Sugamo: Grannies' Alley and real Gummy Worms. November 15, 2014

Before yesterday, I harbored a dark and lingering fear that once people in Tokyo reach the age of say, 40 or thereabouts, they do away with them.  The average age on the streets of Shibuya is closing in on 25.  Same for most, if not all, of the places I've visited.  Of course there are the occasional 50+-year-olds, but they are usually in a uniform, wearing white gloves and directing traffic in and out of alleyways or garages.  The streets of Tokyo, it seems, are young.  Very, very young.

So I very excited to be redirected by a NYT writer to Sugamo, a part of Tokyo known, among its many names as "Grannies' Alley."  (Thank you, Juliana.)  I've yet to align my previously-held assumptions about the Japanese honoring elders while building and maintaining such dynamic youth cultures.  So on the advice of the writer, off I went to Sugamo, a 30-minute train ride away.

It took a bit of doing, as it always does, to find "Grannies' Alley."  Because I'm never entirely sure that I am where I think I intended to be, I usually visit a place with some skepticism.

But the moment I arrived at Grannies' Alley, I thought, "My people!"   Here were the bargain-hunters, the pensioners, the people-with-time-on-their hands.  Walkers, canes, the arthritic, the cautionary hat-wearers. There were sensible shoes and heavy coats.  Tables with clothes lines overhead hawking unappealing versions of pink long underwear.  Here also were vendors smearing face creams on anyone who looked their way, the ubiquitous fortune teller, tables of every conceivable and imaginable version of sea creatures, dried snakes and turtles if you were running low, and as much vibe and activity as anyone who traveled 12 hours in a plane to get there would ever desire.

 One thing a senior citizen (God, I hate that word)  loves is a free sample.  And so it seems do my fellow pilgrims at Grannies' Alley.



Wherever there was a line, I joined it.  I sampled and gobbled my way through all sorts of things salted, dried, fried, baked, sweet and slimy.  If they were giving it away, I played Saturday-Costco:  lemme have some!  I could not help but notice that when it was my turn, many eyes followed me.  There would be this quick moment of anticipation, followed by a low buzz. I chewed and swallowed and produced as many satisfied faces as I could muster.  I nodded, I bowed, I thanked, I walked away with as much dignity as I could, given that I bought nothing.  It wasn't that I didn't like what I was tasting, I just had no use for a bag of dried mystery.  (Though I was very tempted to buy several, give them to Brian B., then demand that he "do something" with them.  I still might.)

This seems like the appropriate time to bring up the topic of racial profiling.  There were stalls I passed where I was not offered anything, which peeved me in a way I was a bit ashamed of.  And so I decided to right that wrong and show the Grannie's that, despite my obvious Western leanings,  I was not afraid of anything.  In retrospect, I might have chosen a different challenge to take on but here it was:

I stood for a long time at this stall.  I watched many, many Grannies pass it by.  I saw few takers.  However, if you stand at a stall long enough, eventually they will pay attention to you and even you, you rookie, will get offered a taste.  There were several piles of oddities on this table and the one of the right was not what I had myself set on.  There was a harmless enough looking bowl on the far left that appeared black, flat, and seaweedy.  I stared.  The proprietor finally said something that sounded like, "Would you care to taste something you won't feel like spitting out and embarrassing yourself in front of all these people watching us?"  I nodded.  

She fetched a toothpick and rather than going for the seaweed, stabbed straight into this:

Gasps from the Grannies.  Then a hush.  Maybe it was my imagination, but as I delivered it into my mouth,  I think the vendor said, "This should cure you of taking samples you have no intention of buying."

It tasted just like it looks.

I'll leave it to you to put some adjectives around it but here's my only small victory:  I didn't spit it out.  I am certain I lost momentary control of my face and maybe even a bodily function here and there, but when I finally recovered, I offered a weak "Oiishi." (Delicious).  No one was buying it. Before I slunked away, my hostess, ever gracious, presented me with a sizable chunk of what appeared and tasted like a dried shrimp.  She sent me on my way, whispering, "Palate cleanser," into my grateful ear.

 It's very tempting, just to have one.