Japanese cuisine hit me like a freight train last winter, right in my shoebox Brooklyn kitchen where the stove barely works and the smoke alarm screams if I breathe too hard. I blame that one TikTok—some guy in Tokyo slurping ramen like it’s a religious experience—and suddenly I’m at the Asian market at 9 p.m. buying kombu like I know what I’m doing. Spoiler: I didn’t. My first dashi tasted like hot seawater with identity issues, and I drank it anyway because I spent $12 on seaweed. Pride’s a hell of a drug.
Anyway, fast-forward to now, 3 a.m., November, freezing, and I’m hunched over a cutting board trying not to slice my thumb off while making sushi. The rice is either glue or gravel—never in between—and my “rolls” look like burritos that gave up. But man, when it works? When the rice sticks just right and the salmon’s cold and fatty and the wasabi punches you in the soul? That’s the Japanese cuisine high I chase, even if 9 times out of 10 I end up eating deconstructed sadness with a fork.
Sushi: My Personal War Crime
Sushi in Japanese cuisine is supposed to be zen, right? Tiny perfect bites, silence, respect. Me? I’m yelling “SHIT” every time the nori rips, which is always. I bought a $7 bamboo mat off Amazon and it smells like regret. The rice vinegar ratio is a lie—I’ve tried 17 versions and they all taste like salad dressing or cough syrup. Pro tip from a failure: wet your hands like you’re about to fistfight the rice. Dry hands = rice confetti. You’re welcome.
I once made “spicy tuna” rolls for a girl I was trying to impress. Used canned tuna because fresh is $30 a pound and I’m not a trust fund kid. She took one bite, smiled like she was in pain, and said, “Interesting.” We broke up two weeks later. Coincidence? Probably not. Still, I keep trying. Last week I nailed a California roll—kinda. It held together for exactly 4 seconds before collapsing like my life choices.
Ramen: The 3 a.m. Therapy Session
Ramen is where Japanese cuisine gets forgiving, thank God. You can screw up a lot and it still tastes like love if the broth’s decent. Mine’s never decent. I simmer pork bones for 12 hours and my apartment smells like a butcher shop had a baby with a swamp. Neighbors bang on the walls. I wave through the peephole holding a ladle like a weapon.
The secret (that I pretend to know) is fat. Don’t skim it. That cloudy, greasy tonkotsu magic? That’s the good stuff. I tried making it “healthy” once—used chicken, skimmed everything, added kale because I’m an idiot. Tasted like warm dishwater with sadness. Now I embrace the grease. I float a soft-boiled egg in there that I inevitably overcook because I get distracted doomscrolling. The yolk’s always solid. Whatever. Still slurps.
Here’s my chaotic ramen hack list, scrawled on a napkin:
- Instant noodles + real broth = not a sin.
- Burnt garlic oil is a feature, not a bug.
- If the noodles stick, just lie and call it “fusion.”
Check this out for real broth science (https://www.seriouseats.com/tonkotsu-ramen-broth-recipe).
The Side Characters Nobody Talks About
Japanese cuisine isn’t just sushi and ramen, even though my brain’s 90% those two. Onigiri? Portable happiness. I stuff mine with spam and furikake because I’m basic. They explode in my bag on the subway. Tempura? I tried frying shrimp in my tiny pot and the oil hit 400°F and I panicked and threw ice in it. Smoke everywhere. Fire department came. I ate cold soba for a week after that.
Matcha is my nemesis. I whisk it like I’m in a samurai movie and it still tastes like lawn clippings. But I drink it anyway, stained teeth and all, because caffeine.
Wait, Am I Even Allowed to Do This?
Here’s the contradiction: I’m a white dude in sweatpants romanticizing Japanese cuisine from a 300-square-foot apartment with a broken fridge. Is that cringe? Yeah. Do I care? Not really. I’m not claiming authenticity—I’m claiming hunger. And curiosity. And the fact that screwing up tamagoyaki at 1 a.m. while watching anime dub is peak millennial.
Sometimes I wonder if the chefs in Kyoto would laugh at my “ramen” (instant noodles + leftover rotisserie chicken + sriracha). Probably. But then I slurp and forget.
Yeah, That’s It
Japanese cuisine turned my kitchen into a war zone and my bank account into a cry for help, but I’m addicted. If you’re scared to start, don’t be. Burn the rice. Flood the counter. Cry into the miso. Just keep going.
Your turn—what’s the dumbest thing you’ve cooked lately? Drop it below. Or don’t. I’ll be here at 2 a.m. trying to roll sushi with a wine bottle because I lost my mat again.
