Eat My Globe Part 2

Adam, being the methodical type, had my week all planned out. He had treated it like a scientific experiment and had a methodology that would see me cover every ethnic cuisine in Melbourne, along with a significant number of cafes and restaurants, in seven days. Although I did not see it, I suspect he had a AUSTRALIA: MELBOURNE.

chart somewhere. It began the next morning, as I emerged from the shower and deftly dodged Eric's attempt to do me harm with a toy tractor.

'Hurry up and get dressed. We're going to the market.'

I needed no prompting. I love markets. The proper ones, mind you, not the newfangled farmers' markets, filled with baby-strollers and stallholders who think they are doing you a favour by being there. Real markets, where rough-looking men with calloused hands shout things at you like 'lurvelytomsapound-abowl' and who shovel fruit into brown paper bags with a well-practised twist before saying 'That'll be ^/Qi-SO in English money. Guv', being the only people apart from London cabbies who can say 'Guv' without deserving a good slap.

It was a short tram ride to the Queen Victoria Market. After the relative disappointments of Sydney, Melbourne was immediately appealing. Whereas Sydney seemed h.e.l.l-bent on comparing itself to London and New York and competing on a world level that it would never quite reach, Melbourne and its laid-back inhabitants seemed content for it to be a great Australian city - and it really is a great Australian city.

The Queen Victoria Market is the real deal. Alongside the stalls selling all the usual fruits and vegetables are pitches piled high with mounds of fresh, glistening Asian herbs. Next to these, the varied communities of the Mediterranean are represented in splendid arrays of tomatoes of many hues, purple heads of plump garlic and mild onions to form the base of dishes from countries where wine and good conversation flow in equal measure. German butchers with more ways of making sausages than you ever thought possible sit next to Chinese fishmongers with live carp flapping around in their buckets waiting to become brightly spiced wok-fodder. The market was everything I wanted. Well, not quite everything. In my rush to get out I had declined the offer of breakfast and was now close to a dead faint. Adam obviously had it covered. In the section housing the German butchers was a Melbourne inst.i.tution: a stall serving hot bratwurst, sausages so plump the meat was almost burst-1 ing from the skins and served in crunchy rolls topped with thel sweetest sauteed onions. It took just one bite for me to think that being in Melbourne could just turn out to be a very good thing indeed, a feeling that was compounded as Adam made more usel of Melbourne's fantastic tram system to take me on a week-long] gastronomic tour. It was a tour that included grilled meats from] the Middle East, dim sum from Hong Kong cafes, Jewish cakes,; and fiery dishes from Vietnam that put to shame any of the examples I had tried back in London.

Before all that, however, we needed a bit of sweetening up, and we met up with Rebecca before heading over to Lygon Street, one of the centres of Melbourne's considerable community from southern Italy. Rebecca appeared pus.h.i.+ng Eric, who was feigning sleep while glowering at me through half-open eyes.

As we approached Brunetti's, another Melbourne inst.i.tution, he sat bolt upright and started howling, a howl that meant that, if he did not get cake and get it soon, there was going to be trouble. For once I was in total agreement, and we squeezed our way into an already crowded shop while I went in search of pastries. I came back laden down with some specialities of the house, including flaky 'lobster tails' - the local name for the Neapolitan sfogliatella pastry, piped full of sweet cream, and can-noli so authentic you could hear the theme tune to The G.o.dfather as you ate them. I even picked up some mini-versions for Eric. Everyone was a winner.

On the food website where I first encountered Adam he would post graphic accounts of attempts to prepare dishes gleaned from the pages of the hundreds of cookery books in his collection. From multi-course dinners taken from the pages of Epicurus to puddings from the pages of Mrs Beeton designed to sate an Edwardian appet.i.te, nothing seemed to stem Adam's pa.s.sion to recreate cla.s.sic dishes of the past. As well as descriptions that brought me out in a sweat reading them, Adam took stylish pictures, which he posted to universal acclaim from all the other obsessive food types. Like me, Adam soon tired of the internet forums and set up his own site to showcase his search for the great meals of the past, which he called The Art and Mystery of Food. To Adam, cooking is akin to alchemy. Go and look it up: I think you will agree he is a genuinely scary individual.

When I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, Adam was long gone and had taken Eric kicking and screaming to kindergarten, where he would no doubt be happily overseeing his protection scam for the one-year-olds. We had agreed to meet at Flinders Station, a Melbourne landmark where courting couples for decades have met up 'under the clocks' before heading off to do what romantic couples do.

Adam had our day organized down to the minute, as usual. First, a walk through the Botanical Gardens (boo!) followed by some lunch (hurrah!). This was not just any lunch, however. This proved to be one of the top ten tastes of the whole of Eat My Globe.

Another short tram ride brought us to Chapel Street, the Greek enclave of Melbourne. Adam wanted me to taste the souvlaki at Lamb on Chapel Street. To all intents and purposes the Greek souvlaki is similar to a Turkish doner kebab, not that I would ever say that to a Greek person for fear of being separated from my manhood quicker than you can say 'Nana Mouskouri'.

