newcomers. A section called “How to Jiro” was divided into advice for novices (“If you need something to drink, order the tea”) and advice for Jiro old-timers (“Don’t even think about ordering tea. Remember, this water goes into the Jiro broth and boils the Jiro noodles. It’s too precious to be wasted on tea”). Referencing a schematic diagram of the counter—with locations labeled A, B, C, etc.—the Web site deconstructed the ordering ritual that Masa had described. I learned, for instance, that when the owner was ready to present your bowl, his younger assistant, Mr. Sakai, would stand at the location labeled G (near the cash register) and repeat your order back to you. In other words, he would say “sho” or “dai,” depending on which you had chosen. This, it turned out, was a cue meaning, “Your order is ready, what toppings would you like?”
The Web site outlined acceptable responses, which were a kind of Japanese code:
Karame: Extra soy sauce flavoring
Dokayasai: Double-extra bean sprouts and cabbage
Abura: Extra-thick layer of lard
Abu-abu: Double-extra-thick layer of lard
Nin-nin: Double-extra minced garlic
According to the Web site, if you didn’t make your topping call quickly enough, Mr. Sakai would say, “Would you like garlic on that?” Hearing this line from Mr. Sakai was the ultimate Jiro disgrace, because it meant that you would be denied the pleasure of ordering extra vegetables, lard, and flavorings.
I settled on the codes for extra vegetables, extra soy sauce flavoring, and double-extra garlic, and practiced yelling them rapid-fire in my apartment.
“Yasai karame nin-nin! Yasai karame nin-nin!”
After a few weeks, when I felt ready, I proposed a story about Casio, the Japanese electronics firm, to Josh, the editor in chief of the business magazine where I worked. I had read an article about Casio in Nikkei Business —Japan’s equivalent of BusinessWeek —that said the company was famous for shunning consumer input when designing products. The result was a history of strange gadgets that often turned out to be failures. Ill-fated Casio calculators of the 1970s and ’80s, for example, included the QL-10, which doubled as a cigarette lighter; the PG-200, which doubled as a pachinko machine; and the QD-151, which, long before anyone knew what to do with one, doubled as a mobile stock-trading device. But once every decade or so, the company’s “producer is king” approach led to huge hits, such as the first cheap portable calculator (the 1972 Casio Mini), G-Shock watches (which became popular with American skateboarders in 1991), and ultrathin Exilim digital cameras (promoted in 2002 as a fashion accessory).
I called Casio’s press relations office and set up some interviews.
In Tokyo, I rode the Chuo Line to Casio’s engineering center on the western outskirts of the city. There I interviewed Yukio Kashio, the youngest of the company’s four founding brothers. In what was a highlight of the trip, Yukio showed me how to divide 1 by 3 on the Casio 14-B, a 1959 calculator the size of a desk. Cordoned off by ropes in the lobby and constructed from telephone relay switches (transistors were not available when it was designed), the machine clicked and clacked to produce the dividend.
After the interview, I returned to Tokyo proper and rode the subway to Mita Station. Exiting the turnstiles, I followed signs to Keio University. A light rain was falling, so I stopped at a supermarket to buy an umbrella. I also swung by the fruit aisle. Ten minutes later I was standing in line—pear in belly—at Ramen Jiro.
T here were around twenty men—and no women at all—in front of me on line. The rain had gotten heavier, so everyone held umbrellas. Through a window in the side of the restaurant, I could see the owner. His thin gray hair was almost gone, and he wore a dirty white apron over a dirty white undershirt.
I rehearsed saying “Sho!” over and over in
The Web site outlined acceptable responses, which were a kind of Japanese code:
Karame: Extra soy sauce flavoring
Dokayasai: Double-extra bean sprouts and cabbage
Abura: Extra-thick layer of lard
Abu-abu: Double-extra-thick layer of lard
Nin-nin: Double-extra minced garlic
According to the Web site, if you didn’t make your topping call quickly enough, Mr. Sakai would say, “Would you like garlic on that?” Hearing this line from Mr. Sakai was the ultimate Jiro disgrace, because it meant that you would be denied the pleasure of ordering extra vegetables, lard, and flavorings.
I settled on the codes for extra vegetables, extra soy sauce flavoring, and double-extra garlic, and practiced yelling them rapid-fire in my apartment.
“Yasai karame nin-nin! Yasai karame nin-nin!”
After a few weeks, when I felt ready, I proposed a story about Casio, the Japanese electronics firm, to Josh, the editor in chief of the business magazine where I worked. I had read an article about Casio in Nikkei Business —Japan’s equivalent of BusinessWeek —that said the company was famous for shunning consumer input when designing products. The result was a history of strange gadgets that often turned out to be failures. Ill-fated Casio calculators of the 1970s and ’80s, for example, included the QL-10, which doubled as a cigarette lighter; the PG-200, which doubled as a pachinko machine; and the QD-151, which, long before anyone knew what to do with one, doubled as a mobile stock-trading device. But once every decade or so, the company’s “producer is king” approach led to huge hits, such as the first cheap portable calculator (the 1972 Casio Mini), G-Shock watches (which became popular with American skateboarders in 1991), and ultrathin Exilim digital cameras (promoted in 2002 as a fashion accessory).
I called Casio’s press relations office and set up some interviews.
In Tokyo, I rode the Chuo Line to Casio’s engineering center on the western outskirts of the city. There I interviewed Yukio Kashio, the youngest of the company’s four founding brothers. In what was a highlight of the trip, Yukio showed me how to divide 1 by 3 on the Casio 14-B, a 1959 calculator the size of a desk. Cordoned off by ropes in the lobby and constructed from telephone relay switches (transistors were not available when it was designed), the machine clicked and clacked to produce the dividend.
After the interview, I returned to Tokyo proper and rode the subway to Mita Station. Exiting the turnstiles, I followed signs to Keio University. A light rain was falling, so I stopped at a supermarket to buy an umbrella. I also swung by the fruit aisle. Ten minutes later I was standing in line—pear in belly—at Ramen Jiro.
T here were around twenty men—and no women at all—in front of me on line. The rain had gotten heavier, so everyone held umbrellas. Through a window in the side of the restaurant, I could see the owner. His thin gray hair was almost gone, and he wore a dirty white apron over a dirty white undershirt.
I rehearsed saying “Sho!” over and over in
Similar Books
