‘Ooh, you know what Dylan would love,” our nextdoor neighbour once announced to my mum over the garden fence. “This great new restaurant. Just opened down Exeter way. Japanese it is. Called Wagamama.”
I’ve been entranced by Japanese culture ever since I was a tween living in Devon, when this blockbuster restaurant franchise scandalised the south-west’s restaurant scene. A trip to Topman followed by a Waga’s chicken katsu quickly became the pastime of Exeter’s metropolitan elite.
But since long before that – even before Marie-Antoinette wowed Versailles with her treasure trove of Japanese lacquer – Japan has captivated the world. From Mario Kart to the writing of Haruki Murakami, its cultural reach spans disciplines, while its food has obtained umami ubiquity in the world’s top hotels and restaurants.
Sadly, though, like many Britons, I can’t jet to Japan for a sakura safari followed by miso-glazed Magikarp in Ginza. For my part, my partner and I started scouting out a trip for October 2020, planning visits to the labyrinth of tiny bars in Tokyo. Little did we know that lockdown loomed. Luckily, London has plenty of Japanese offerings that, for now, will have to do.
A stroll around Kyoto Garden
A swish away from the boujie Holland Park Avenue lies an oasis of mindful tranquillity. Gifted to London by the city of Kyoto to celebrate the cordial relationship between our two nations, Kyoto Garden opened to the public in 1991.
I shuffled around somewhat furtively, feeling out of place as I always do in the wealthier bits of west London. I was also gasping for a vape, but somehow puffing away in the regal presence of peacocks and Japanese maples just felt wrong.
A tiered waterfall trickled scenically through Japanese foliage, down to a glassy pond, where every so often monster koi carp surfaced like scaly whales. I did a full-blown photoshoot on the narrow bridge, ignoring the people trying to get past. I felt suitably like an insensitive tourist, interrupting the flow of a Kyoto park with my Duolingo and need for a selfie.
Lunch at Tokyo Diner
Next, I dived past Tokyo Diner’s unassuming, unlabelled (in English) facade. The inside felt, to me at least, like a little hotspot in the Tokyo district of Shinjuku, cosily fitted out with light woods and glowing lanterns. Friendly staff glided between the tables with steaming bowls of salty goodness.
On the menu, it was all about casual comfort. Eccentric little written asides chattily offered free rice top-ups, free green tea and, slightly worryingly, free “Thames water”. When the bill arrived, a punchy message stated “We do NOT take tips.”
I had the lunchtime bowl of oyakodon – rice with egg and perfectly simmered, succulent chicken – washed down with a dewy Sapporo beer, and felt as close to paradise as ever in central London. I felt oceans, rather than metres, away from the grimy streets outside.
A trip to the Japan Centre
Something of a rite of passage for Japanophiles in the UK, the Japan Centre is tucked behind Piccadilly Circus. It was founded in 1976 as a bookshop catering to London’s Japanese community and has since grown into a full-blown mini-franchise. A canteen-cum-supermarket-cum-homeware-store, it’s one of those dangerously tantalising places I have a habit of breezing casually into, then emerging three hours later, considerably poorer.
It’s not cheap – one of the lovely stoneware plates will set you back £50 or so, while specialist sake is more than £40. I exercised some self-control and just browsed, particularly the incredible selection of Japanese magazines. Poring over magazines in shops is probably something few of us do on a regular basis, so this in itself was a novelty.
Shopping at Cyberdog
Cyberdog, a Camden staple, is a neon-spattered wonderland. Specialising in the kind of rave gear that would make even Honey Dijon need a nice sit-down, it’s notorious for its outrageous recreation of nightclub culture in the middle of the day.
Capturing something of the colour-saturated maximalism of Tokyo fashion hubs such as Harajuku, it is deeply naff, but defiant in its naffness. Bucket hats are emblazoned with neon tiger stripes, sunglasses feature flashing LED lights, and, tucked away at the back, the adults-only section resembles a porn shoot directed by Luc Besson. I happily spend some time soaking in the vibe.
Its wonderful staff look and act like they should work at a 27th-century interplanetary cantina (and I mean that as the highest compliment). I cajoled them into letting me try stuff on for photos and getting behind the DJ booth (“That’s absolutely fine, hun, just please don’t touch anything.”)
Dinner at Dotori
Part of Japanese fusion spot Dotori’s genius is the commitment it demands from its customers – it doesn’t take reservations or cards. Located on a hectic side street, the setting is forgettable and the food remarkable. It’s testament to the status of the place that at 6pm on a weeknight, I got one of the last free tables.
I was pleased to find that in Tokyo style, there were lots of solo tables. People sitting by themselves, unselfconsciously wolfing down ambitious mouthfuls of scallop katsu and sesame-marinated jellyfish – keeping one eye on the soy, the other on dog-eared copies of Ishiguro and Rooney.
I ordered the special bento box, a varnished treasure chest of expertly sliced and sizzled Japanese cuisine. It was eye-wateringly expensive but worth the splurge.
Heading home in the rain, I considered heading to a gay sauna to try recreating Yubaba’s legendary bathhouse in Spirited Away, but thought that might be pushing it.
