Hitori

I was hungry in the city of sacred temples and deepest sins.

Bangkok, beautiful and grimy, wet and hot, generous and predatory.

Everyone but me, sweating together.

I walked into a place called Hitori Shabu.

Hitori. One person in Japanese.

Alone.

Appropriate.

But shabu-shabu was never supposed to be solitary food.

Shabu-shabu.

Swish-swish.

The sound of thin slices of meat swept through hot broth.

A pot bubbling in the middle of the table.

Thin slices of raw meat. Vegetables. Mushrooms. Noodles.

Drop them in.

Stir. Cook.

Then comes the chopstick sword fight.

Catching the good pieces, arguing over salt and cooking time.

A good time built around disagreement.

Criticizing every morsel before eating it anyway.

Food becomes conversation.

Not here.

Hitori has done away with all that.

No communal pot.

One person. One burner.

Everything within reach.

No sharing. No talking.

Old rituals adapted to modern solitude.

Apparently I am not the only one.

The place was full.

Earphones.

Heads down.

Meat into broth.

A few seconds.

Meat into mouth.

Repeat.

There was no laughter.

Hardly any conversation.

Strangest of all, it worked.

Nobody seemed unhappy.

I sat at the end of the counter with my own little pot bubbling in front of me.

I fit right in and I hate it.

But there are advantages to eating alone.

For example, if you are in prison, nobody steals your food.

The disadvantages are many.

I’ll spare you the list.

Except for the important one.

Nobody tells you there is parsley in your teeth.

Small things you don’t notice until they’re gone.

The beef was excellent.

I had no one to tell.