Robatayaki

We had a new food experience last night. A friend took us to a “robata-yaki” restaurant. We began this experience by walking downstairs directly from the street into a low-ceilinged basement room so dark and smoky it was hard to see exactly how big it was. As the proprietor pointed us to seats at a low counter, he informed us that we were allowed to stay for two hours, no longer.

We stashed our coats and bags inside the stools we sat on and looked around. The room was packed with people. In front of us a large grill was surrounded on three sides by baskets of raw food—meat, fish and vegetables, some skewered, some in chunks—arrayed like giant flower petals. Behind the grill stood a young man dressed in knee-high rubber boots, light weight black pants and shirt and a sweatband. Near his right hand, half a dozen crocks held various sauces for brushing onto the grilling food. When a customer ordered a dish, he cooked and plated it (from a stack behind him), then placed it on a large paddle at the end of a long pole, which he used to pass the plate over the grill, the baskets of food and the width of the counter to the customer. The paddle, when he wasn’t using it, rested across the front of the grill, preventing him from leaning on it and burning himself. He never seemed hurried and he barely sweated. On the contrary, his movements were graceful and practiced. He seemed to love what he was doing.

We ordered beers while we studied the menu. The beer arrived in mugs so large I could barely lift mine. Our friend started ordering dishes, each one a tapa sized serving. As we finished the first ones, he ordered more. It was the cook’s responsibility to take the orders, keep track of what we’d eaten and prepare our bill at the end. He was doing this simultaneously for maybe two dozen people encircling him. The only assistance he had in this was that every dish was priced the same, ¥300.

Adding to the ambience was the exhaust fan in the ceiling over the grill, a box the size of a ping-pong table that sucked noisily, pulling the sounds of conversation and the smoke from cigarettes into it. Cooking smoke thinned, but did not entirely vanish into it.

The food was good—standard fare, fresh, unimaginatively but nicely presented. It was good accompaniment to beer, which J points out was probably the point. And the cooking of it was certainly a good show. I’d do it again anytime.