I had tried these before. There are few meat and bread combos I have not tried in my forty-four years: from the lowliest ballpark hot dog to the clubbiest sandwich in all of clubdom, I have done the lot. But this little beauty was something else. Thirty whole shoulders of lamb, boned and threaded onto a large skewer above smouldering hot coals. As the skewer rotates, the thinnest layer of the meat cooks until it is crispy before being sliced off with a blade that would make a samurai blush. The slivers of crispy meat and fat are coc.o.o.ned in fresh, warm pitta bread with a few extraneous bits of crunchy salad added before the lot is doused with a pungent garlic sauce. The first bite is good, as the pitta is ripped apart to release the combined flavours of mea garlic and lemon juice, but it just gets better. That the cook a large, hairy, pot-bellied man in a sleeveless unders.h.i.+rt and still wanted to kiss him tells you just how good this was, or th I have some serious issues.

It was going to be hard for Adam to try and top that. But Gc he tried, and Melbourne lived up to its reputation as a city fo great food. Over the next few days he planned out a schedule^ that saw us hurtling all over the city to sample the best that was on offer from simple street snacks to a fifteen-course degusta-tion menu at Vue de Monde, one of the most highly regarded restaurants in the city.

It wasn't all good. The Turkish food we tried was tired and listless compared with what was available back in London, and I will never begin to understand the almost pathological appeal to Australians of dim sim. A grim, ersatz version of Chinese dim sum, dim sim is the snack de choix of every hungover Melbournian. Based on the few I tasted, I would rather have the hangover. But for the most part what I experienced was of a quality, variety and price that make it perfectly understandable that the citizens of Melbourne apparently eat out more than anyone anywhere else.

A week in Melbourne pa.s.sed very quickly, and before I knew it, I was stuffing my clothes back into my large rucksack, which I had now christened Big Red because it was, er, big and red. My taxi arrived bang on schedule, and I prepared to say my goodbyes. Another hearty handshake from Adam, whose glazed eyes showed that he had already forgotten my existence and was thinking what to cook for supper. Eric ran towards me, his arms open wide and a big grin on his face. Had Uncle Simon finally won him over? Was this the moment we finally bonded, and I kept up my loo per cent record of child adoration?

As he reached me, he dipped his head and b.u.t.ted me as close to the goolies as he could reach. I guess not.

Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

j.a.pan: Eating like a Sumo from Tokyo to Kyoto.

Until 1978 my only knowledge of j.a.pan came from episodes of M.A.S.H, where Hawkeye and 'Trapper' John would w.a.n.gle forty-eight-hour furloughs to this seemingly magical place of sinful abandon. Then, one Christmas, I used jQs I had been given by my grandparents to buy an alb.u.m called PS 78, by the now long-defunct Dutch punk band Gruppo Sportivo. It contained an insanely catchy but irritating song called 'Tokyo'. I sang it constantly for over a month until TGS, quite rightly, beat it out of me with a wet towel. Soon alb.u.ms made in Tokyo by Cheap Trick {Live at the Budokan) and by the impossibly ugly Scorpions {Live and Dangerous) joined my nascent record collection, and the notion of j.a.pan began to seem quite hip.

Move on thirty years and, although those records had long been consigned to the bargain bin of my life, I had by now developed a pa.s.sion for j.a.panese food. Based more on enthusiasm more than expert knowledge, it was a pa.s.sion I indulged at every opportunity in London's growing number of j.a.panese restaurants, and even more often on my regular visits to New York, where every neighbourhood seemed to offer the possibility of decent sus.h.i.+ and sas.h.i.+mi.

j.a.pan, I decided, would make the ideal starting-point for the next leg of the journey, which would also take in Hong Kong, China, Mongolia and Russia. I also decided that, rather than travel independently, I would rather like to do this trip with a group. Not a large group - I had no desire to walk behind someone waving an umbrella in a re-enactment of If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium - but I did think some local knowledge and language would be useful.

I arrived in Tokyo a few days before my official trip began, which allowed me time to explore on my own, and, after depositing Big Red, headed out to search for supper at one of the yakitori bars in the neighbourhood of Ueno.

Yakitori literally translates, as 'roasting chicken'. It actually comprises a range of chicken bits on skewers, grilled to order and either sprinkled with salt or dipped in sauce and served with a cold draft beer or the fierce local spirit, shochu. Yakitori bars can be smart or, as in Ueno, makes.h.i.+ft, with seats made from beer crates and tables from packing cases. They are primarily the haunts of salary men on their way home from a hard day at the office, and, as I chose one at random, I had to squeeze my ample frame in between two men deep in conversation on their mobile phones before gesturing for a beer.

As a huge bottle of Sapporo appeared, the man on my right reached over and took hold of it. Where I was brought up, in Yorks.h.i.+re, touching someone else's beer is worse that goosing their wife. It will inevitably lead to a fight, and there may well be broken gla.s.s and teeth involved.

