning rush hour, we were ready to squish. The train streaked into the station, and we stepped into the door that opened in front of us. I looked around. There seemed to be a whole lot of women. Like, only women. “Jared,” I said, “Are these cars separated by gender?” Which is when my 6’3”, heavily bearded husband noticed the pink sign indicating that we were in the Women Only car. Excuse me, all my friends who have traveled in Japan: Why did no one warn me that there are Women Only cars on the Tokyo subway?! We made it back out to the platform with seconds to spare and stood there panting, looking somewhere between shocked and relieved, as the train pulled out of the station, all the white button downs and black pants of the Japanese salary men and women blurring into two solid contrasting lines as the cars gained speed.

We got onto the next train and into an appropriate car without incident, and finally strolled through the gates of the fish market around 8:30. Tiny carts with what looked like trash cans topped with steering wheels sped around us in every direction on the wet asphalt. Awnings and banners hung from sushiya storefronts, still in the morning heat. And let me be honest about something: it smelled like fish. Very fresh fish, but still fish. Just so you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

The sweaty line at Sushi Daiwa

We found our destination, Sushi Daiwa, by the line, a snake of forty or so patrons packed tight to try and fit in the small patch of shade afforded by the roof’s overhang. As we shuffled forward, sweat started running down my back in rivulets. When I was suitably wilted and Jared had soaked through his tshirt, we were ushered inside.

The spot is long and very narrow, with twelve stools at the sushi counter, and no room for the chefs to even switch spots as they work. There’s no ordering involved here, because your presence indicates you’re having the omakase, which is hot green tea, a deliciously briny miso soup with tiny clams, and eight pieces of excellent sushi: buttery otoro (think the Wagyu beef of tuna), perfect, shiny white squid, a mountain of silky uni, a pearly pink shrimp, tiny rolls with tuna and with salmon roe, a rosy slab of chutoro, a silvery slice of horse mackerel, and a sponge of baby eel. And a giant 9am Asahi, because most of the people in the Tsukiji Fish Market have been awake long enough that it’s functionally happy hour, and because they’re reasonable people.

Asakusa Temple, in case you have forgotten you're in Japan

We were done eating in 15 minutes, ushered out the back door into the middle of the market stalls selling all things briny, spiny, spiky, and scaly. Our next stop was Asakusa Temple, and we headed out into the concrete and neon wilds of Tokyo confident that sushi for breakfast had cured our jet lag. Later that afternoon, a 30-minute power nap accidentally became a six-hour doze, but for those brief sunny birthday morning minutes, I was full and proud of myself for getting up early and eating the eel and surviving the Tokyo subway during the morning commute, and things were very good.