Ottolenghi was there too

It’s been hard to stop thinking about our trip to Japan. It started working its magic on us before we even arrived and has lingered long after we returned home. How does one follow up such an experience?

Apparently, we’re not the only ones wondering.

I received an email this morning from Yotam Ottolenghi, the Israeli-British chef, restaurateur, and prolific cookbook author. (Full disclosure: he also sent it to several hundred thousand other subscribers.) It was about his recent trip to Japan. Turns out we were there at the same time.

No, we didn’t run into each other, although that would have been fun.

We did, however, meet a few years ago at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. The occasion was the launch of his book Sweet, a dessert cookbook honoring his early years as a pastry chef. I had long admired his work and featured many of his recipes at Bistro-to-Go over the years so I was very excited to see him in person.

The reception was held in the museum’s lavish Versailles galleries. Guests were encouraged to dress in period costume for what was billed as a “Feast of Versailles.”

Unfortunately, my wardrobe contained absolutely nothing suggesting 18th-century French aristocracy.

Not one to let a minor detail interfere with a good theme party, I improvised.

I arrived as a sultan, a visiting spice merchant from vaguely defined points somewhere in the Far East. We assembled the outfit from an Indian sherwani-style tunic, a flowing orange shawl, pajama trousers, and embellished it all with a bit of bling from Mary Anne’s collection. The finishing touch was a repurposed neck brace transformed into a bejeweled turban.

As we arrived it was clear that very few of the guests had observed the suggested attire with the same enthusiasm.

Needless to say, I stood out.

Ottolenghi spotted me almost immediately and, following his talk, made a beeline for our little group. We had a nice chat— one chef to another, I like to think. Looking back now my attire was absolutely absurd but he was entirely gracious and incredibly charming.

The pastries, meanwhile, were extravagant and fully worthy of Versailles.

But I digress. Japan was the subject.

Like Ottolenghi, we arrived armed with lists. Everyone we knew who had visited Japan had recommendations: where to stay, what neighborhoods to explore, the best ramen, the best sushi, the best hidden cocktail bar. Pages and pages of must-sees and must-eats.

In the end, many of our favorite experiences never made a list. In fact, wherever we wound up was amazing whether it was on a list or not.

We never did run into Ottolenghi. I suppose he had a different list.

Like us, he ate sushi and ramen and convenience-store onigiri from 7-Eleven. Somehow we both came away wondering how it was possible not to have had a single bad meal. Japan seems to have a way of making everyone feel as though they’ve discovered something special, something meant just for them, even while thousands of others may be having the very same experience.

Maybe that’s part of what stays with you.

We spend so much time searching for something exceptional—the best bakery or coffee, the perfect bowl of ramen, the place no one else yet knows about. Our search is fueled by all the ratings, lists and stars that guide us. Good. Better. Best. Sorry we didn’t make it to everything on our list.

But in Japan, excellence practically seems like a given.

There seems to be an unspoken understanding that everyone should simply try to do things well — whether it’s preparing sushi, sweeping a sidewalk, packaging a sandwich at a convenience store, or running a tiny ramen shop with six seats and a line out the door.

Not perfection exactly.

Just care.

Maybe that’s why Japan lingers in people’s minds long after they leave.

Even Ottolenghi, apparently.