'Pouring own drink bad luck', said the man as he began to fill my gla.s.s, and we began a very faltering conversation. The skewers I had ordered appeared quickly, and so did those of my new friend, Koji. The inevitable swapping followed, along with more orders as he wanted me to try crispy chicken skin, chicken hearts and livers, gizzard, roasted garlic, leeks and many more. 4 The sauce was thick and sweet, and the salty chicken skin was crunchy, working perfectly with the cold beers Koji kept in constant supply. At the end of the meal, despite my protests, he insisted on paying the bill and then walked me back to my hotel, both of us swaying happily until, after dropping me off at the door, he headed into the night.

Once you get over the initial chaos, Tokyo's subway system, its main method of public transport, turns out to be an absolute delight- Even, as is always the case, when it is heaving with people and despite the fact that the map looks like an eighty-year-old woman's knitting basket after the cat has got at it. It is air-conditioned, which for someone from London is enough to make you pack a picnic and refuse ever to get off. It is also impossibly punctual, as indeed are all the trains in j.a.pan. I spent the next couple of days taking advantage of the fantastic system, whizzing from district to district trying to cram in as much as I could.

Just about every department store in Tokyo devotes its bas.e.m.e.nt floors to food: on one floor a food hall, and below that a range of restaurants that would make any foodie swoon. Tokyo Food Hall in s.h.i.+buya was a perfect example, about the size of a couple of football pitches. The range of products on offer was staggering, from stands selling smarter versions of yakitori to glistening steamed and grilled unagi eel served over rice and j.a.panese and Western cake stalls, all staffed by fiercely polite young women who would call out as you pa.s.sed their station. I spent over an hour walking around in awe, heart-broken that I did not have the opportunity to buy more than a few bits and pieces to eat on the hoof Later that morning I headed up to Kappabas.h.i.+, the area of Tokyo where stores supplying the restaurant business ply their trade - not with food but with kitchen equipment, menu holders, place mats and just about anything any self-respecting place would need, including, I was delighted to see, a human-size model of the Statue of Liberty. Best of all, however, my notes told me there were the two stores specializing in the supply of plastic models of food for j.a.panese restaurants to display outside their premises as a guide for potential customers. The practice began during the occupation after the Second World War, when local restaurant owners needed to explain what was on offer to British and American soldiers. Originally they were made of wax, but they are now made of plastic and can be found everywhere, from high-end sus.h.i.+ restaurants to fast-food stands all over the country. They are fabulously realistic, offering everything from plastic dumplings to complete bento boxes with miso soup, rice and noodles. If I had not been on the road for another three months, I would definitely have purchased a plate of egg and chips as a keepsake.

I had to rush back to my hotel to meet the small group with whom I would be travelling. They turned out to be an agreeable mix of Australians, New Zealanders, Belgians and Brits, with one unfortunate American, Adam, drawing the short straw and getting to call me 'roomie' for two weeks. After the initial tou: briefing our guide, Yuka, took the a.s.sorted throng out togetb for a local supper. I had other plans. I was going to eat like sumo.

The Ryogoku area of Tokyo is known to everyone as th sumo district. There, surrounding the large stadium, are stre^ of shops selling everything any self-respecting stable of sporti heavyweights could need. Just as retiring footballers in Britain used to open a pub, so retiring sumo often open restaurants specializing in chanko nabe, the one-pot stew responsible for building and maintaining their impressive girth.

The chanko restaurants are dark, and the sliding doors prevent you peering in, so all but the most inquisitive might pa.s.s them by. One place looked promising and, recognizing the word from the j.a.panese script Yuka had scribbled on a piece of paper, I slid back the door and stepped hesitantly inside. A rather severe-looking man came from around the counter and barked at me.

'Chanko?' I said hopefully. He looked at me as though it was the first time he had ever encountered the word.

'Chanko', I repeated.

'Chanko?' he countered, with no more sign of recognition. I tried again more in hope than expectation, this time thinking to thrust Yuka's note in his direction.

'Ah, Chanko', replied the owner, as though the scales had fallen from his eyes. 'Chanko, chanko, chanko.' He said it a few times more, smiling, as though the word was getting good to him and then he gestured for me to take off my shoes and pointed to a table in the corner.

He brought over a menu all in j.a.panese and pointed to three vertical lines of lettering with the word 'Chanko'. He obviously just loved saying that word now. You could hardly stop him. I pointed at random and he disappeared, looking pleased now we had broken the communication barrier.

An elderly lady appeared with a large steel cooking pot filled with broth, over-sized cooking chopsticks and a ladle. She went off and reappeared with a plate the size of a satellite dish filled with seafood, fish, vegetables and a mound of white cabbage and began to place them gently into the pot of bubbling broth with the cabbage on top before leaving it to cook slowly. Five minutes later she began to serve me, filling my bowl with a little of the soup and a small amount of each ingredient.

It is meant to be shared by at least two people, a fact reflected in both the size of the meal and the price. It is little surprise that sumo are so huge, eating like this every day. I could barely make a dent in it, and the elderly woman looked disapproving when, after about half an hour, I gave up the ghost with chanko sweat beginning to pour from my brow.

