One chilly spring afternoon around a decade ago, my wife Angeles and I were walking along Hiroshima’s Tenma River, looking for a place to eat. Famished and frozen after a day’s sightseeing, we fantasized about something hot, tasty and filling that wouldn’t bankrupt us. We’d only been in Japan a few days, so eating out was still a daily trip down a rabbit hole into a culinary wonderland.
We spotted a dark-blue noren curtain hanging outside a small shop, a sign that it was open, and ducked in. Inside the tiny space were just half a dozen little tables and four empty barstools. The owner, a large cheery-faced woman, cried “irashaimasen” (welcome) and beckoned us to sit at the “bar” – a large rectangular hotplate.
Our Japanese was still rudimentary, so we just said “hai” (yes) and “onegaishimasu” (please, or thank you) to everything she said, and hoped for the best. She doled out two ladlefuls of batter onto the hotplate, and spread them out into two big circles, side by side. She then put a Fuji-sized mountain of cabbage on top, followed by a good handful of bean sprouts and some thin rashers of pork. Next, while the vegetables steamed away, she placed two great tangles of ramen noodles alongside.
After a few minutes, she deftly flipped the pancakes over, placing each one on top of a pile of noodles. It was culinary performance art; an edible sculpture taking shape before our eyes.
It looked and smelled delicious. But she hadn’t finished yet. Cracking two eggs onto the grill, she spread each one out into a circle the same size as the pancake. Finally, she placed the pancake on top of the egg, then decorated the entire mound with a generous sprinkling of chopped green onions, dried bonito flakes and nori seaweed. Handing us a couple of bottles of sauce – one mayonnaise and the other a heavenly smelling brown sauce – she gestured us to dig in with a hearty “itadakimasu!” (bon appetit).
We drizzled the sauces on top, and ate directly off the hotplate, using a metal spatula. And, just as we’d fantasized, it was hot, delicious, filling and cheap.
That was our first experience of Hiroshima’s legendary okonomiyaki, an experience that we repeated many times over the following years as Hiroshima became our permanent home. It’s been called “the Japanese pizza” or “the Japanese pancake”, but such comparisons fail to conjure the wonder of the okonomiyaki experience. London has jellied eels. Valencia has paella. New Orleans has gumbo. And Hiroshima has okonomiyaki – a signature dish that defines the identity of the city.
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