Tokyo Tales: Fish, Flashing Lights, and a Baby in a Bar

On our second-to-last day in Tokyo, we were determined to make the most of it. No half-hearted sightseeing. No meandering aimlessly. This was a planned day, and like all well-planned days, it began at an ungodly hour with a mission: sushi at the world-famous fish market.

Joni, to her credit, took the early wake-up call like a champ, which is only natural considering she’s her father’s daughter. She was born for this. Masters of the Tokyo subway by this point, we navigated the morning rush with the grace of seasoned locals.

The outer fish market was already buzzing when we arrived. Tourists packed the first few sushi stalls, eagerly queuing in the most obvious places. But Emily and I, savvy travelers, scoffed at the beaten path and took a detour down a narrow, steam-filled alleyway. And that’s where we found it, a tiny, unassuming sushi stall run by two master chefs who had likely been serving sashimi since before we were born.

They took one look at our tiny sushi apprentice and awarded us prime seats, which in a place that could fit about six people max was essentially the fish market equivalent of box seats at the Super Bowl.

With the kind of flair that only comes from decades of slicing fish with terrifying precision, the chefs whipped up plate after plate of the freshest sushi we’d ever had. The sashimi was impossibly tender, the nigiri was balanced to perfection, and the soy sauce was so good I briefly considered drinking it straight. Somewhere deep in my soul, my standards for sushi had been permanently altered.

We made our way to the inner wholesale market, where the professionals operated. This was where Tokyo’s best restaurants got their prized ingredients. This was also where I found myself drawn, as if by fate, to the Japanese knife specialists.

Rows upon rows of handcrafted blades glistened under the market lights, each one looking sharp enough to split atoms. I couldn’t resist. I bought an authentic Japanese fish knife, hand-forged by a blacksmith who then personally sharpened it before my very eyes. As he worked, he explained its craftsmanship with the kind of reverence usually reserved for monks. It was a thing of beauty. It was also, according to Emily, a very expensive souvenir. But this was no ordinary tourist trinket. This was a knife for our future boat. A knife that, in my mind, I would one day use to expertly fillet a fish that I heroically caught in southeast Alaska.

With my new blade carefully packed away (and Emily cautiously keeping an eye on me), we switched gears from ancient tradition to futuristic art and headed to TeamLab Planets, which can best be described as a cross between an interactive art exhibit, a fever dream, and a really committed attempt to trick your brain into thinking you’ve stepped into another dimension.

First, we walked barefoot through knee-deep water, where digital koi fish swam around us, shifting colors with every step. Then, we found ourselves in a room of floating lanterns, blinking softly as if they held tiny galaxies inside. Next came a mirrored universe where shifting light and sound made it feel like we were falling through space. At one point, we waded through a floor that felt like a cloud, and I had the sudden, unsettling realization that I was not fully in control of my own feet anymore.

Joni, however, was completely entranced. She stared, wide-eyed, at the glowing landscapes, mesmerized by the ever-changing lights. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was experiencing some kind of baby enlightenment. 

After a much-needed cocktail hour at the hotel (because every ambitious travel day requires a midpoint drink), we readied ourselves for a five-star dinner at Yamanami, a teppanyaki restaurant where the chef prepares everything before your eyes, Benihana-style, but, you know, with significantly fewer flying shrimp and significantly more sophistication.

And then came the Hida beef.

For those unfamiliar, Hida beef is essentially Kobe beef’s overachieving cousin. Raised in the mountains and pampered like royalty, it is known for its insane marbling and melt-in-your-mouth texture. This stuff is considered the best beef in the world!

And, let me tell you, it lived up to the hype. One bite and I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. Kobe beef, sitting right next to it, was fantastic. But the Hida… words cannot describe. 

Joni, the trooper of all troopers, almost made it through the entire 2.5-hour meal in peaceful silence but did require some mama time for about 10 minutes. Good thing we had the entire restaurant (and staff) to ourselves. I assume they were all deeply impressed by our ability to dine with a baby in tow.

Full and happy, Emily convinced me to check out Tokyo nightlife, so we ventured into the legendary Golden Gai, a historic drinking district where the bars are smaller than most American closets and the entire atmosphere feels like a secret speakeasy party that’s been going on since the ‘60s.

Each alley was lined with tiny, quirky bars, many seating no more than eight people at a time. Some had themes; punk rock, jazz, horror movies, while others were just vibes in liquid form. We found ourselves in a cinema-themed bar, squeezing inside just as a group of fellow travelers waved us over.

I tried matcha liquor, which tasted like a green tea latte had gone to college, discovered itself, and decided to start a distillery. Our new friends found it hilarious that we had brought Joni along, and thus, a new Tokyo catchphrase was born:

“Nothing like a baby in a bar!”

With that, we made our way back to the hotel, exhausted, victorious, and full of enough stories to last a lifetime. Tomorrow: sumo wrestling, then Kyoto!