As I left, the owner, whose pictures of his sumo heyday lined the walls, gave me a cheery wave, a thumbs-up and a hearty goodbye 'Chanko'.

For those coming from the UK, where it is worse that a visit to a dentist with the shakes, train travel in j.a.pan is an unending delight. The journey to our next stop, Nikko, was relatively short, but, as we would be arriving at our destination rather late, we were advised to pick up some supper at the station to eat on the train. Every station offers a wide range of shops selling great things to eat, including fabulous bento boxes that would make even upmarket London j.a.panese restaurants blush with shame. On occasions it was suggested we should eat on the hoof, we were able to return with trays containing rice, pickles, eggs, katsu, sus.h.i.+ and shas.h.i.+mi of very decent quality to keep hunger at bay. The j.a.panese railway station bento box is definitely one of the world's great foodie treasures.

Nikko is a couple of hours out of Tokyo, and we were soon settled in our traditional j.a.panese inn or ryokan, with its tatami mat floors, slippers and robes in the rooms and large, private, hot spring bath overlooking a tumbling river. We had already eaten but we all needed a long, cold drink, which led me to discover one of the other great pleasures ofj.a.pan: the ubiquity of its vend ing machines. They are everywhere, over 6 million of them in Tokyo alone, I am told, selling everything from books, beer a: water to some rather more unusual things, including, and I a not kidding, used women's underwear and whips and chains fc that quiet night in.

In London machines like these would be out of order within minutes and covered with the grafitti informing the world in general that 'Kevin is a b.u.mmer'. In j.a.pan, where vandalism seems to be almost non-existent, these machines selling a bewildering variety of soft drinks and beers remain untouched.

We stayed for just two nights in Nikko, which, with its pine-covered hills, roaring rivers, shrines and sacred buildings, was a welcome and calm change from Tokyo. The food, however, was unmemorable with the exception of the local speciality of yuba, made from the skin formed when soy milk is boiled, which is then dried and stored to be used during the rainy season. Yuba was first developed as a way of supplying protein to local monks, who were, of course, vegetarian; it provided a welcome boost of energy for me as I slurped up a bowl in a light broth before lugging Big Red to the station for the long journey to our next destination.

Hakone is one of j.a.pan's primary holiday resorts because of its pleasant climate and extraordinary scenery. It attracts the rich and famous, and the surrounding region is filled with stunning housing complexes and smart restaurants, ranging from upmarket French to, more bizarrely, a handful of German wurst shops. The weather is cool, and there are enough attractions to keep a family occupied for their extended vacations. However, I found little to beguile me about the town itself and felt slightly heavy-hearted when we set off to hit the tourist trail first thing the next morning. But I was heartened by the fact that, the previous night, Yuka had promised me a visit to the Gyoza Centre of Goza, a small town not far from Hakone. 'The best gyoza in j.a.pan', she promised.

Gyoza are small dumplings, which came to j.a.pan with the migration of thousands of Korean workers after the occupation of the Korean peninsula in the first half of the twentieth century. They are steamed first and then fried on one side with a little water added to the pan to create a surrounding pancake so the order can be served in one piece. I don't know whether those at the Gyoza Centre were the best in j.a.pan, but they were incredibly delicious and I ate more than my fair share just to make sure. Later, with Yuka's help, I was able to meet the owner, who showed me the kitchen, where he had been making the gyoza for over twenty years. I was told later this was the first time he had ever let a visitor into the kitchen.

After Hakone another arduous journey followed, this time to Takayama, a small city best known for its beautifully preserved neighbourhoods of seventeenth-century houses and for its morning markets. As before, we were staying in a traditional inn, but this time perhaps the nicest of the whole trip and the most traditional, requiring soft slippers and silk robes to be worn for much of our stay. It was comfortable, with lovely rooms and a well-appointed bathing area, which I made full use of despite my fellow male travellers complaining of receiving an all too regular sighting of 'the last chicken in the shop' as I paraded around gleefully in the altogether. The town itself was pretty but unremarkable and would have been quickly forgotten but for three things.

The first was two stylish meals prepared at our inn by one of the best-regarded chefs in the region. Sitting cross-legged at low tables, we were each served individual small portions of over ten dishes made from the very best local ingredient hand-harvested mountain vegetables and herbs braised gently it miso, locally caught river fish fried on a hot plate and doused iij sweet soy sauce, and more of the exquisite yuba I had first trie in Nikko.

The second reason was one of the courses: thin slices oft local beef known as hida. Although kobe beef has become we known around the world, appearing on menus everywhere, fe people outside j.a.pan are aware of its cousin hida. From the sar Wagyu breed of cow as kobe, hida beef is regarded by locals as its! superior because of the impressive marbling of fat. I can't claimi enough expertise to make a true comparison but, when cookedl slowly over a tea candle with a small amount of broth so that: melts away on contact with the tongue, it is a taste that stays with you for a long time.

