3 am in Tokyo

3 am on Saturday, and Marty and I are wide awake. It is 11:30 Friday morning at home. My internal clock thinks that is really what time it is.

We realize now what the key is to the slender Japanese: Portion control. We went to dinner last night at the hotel's Yakatori restaurant, which means grilled meat. It was lit up like a diner, everyone sat in stools next to each other. The prix fixe for hotel guests was $60. I didn't order it, being a vegetarian and all. But Marty did. This is how he describes his meal:

"The first course was three tiny cups. One with seaweed, another with two tiny pieces of chicken and a pickled thing. Teeny."

It would not fulfill the American's idea of "Let's get an appetizer." The next course was the beginning of the Yakatori. Skewered meat or vegetables. It started with two chicken wings which he ate, or tried to eat, with chopsticks. The other eight patrons in the restaurant, dressed in black and varying shades of gray, did the same thing. All eventually ate the two wings with their fingers.

I had ordered vegetarian selections: shitake mushrooms, asparagus, and kappa makki (cucumber sushi). I got two shitake mushrooms on a skewer and one asparagus grilled and cut into bite size pieces. Before leaving the hotel room, I picked up Joseph Campbell's book and turned to a random page, Reflections on the Art of Living.

Joseph Campbell wrote, "Vegetarianism is the first turning away from life, because life lives on lives, Vegetarians are just eating something that can't run away." Food for thought as we headed to the 'restaurant floor' in the basement of the hotel in the glass elevator from the 17th floor. I ordered vegetarian anyway.

The third course of Marty's meal: He thought it was another skewer of bite-sized pieces of steak, but it turned out to be liver, and brought back memories of his mother's cooking. And thoughts of "where's the ketchup?" Also he remembered the 'Bodies' show where he found out that the liver was really a Fram Oil Filter - like in a car. And he didn't particularly enjoy that.

"The next thing that I got looked like a corndog, I enjoyed it immensely, and I didn't know what it was. The diners next to me rejected theirs - there was something wrong with it."

These meals were served by a young woman in a kimono with a very worried look on her face, and was watched by a man in a black suit - the manager. probably. The rejection of the corndog set off a series of deep bows by everyone directed toward the unpleased diners next to us.The bows didn't end until they moments later, leaving their steaming tea behind.

Next came Marty's chicken broth and rice. I was taking my time with my asparagus spear. After he finished the rice, the young girl brought over a heaping tablespoon of vanilla icecream. along with a spoon that Marty hadn't seen since he had fed his kids when they were six months' old. Seriously. She refilled our bancha tea. And we left.

Lunch yesterday was a different story. We had walked over to the Imperial Gardens, which we didn't see because they're closed on Fridays, and ate in another basement. We chose to go to the restaurant which seemed the noisiest and most popular without a hint of English on the signs or menu. We thoroughly enjoyed our experience. Especially Marty. Here's a peek.