Fugu sashimi tv#

Of all the dishes served in all the restaurants in all the world, you could argue, the particular seafood delicacy I’ve come fourteen time zones and 6,800 miles to ingest is the one that’s most likely to kill me dead.Īmong the intrepid TV hosts and iron-stomached bloggers who span the globe looking for horrible things to eat, a potentially deadly blowfish dinner is a badge of honor, the thrill-seeking gastronome’s equivalent to scaling Mount Everest. And the shira-ko is among the most potentially fatal parts of the famously poisonous fish. Tiger fugu is considered the filet mignon of blowfish, coveted, according to the twisted logic of fugu connoisseurs, for both its distinctive flavor and its unparalleled concentration of lethal toxins. Even better, tonight, I’ve been told, he’ll be serving that most prized portion of the fugu anatomy known as shira-ko, a.k.a. Several calls around the fugu network by my interpreter, Shinji Nohara, had revealed that Chef Hashimoto had just returned from Tokyo’s famous Tsukiji fish market with a prime tora, or “tiger,” fugu, caught in the waters off Miyazaki prefecture, in southern Japan. Blowfish ( fugu is derived from “ fuku,” which means “to blow” in Japanese) is mainly a winter delicacy in Japan (the season runs from October to early spring), so many of the city’s more prominent fugu houses were either closed or had begun serving inferior farm-raised, or “caged,” blowfish. Still addled by jet lag, I’d come to Mukoujima Hashimoto feeling disoriented, a little frazzled, and also in a blinding rainstorm, much the way, it later occurred to me, Janet Leigh had arrived at the Bates Motel. But on this April Friday evening in otherwise bustling Tokyo, this curious little fugu restaurant is as empty as a tomb. As every food-obsessed traveler knows, the first rule when looking for a decent meal in a strange place is to choose a crowded room. There are no waiters, either no dishwashers, no friendly neighbors dropping by for a cup of tea. Only tonight, there are no sounds of clattering pots coming from upstairs, no comforting pitter-patter of tiny children’s feet. The chef lives above his place, like an old-time saloon keeper. His little restaurant, called Mukoujima Hashimoto, is located on a lonely residential street in the working-class Sumida section of Tokyo (“If we are in New York, this is Queens,” my interpreter says), a tidy establishment with just three low-slung tables set over tatami matting. He has a spiky haircut, like the wires on a brush, and big, prominent ears, which give him a passing resemblance to Don Knotts. Hashimoto is dressed in a white chef’s coat that’s slightly stained around the pockets with fish guts. Naohisa Hashimoto, is to turn around, in the most diplomatic possible way, of course, and run screaming back to my hotel. Which is why my first impulse, upon greeting Mr. “The fugu chef has your life in his hands,” one of my Japanese friends had said. It was like selecting a heart surgeon or a private pilot. Before I’d arrived at this dark, back-alley restaurant in Tokyo, I’d been told that trust was the most crucial element involved when choosing a fugu chef.