At the other end of the scale I shall remember Takayamal because of a small izakaya, a kind of j.a.panese-style pub, located j in an alleyway near our guesthouse. On our first night, after] supper, I was still hungry. Our meal at the hotel was pretty and -tasty, but not that filling, so I persuaded most of the group to come with me on a bar crawl. After a couple of nondescript i places with nondescript food, we wandered into our last bar of ] the evening, and I spied a bowl of glistening pork belly marinated and braised overnight in sake, soy, sugar and star anise 1 before being grilled until crispy on the outside while still soft on the inside. I tried one piece and then another, then another, before commandeering the whole bowl for our group. It was like crack in pork form. That's why I remember Takayama, and I have to admit to having dreams about that pork on the next long train journey, to Hiros.h.i.+ma.

The devastating effects of 6 August 1945 and the after-effects of the A-bomb obviously inform every person's conception of I what Hiros.h.i.+ma was and, indeed, is. They inform every aspect of this amazing city too, from the understated monuments to peace and in the memory of the dead to the shape and nature of j a city where great effort has been put into rebuilding it along its original lines.

Hiros.h.i.+ma was my kind of town, the sort of place you think of when imagining modern-day j.a.pan, which was little surprise given that it had to be entirely rebuilt after the end of the Second World War. Lively, bustling and frenetic, it still has an air of civility about it and also offered some of the best food of the trip. Among its many claims to fame, Hiros.h.i.+ma is the spiritual home of okonomyaki, an omelette-like snack which, while being cooked with great skill on a hot plate, is layered with a huge range of fillings including noodles, meat, vegetables and seafood. It is not fine food by any manner of means, but for hungry travellers it is everything you could need: filling and delicious.

So well known is Hiros.h.i.+ma for this delicacy that it even has an okonomyaki district, which houses the greatest density of restaurants serving the dish in the whole of j.a.pan. We decamped to Yuka's favourite and watched in awe as the serious-looking chefs prepared our meal in front of us. A thin layer of batter spread out like a crepe was layered with ramen noodles; shredded white cabbage was then sprinkled on top, strips of pork, shrimp and vegetables too, before the whole lot was topped with an omelette and flipped one last time. Served with a hot sauce and a cold beer, it is little wonder that it is the snack of choice for the wage slaves of Hiros.h.i.+ma.

The j.a.panese att.i.tude to the A-bomb is an interesting one. In many ways they are quite matter-of-fact about it and openly put the war and its tragic ending down to 'mistaken domestic policy'. Their view of the Americans too is quite understated, with little blame attached - merely a view that it should not happen again. Whatever one's views about the dropping of the bomb, the human reality is hard to avoid and provokes incredibly strong emotions. The A-bomb Dome was the only building in Hiros.h.i.+ma to survive the blast, now preserved as a monument to the dead. I will not deny holding back a few tears as I walked around the city and stood before the memorial to the 140,000 who died on the day itself. Walking down a small side-street, I found a tiny monument marking the spot 600 metres abov^ which the bomb exploded. But by now I needed to forget abou the war and all its horrors for a while and see what the rest of the city had to offer.

Fast food in j.a.pan is huge business, and the high streets have filled with chain restaurants, which have arisen to feed those who need to eat and leave in the s.p.a.ce of fifteen minutes. In many you choose from a menu outside and buy a ticket for the corresponding meal from a vending machine inside the front door and hand it to the server when you sit down at the counter. About a minute later your meal is in front of you with some free water and green tea, and you are all set. I chose a particularly peculiar j.a.panese speciality, kareh riasau, which apparently traces its roots back to British naval visits in the nineteenth century. This is a sweet curry containing soft chunks of meat and sometimes fruit, and the j.a.panese adore it. It is their comfort food, their hangover food and their chicken soup. It sat like a lump in my stomach all the way to Kyoto.

I am not going to lie to you. By the time we got to Kyoto, I was all shrined out. Which is a bit of a shame as Kyoto is officially 'The Home of 2000 Shrines'. It is littered with them: everywhere you look, you will find the tell-tale red signs that something or someone is being revered. They range from the truly magnificent to the tiny and discreet. Not that I found out about any of that as I was at the point in my trip where, if I had been asked to see another temple or shrine, remove my slippers and bang a bell one more time, I would have done a 'Mis.h.i.+ma'.

After another rapid train journey Yuka sat us down in the lobby of the last ryokan of our journey and began to explain all the shrine-fiUed excitement that lay ahead in the next two days. She must have noticed me glazing over and when, after the meeting, I sidled up to her and asked if she minded if I did my own thing, she did not seem the least bit surprised. The next day, while the group headed for the bus stop for a day of visiting famous and important sights, I had a bit of'me' time.

