Up Piss Alley Without a Chopstick

I’m in the habit pinching the tails off of roasted chickens and crunching them down whole. You should know that about me.

Other family members grimace, and I haven’t the least urge to appeal. You see, it’s in my interest since at any given moment the number of hot poultry resting on the counter is too few, and I don’t share anything other than my problems—which the parson’s nose is not. A miraculous concentration of textures, it contains soft flesh, a couple of oh so crumbly vertebrae, all bundled up in a little hood of crispy skin.

I like other disgusting things, too. Fried lamb’s pancreas. Blink 182. Give me half a pig’s face basted in hot oil, and I am indescribably content.

Last October, I took an impromptu trip to Japan. Though it was not my first visit, I’d never been there alone. I landed in Tokyo with little planned. Each day I woke up and thought about what I wanted to eat, did some research, and made my way through the city.

The barbecue cravings started early on, and I heard rumour of a mystical street lined with nothing but yakitori shops, known curiously as ‘Piss Alley’.

I skipped breakfast. The subway made no sense, so I caught a cab to a surprisingly corporate part of town, where I found the entrance. On a sun drenched morning, the alley was dim, but lit with paper lanterns and filled with aromatic plumes of smoke that waft and intermingle as you pass by each doorway, browsing the laminated menus. And then, on one, I saw it: bonjiri—a skewer consisting entirely of grilled tails! I pointed it out to the chef, who nodded indifferently. I added a side of chicken hearts.

Were the tails all I dreamt they’d be? Sadly not. A balloon animal fashioned out of an inflated marigold would closely replicate the mouthfeel. They were jaundiced, somewhat flaccid, and are evidently much better cooked in an oven and scrounged.

Nevertheless, I burrowed deeper into the maze, eventually coming across a modest noren curtain.

I ducked beneath, noticing only Japanese men seated at the counter. A grungy chef stopped me.

“Only eel!”

“Of course, that’s fine,” I said blithely, before pausing, “what about that one . . .  is it, like, wrapped in guts, or something?”

“Hai.”

Believe me when I tell you . . . the gutless one actually was good. The chef was a master, touching each skewer to the coals attentively before reglazing in tare and repeating, building layers of char and flavour around the immaculately fresh, tender eel. I had four in total.

A few days later, in a market in Kyoto, I saw a sign for Michelin recommended yakitori. The chicken thighs were plump. The teriyaki sweet. It just wasn’t the same. Perhaps, down Piss Alley, quite unself-conscious, I had found my people. We might fight over offal, but that’s what makes us such a close-knit pack. And one day, if I ever get my act together, I will be its leader.

So, why the name? In the temples, I learned that there’s wisdom in not knowing, that you should do that on purpose once in a while.

The keener question is, why are gross things so satisfying? Again, I holster my guess. Let’s leave enlightenment to the yakitori chefs and chalk it all up to the circle of life.