A Confession

I have a confession to make. It’s the kind of confession that you normally wouldn’t bring up in mixed company, or with people you don’t know very well, but the blank buffer of cyberspace gives me enough false courage that I can talk openly. The whole thing happened a number of months back, but my conscience has been dogging me ever since. I’ve tried to justify the experience by telling myself things like, “But you didn’t know!” or “You were just being polite!”, but in the end these soothing excuses amount to nothing more than a bucket of fail. No one forced me to do it, I did it of my own accord.

I ate a lobster. I ate a lobster while it was still alive.

I was out to dinner with a group of engineers at a local Japanese restaurant. The menu had been chosen ahead of time, a typical course meal paired with two hours of an all-you-can-drink free-for-all. Across the way was a group of businessmen flanked by several hostesses hired as entertainment. The girls were dressed in bright silks and running the guys through a number of party games while giggling and pouring drinks. One of the engineers suggested that I could be a hostess too. I shook my head demurely and downed a beer. What the hell?

The first several dishes were standard fare; pickled vegetables, sashimi, dumplings of various sizes and fillings. Before each new round, I’d ask the guys what was next.

“Lobster,” they said.
“Awesome,” I thought.

Ten minutes later the lobster was brought out on a bed of ice. Perhaps there was some decorative foliage. I can’t remember the details because as soon as the chef placed the dish on the table, my jaw hit the floor. The lobster was alive, tail neatly sliced open to expose the meat inside, while the front of the creature moved around and made noises.

I’m generally good at keeping a poker-face when presented with challenging food situations. I’ve eaten pig guts, fish guts, crab “brain”^[1], and a number of other dishes without blanching. But the lobster was too much.

“It’s alive!”

The guys looked a little uncomfortable, probably wondering if I was going to make a scene. They squirmed in their seats a bit. I drank another beer.

“But it’s alive!!!”

Someone scowled. The girls across the way were getting louder. I contemplated killing the lobster, but realized I didn’t know how. I wanted to call kzi for some advice on administering a swift death, but my keitai was dead. The flaying torture scene from “The Wind Up Bird Chronicle” sprang vividly to mind. I thought about slicing open a man’s leg and pulling out the meat while he watched.

Someone brandished a pair of chopsticks and grabbed a chunk of tail meat. The lobster went, “scccrrrrccccch!”. I gasped. The man on my left laughed nervously and mentioned such a practice was illegal in Australia. I felt sick, and a bit dizzy. I drank more beer. The room was starting to feel really uncomfortable^[2].

At this point, about half the engineers were scowling. The others were urging me to try the fleshy life-essence of the lobster squirming around on the table. And so, to avoid further tension, to get it over with, to satisfy a totally morbid curiosity, I picked up my chopsticks and went for it. The lobster went, “scccrrrrccccch,” and I grimaced.

I ate a lobster while it was still alive.

It was good. Fresh, succulent, and tasty. I felt barbaric. Perhaps this will serve as a cautionary tale to current and future travelers to Japan. I try to stay away from making value judgements, especially as a stranger in a strange land, but I can’t condone this practice, despite what science might say about lobster sensitivities. I mean, come on! It was alive! I don’t eat foie gras either, and generally stick to vegetables and sometimes fish. Dead fish.

Addendum

Once we finished with the tail, the lobster was whisked off and made into soup. The night went on without any additional untoward entrees. We played bingo and prizes were handed out, some clearly chosen with a specific recipient in mind. Mine? A box of chocolate cocks, with a few breasts mixed in. Yes, you read that right. Chocolate cocks.

{ fin }

1. I use the word brain lightly… greenish-goo would be more accurate. In Japanese it’s called kanimiso (蟹味噌), which can be unpleasantly misleading to a neophyte gaijin. Be careful when you order, because you might not get that soup you were expecting. [↩]
2. If you’ve been in Japan long enough, you start to get a feel for the extremely large variety of situations that make Japanese people uncomfortable. Things that I would normally brush off are cause of great concern and anxiety. Like showing up at the wrong time for something. I’ve seen people almost fall down the stairs in embarrassment because they futzed up the time and arrived a couple hours early. Their desire to disappear into the smallness of infinity can be blindingly palpable. Once you experience it, you try to avoid such complications at all costs. [↩]