Yuka had recommended for lunch a kai-ten sus.h.i.+ restaurant -a restaurant where you select your food as it trundles around on a conveyor best - called Moshas.h.i.+, which she described as the best of its type in the city. I squeezed into a spot at the counter and, as the conveyor belt moved around at a stately pace, helped myself to ten or eleven plates, including one which I found out later was a sas.h.i.+mi made of horsemeat. To my right an elderly man was ordering a dish not on the belt from one of the chefs working at the counter. He wolfed it down with considerable enthusiasm and ordered another. It was obviously good stuff, so with the help of much pointing I ordered one for myself The chef looked less than convinced when he placed before me a plate carrying a small, blubbery sac on top of the normal vinegared rice. I put it in my mouth in one bite and almost threw up over my neighbour before spitting the rest into a napkin. He howled with laughter and then, with his hand, made the sign of a fish swimming followed by what I am convinced was the sign for masturbation well known to every football goalkeeper in the UK. Later I showed a picture of my dish to Yuka. Her laugh was louder than his.

'You ate cod sperm, Simon.'

On our last day I had arranged to meet a Kyoto housewife, Tomoko Osas.h.i.+, a member of the Women's a.s.sociation of Kyoto, whose aim was to form links with other groups around the world through their love of cooking. She was to give me a morning of cookery lessons, and during the course of my time with her she demonstrated much deft chopstick twirling as I attempted my own shambling efforts.

I learned the correct way to make miso soup - 'It is all down to the quality of the das.h.i.+', Tomoko instructed, showing me how she created the stock using seaweed, before adding miso paste and small, neat squares of soft tofu. We made maki sus.h.i.+, the rolls so familiar to us in the West. After the maki sus.h.i.+ has been made, Tomoko showed me how to make chiras.h.i.+ sus.h.i.+, all intents and purposes a salad of the left-over rice mixed wid egg, off-cuts offish and herbs. It is presented in the wooden dis into which cooked rice is poured to be cut and fanned before the sus.h.i.+ is made.

But best of all, she gave me the secret to perfect tempura. According to Tomoko, few housewives in j.a.pan make their own batter any more, for two reasons. The first is that it can be a bit of a pain in the backside. The other, more importantly, is that the end-result, according to most people, is better, crispier, when made with tempura powder. I must have looked sceptical and a bit crestfallen, because, she suggested we do a comparison. She, of course, knew how to whip up her own tempura batter with the prerequisite lumps, and we took the same items - raw ingredients of prawns, scallops and vegetables - and fried them in each type of batter before we did a taste test, which entirely proved her point. The version made from powder was crispy and delicious, whereas the one made in the traditional manner soon became soft and limp.

After a few hours of cooking we sat down to enjoy the fruits of our labours. Between us we had created a meal that she announced would not disgrace the home of a j.a.panese housewife, and my tastes of my first attempts at cooking j.a.panese food were as good as anything I had eaten on the trip.

It was not the end of my time in j.a.pan, but it was the end of my time with this particular group of travellers. I went to bed early for my train to Tokyo the next day. I had one more important place to visit before leaving for Hong Kong.

The Tsukiji fish market is one of the most remarkable places I have ever visited But unless you know exactly where to go and the rules involved, it can be confusing and intimidating. I had arranged to meet Aaron, my Australian guide, for a 5 a.m. start so that we could be sure to see the auctions in action. I was exhausted, but it was worth it as, apart from fluent j.a.panese, Aaron counted among his skills an amazing capacity to retain facts and, as we walked around, he gave an incredible insight into the market, its history and how it works in more modern times.

The fish market has been in existence for over 350 years, having originally been set up to sell off the fish not eaten by the n.o.bility. The same eight families who were in charge when it opened are still in charge now. They rank among the wealthiest in the country, owning the fis.h.i.+ng fleets, the auction houses and the distribution network of the fish from the market to all parts of j.a.pan. As Aaron explained, the fish bought in the market can be in Osaka or Kyoto by lunchtime, and on any given day one person in every seven in the country will eat fish sold in the market that morning. It is an incredible feat of logistics and also explains why both the buyers and the sellers of fish have to be there from one o'clock in the morning.

Everyone knows about the incredible tuna sold in the market, but to see the auction in process was an extraordinary sight. Frozen fish from the j.a.panese seas are brought in by small shuttle s.h.i.+ps that go from trawler to trawler, allowing the larger boats to stay at sea constantly. The fish is brought in by one of the eight families and then examined by licensed buyers who buy from the same auctioneer. They buyers have contracts with numerous clients from upmarket restaurants, department stores and even convenience store chains to provide fish, so the pressure is really on them to buy the right product at the right price. With tuna going for nearly5,ooo a kilo, it is little wonder that they recently beat the $1 million mark for a single fish.

After we had been to the auction area, Aaron led the way to the inner market, which is normally open only to wholesalers. Unlike most of j.a.panese society, this is not a place where the men hold sway. Here the women are in charge. As the men cut f'sh, the women sit in small wooden cubicles, and it is they who do the deals and keep track of all the cash. The array of fish is beyond staggering. Abalone and eel sit alongside tuna that would cost more than an arm and a leg back in London - if, that is, you could get fish of that quality. In addition to the types of fish that I recognized there must have been about one hundred other species, possibly even more, that I had never set eyes on before and which Aaron said had no English name that he had ever been able to find.

