The Richest Meal

In this day of $1,000 tabs at Masa or the reasonable-by-comparison $500 tabs at Alain Ducasse ("cheaper than flying to Paris" -- true, but flying to Paris has the added bonus of you actually being in Paris), my most expensive meal ever was really not all that expensive. But it was rich.

Last August, I traveled to Japan, a country in which I had little gastronomic interest at the time. I was the rare food lover who did not care for sushi, tempura or any of dishes thought of as quintessentially Japanese. My skepticism gave way to curiosity, then intrigue, as I read in my guidebooks about kaiseki: a traditional multi-course meal exquisitely prepared and designed to engage the senses and reflect the season's best offerings. It sounded simple and luxurious at the same time.

We decided to have a kaiseki meal at Yagembori, a place much praised by Fodor's, and it was with much anticipation that we set out looking for the teahouse on our first night in Kyoto. We knew the restaurant name, the address, its location on a map of Kyoto, and even had a geographic description of its whereabouts, all courtesy of Fodor's ("North of Shijo-dori in the heart of Kyoto's still-thriving geisha district, this restaurant is in a teahouse a few steps down a cobbled path from the romantic Shira-kawa, a small tributary of the Kamo-gawa."). In the first hour, we walked all over the geisha district and realized that the map was untrustworthy. In the second hour, we walked alongside the Kamo-gawa, certain that we would recognize cobbled paths and a romantic tributary. We sought the assistance of two taxi drivers, neither of whom understood our efforts to say "Yagembori" in a way that sounded Japanese but both of whom were happy to drive us to pointless destinations and collect the fare. We followed a large group of Taiwanese tourists into a slightly secluded restaurant atop a hill and asked them if we were at Yagembori. Sometime between the third and the fourth hour, we gave up and walked into a sukiyaki restaurant.

The next evening, we renewed the mission, this time armed with a detailed map drawn for us by the clerk at the Holiday Inn Kyoto and the restaurant's name written out in Japanese letters. This time, we effortlessly located the street and the cobbled path, and excitedly matched the Japanese letters to that on a sign outside a darkened teahouse.

From the moment we stepped inside the teahouse, it was as if we had entered a space of quiet calm. We were seated in a "room," from which we could observe the chefs as they prepared our dishes. The meal was carefully paced. From the first course on, we were already anticipating the next dish. Each of the nine courses was a true surprise, aesthetically and culinarily. There was a sashimi dish, which included incredibly silky and sweet tuna. There was another dish that resembled agedashi tofu, but it was actually green tea noodles envelopped with tofu with a crisp panko coating. Another course turned out to be a subtle custard of eggplant and yams (I think), which reminded us of a Japanese lasagna. We watched as the chefs fished ayu, a small Japanese river trout, out of the tank, spear and grill them, knowing that within minutes they would appear before us on a beautiful ceramic plate.

The meal ended with black sesame ice cream, wholly representative of all the dishes that night: a familiar ingredient starring in a context that was unexpected yet in perfect harmony with its surroundings.

This was the most I have ever paid for a meal, and I felt fortunate for the experience.