Our first meal in Japan was okonomiyaki at Sometaro—simple, warm, and a little mesmerizing.
The griddle sat in the middle of the table like a small, black stage. Two pale rounds of cabbage and batter sizzled quietly, edges loosening as if they were waking up. Steam rose and disappeared. Chopsticks hovered. A cold beer sweated beside a small plate of pickles, the kind of everyday details that make travel feel less like a highlight reel and more like a real afternoon you get to keep.
There’s something grounding about cooking at the table. You’re forced to slow down and watch. The food doesn’t arrive finished; it becomes dinner in front of you. The room around us faded into small sounds—the scrape of metal, the soft chatter, the steady hiss—until it felt like the whole city had narrowed to that warm rectangle.
Okonomiyaki is comfort food with a little ceremony: turn, wait, share, eat while it’s hot. It was the kind of first meal that doesn’t try to impress, and somehow that makes it unforgettable. After the flight and the rush of arrival, Sometaro felt like a quiet welcome.