Over 30,000 people work in the market. It is, in effect, its own town within Tokyo, which means it also houses a vast network of support services, from restaurants to feed the workers to shops selling razor-sharp knives and a general market to supply the public.

After a stroll through all the areas of the market, we went for breakfast at Jiro's. Kujiro's family have been running a restaurant at the fish market for over 300 years, serving primarily the local porters and fish cutters. He spoke good English and explained that the morning's a.s.sortment of sus.h.i.+ fish had not yet arrived, which was a real disappointment but offset by a bowl of rice topped with more of the unagi of which I had become so fond during my stay. It is not to everybody's taste, as the oiliness of the skin and the fatty nature of the flesh are unusual, to say the least, but glazed with the slightly sweet sauce it proved to be the perfect breakfast.

That was j.a.pan: a little over two weeks in which I got the impression I saw a lot but saw only a fraction of what this country has to offer, in which I tasted amazing things but sampled only some of the extraordinary variety that is available, in which I met friendly people but did not even begin to get beneath the skin of what makes the j.a.panese people tick, and in which, just when I thought I had the culture and the country sussed, something else popped up to throw me for a loop and make me realize that I understood the country not at all.

I ate incredibly well, from the simplest skewers of bits in the yakitori bars of Ueno to the formal setting of our ryokan meals in Takayama. But, most of all, as Eat My Globe was meant to do, the food brought me in touch with people. People like Koji in Tokyo, who treated me to my first meal in j.a.pan, Tomoko in 11. Kyoto, who stood patiently by as I made a pig's ear of my attempts at maki sus.h.i.+, and Yuka, our guide, who stood equally patiently by as I stumbled off a bullet train with all the grace of a drunken elephant and who guided me to some of the best food of the trip.

I had expected great things of j.a.pan, and j.a.pan certainly did not let me down.

Hong Kong: Feast Meets West.

Hong Kong has a reputation for great food to equal that ol anywhere on earth. From Cantonese street food to the vei best examples of Western fme dining, Hong Kong's got the lot, representing its colonial past, its Chinese future and its current economic strength, which make it a home to expats from man; nations. It would, I thought, make the perfect staging post before I hit mainland China.

Francine and David Holden are a true Hong Kong mix: Francine, Hong Kong-born and -bred, David a relatively new interloper from New Zealand. They were friends of friends and had generously agreed to put me up for a few days as I ate my way around the former British colony. Their home was set in one of Hong Kong's gated communities, with security guards, live-in maids and all the other accoutrements I a.s.sumed were the luxuries of the expat. I was soon put straight when Francine told me that over 80 per cent of the population in these communities was now Chinese and the expat population was on the decline as Chinese mainland influence began to exert itself Whatever the demographics, they are welcome havens of peace and quiet compared with the rest of Hong Kong, as I was to find out in the next few days. But for now I just wallowed in the comfort of a family home and an incredibly hospitable welcome.

The next morning I set out on Hong Kong's efficient public transport system to my first planned port of call. Mong Kok is everything you imagine Hong Kong to be: bustling streets of restaurants and shops selling just about everything alongside stalls selling everything that the shops may have forgotten to stock. It's also a fantastically seedy area, with rows of strip clubs and girly bars nestled unapologetically alongside other shops. They are not subtle about it, with large neon signs advertising hourly rates at the hotels and lists of the services provided. As I walked, I noticed that there were lots of hairdressers with their unmistakable signature of swirling candy-striped poles extending over the pavements. Hundreds of them. Did people in Hong Kong really have their hair cut that often? It was not until later, when talking to David, that I found out that they were split into two very different categories: those which offered a cut and blow-dry and those which offered a cut and b.l.o.w.j.o.b. Apparently, you can tell which is which by the direction the pole is swirling.

The main artery through Mong Kok, in fact through the whole of Kowloon, is Nathan Road, and I used that as a reference point as I wound my way through the backstreets, past the Po Street Bird Market, the Flower Market, the Ladies Market and Temple Street Night Market until 1 hit the southern tip of Tsim Sha Tsui.

The travelling, the walking and the heat had worn me down by now, however, and, after a restorative lunch of beef tendon soup I headed back to the New Territories to have a nap and a much-needed shower before the night's activities. David and Francine had invited me to join them at The Crown wine venue, a former Second World War bunker set high up near the top of Hong Kong's towering Victoria Peak. It had been converted into a restaurant and a cellaring facility for the fine wine collections of Hong Kong's great and good. Tables were communal and, as people ordered their own food, they brought out bottles from private collections to share with others at the table.

It made for a fun evening, and Francine, who is in the wine business, opened some memorable wines. By the end of the night we must have each had twenty gla.s.ses in front of us, which had contained everything from gentle Old World Pinots to jammy Australian fruit bombs. We didn't drain them all, but enough for 3 me to know I might regret it in the morning.

I am sure, however, that I shall not be invited back. I am never backward in expressing my opinion, as you may well have gathered by now, and when I have had a drop, there is no stopping me. One woman offered us a gla.s.s each of her favourite Pinot Grigio, a thoroughly nasty little grape in my opinion. I let her have both barrels, announcing to her and the world in general that 'I begrudge the five minutes of my life it took me to drink that horrid little wine'. It is little wonder that I used to get beaten , up so regularly as a child.

To the bewilderment of my hosts, I decided to work off the next day's hangover by returning to Mong Kok and walking the ^ whole length of Nathan Road, about 12 kilometres, before crossing over to Central, the business district, for lunch. Among the stupid ideas I have had, this ranks pretty high. The temperature was approaching 30 and the humidity meant that I was soon dripping like a leaky tap, but like all mad dogs and Englishmen I carried on regardless, ducking down side-streets, stopping at the food stalls for sticks of fried dough or steamed buns filled with char su and snapping away with my digital camera until I reached Tsim Sha Tsui.

The Star Ferry has been crossing from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island since 1888 with only a short break during the Second World War. Until 1978, when a tunnel was built, it was the only way to cross between the two points and also another glorious symbol of British colonialism, with only whites being allowed to travel on the breezy top deck and the local Chinese being confined to the diesel-fume-smogged lower decks. Even today, when anyone can sit anywhere, you still have to pay a whole HK$o.30 more to sit on the top deck. Me? I am a man of the people, so I took my place below stairs with the common herd as we crossed over the water to Hong Kong's business hub.

I arrived at Lan Kwai Fong, the area of Central that houses most of the cafes and restaurants, to find that most of the workers in the business district were leaving their offices for lunch. It was niayhem. Every storefront food stand was six deep with people slurping bowls of noodles or shovelling rice into their mouths at a furious pace with chopsticks. I forced my way to the counter of a place called Dragon Roast Meat and ordered a typically Cantonese plate of crispy goose with rice. As I ate it, I noticed an article on the wall about Anthony Bourdain, sitting where I was sitting and eating more or less what I was eating. What little delusions I had of myself as a culinary Magellan flew out of the window in a puff of goose-flavoured steam.

In my next 'discovery'. Mack's Noodles, I fought for a s.p.a.ce at a communal table and ordered a plate of chewy noodles topped with crispy roast pork. This at least, I was convinced, was virgin territory. A real find. The man next to me finished his own plate of noodles, stood up collecting his newspaper to reveal another picture of Mr Bourdain, under the gla.s.s, sitting at the same table eating the same meal. Both places, I found out later, were local inst.i.tutions and have been featured in his television show A Cook's Tour. I walked back to the subway with the sounds of my application to the Explorers' Club being ripped up in my ears.

It was my last night in Hong Kong and the eve of Francine's birthday, so David had planned a special celebration at one of Hong Kong's most notable venues, the Derby Restaurant at the Hong Kong Jockey Club, where both were members. The restaurant had been recently refurbished at a huge cost, and part of that had been spent bringing the award-winning chef Donovan Cooke from Australia to take charge of the kitchen. Originally from the UK, Donovan had worked with notable chefs such as Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay.

It was a memorable meal of more than ten courses of cla.s.sical French cuisine combined with a New World flair for the ingredients. Ravioli injected with egg yolks and poached in a pork knuckle broth, lobster tail cooked 'sous vide' and a 'linguine' of squid tail all featured among the ten courses. Each came with a perfectly matching wine, and at the end of the meal we sat back with large gla.s.ses of our chosen digestifs and waited to thank the chef 'Now then, how was the meal?' A recognizable accent came around the corner. Donovan Cooke, it turned out, was originally from Hull, close to my own home town of Rotherham. We had a long discussion, and I told him the purpose of my visit.

'Eating around the world, eh? Like my mate Anthony Bourdain?'

My heart sank.

'Aye, he was in here not so long ago. I think I get a mentic in his book.'

There was the sound of that application being ripped upl again.

China: Great Expectorations.

China is a foreign country. They do things differently there. I became only too aware of this as the crew on my flight from Hong Kong came through the cabin collecting any 'Western media' before we landed at Guilin airport. I was about to join another group for the journey north through China from Yangshuo to Beijing, but I was not meeting them until a few days later, so that I could attend the highly recommended Yangshuo Cookery School.

Yangshuo is easy-access China, and I could immediately see why the travel guides refer to it as a 'backpackers' colony'. Its population of 40,000 is swelled by thousands of foreign tourists and increasingly visitors from China itself, who come to take advantage of the astonis.h.i.+ng scenery surrounding the Li River and the recent development of Yangshuo as a centre for rafting, caving and hiking.

Yangshuo's main drag, Xi-Jie, had been renamed 'Western Street' by the locals and was filled with cafes selling an odd fusion of local dishes and Western food alongside shops selling everything a backpacker could possibly need. There is a constant hustle, and everyone has something to sell or a service to offer. I found myself approached by an old woman offering her basket for me to examine. I peered inside, expecting to see local handicrafts or bottles of Coca-Cola, only for her to grab my arm and shout 'Memory cards. 2GB'. Hustling hits the twenty-first century. But it was done in an amiable way, with very little ha.s.sle, and I found myself rather liking the town.