I have three daughters who function in a constant state of dissent. They disagree about the speed of the fan. About whether to buy litchi or cranberry juice. About which books to get from the library. About which song to play on the iPod. About whether to bake cookies or cake. And of course about which dish to get made for lunch — be it fried bhindi, sali boti or hamburgers.

Which is why I’m so grateful to sushi. For, strange as it seems, this Japanese dish has achieved a minor miracle in our house. It meets triple approval. Even though my rolls of vinegary rice, wrapped in seaweed and stuffed with seafood and cucumber, are about as different from the real thing as Colaba Causeway rubber chappals from a pair of Jimmy Choos.

After all, unlike your average itamae (sushi chef), I haven’t trained for 10 years under a tyrannical master. I don’t aspire to create the perfect sushi in which each grain of rice faces the same direction. I don’t wake up at 4 am to find the freshest fish, then skilfully eliminate the dangerous parasites and poisonous bits, before slicing the chilled, raw fish so fine that it appears transparent. To be perfectly honest, I usually end up using smoked salmon or tinned tuna anyway.

To make bad matters worse, I belong to the gender that is suspected of having warmer hands, so more likely to destroy delicate fish. My knife is not the descendant of a samurai sword, and is not sharpened every night. I don’t even possess a special wooden paddle to mix the vinegar evenly into the rice or even a basic rolling mat.

All of which makes me feel rather guilty. For sushi is clearly as much about the ritual and ceremony, wooden shamojis and knives-with-souls, as about the flavours. And I have a niggling suspicion that my flabby rolls are exactly what the Japanese government fears when it mopes about the incorrect spread of “Japanese gastronomic culture”.

The Japanese take their sushi super-seriously. Seriously enough to pay $1.8 million for a single hefty bluefin tuna. Enough to make a restaurant booking a year in advance to sample the masterpieces of the legendary Jiro Ono, whose rice is described as a “cloud that explodes in your mouth”. Enough to queue up for three hours at the Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo for the freshest morsels at 5am on a weekday morning.

It was actually these tales that helped make our summer holiday plans. We were ding-dong-ing between Eastern Europe and Japan. But the thought of affordable sushi (unlike the exorbitant stuff available in Mumbai) topped with tuna, shrimp or tofu, dipped in soy sauce, brushed with wasabi, made the choice easy.

So, jetlagged though we were, on our first evening in Tokyo we trudged through the famous scramble crossing of Shibuya to Uobei Sushi. Our first glimpse of the eatery was disorienting. The place looked more like a call centre than a restaurant, with rows of people sitting at long tables and staring intently at computer screens. Eventually we joined the ranks of the screen-starers — and found ourselves gazing at a detailed and complicated sushi menu. Soon we got into the groove, pressing images of sushi topped with salmon, eel, tuna and some truly horrid fermented soya. Minutes later, the little plates of sushi came zipping along a belt and stopped under our noses.

This was the first of many ‘Only in Japan’ moments. And spectacular sushi adventures — in conveyor belt restaurants; in the food courts of fancy Tokyo department stores; in the little mom-and-pop stalls selling bento boxes filled with regional varieties.

After all, there are innumerable versions of sushi in Japan. Centuries ago sushi was made, by wrapping fish in fermenting rice. The rice was then discarded and only the fish was consumed. Then vinegar entered the mix. But it was only in the 19th century that a chef named Hanaya Yohei created the contemporary version of sushi using fish caught from Tokyo Bay — a cheap fast food that came in convenient, bite-sized pieces and did away with smelly fermentation. Over the decades, this has metamorphosed from fast food to a refined delicacy involving rules and rituals.

Through our fortnight in Japan we learnt the art of inverting our sushi and dipping it into soy sauce, topping it with pink pieces of pickled ginger and glugging green tea and roasted rice tea. We also sampled the other Japanese traditional specialities — cold soba noodles; hearty udon noodles; curry that tastes uncannily like Parsi dhansak; soupy ramen; fried octopus balls; comforting miso soup.

And, of course, the not-so-traditional Japanese specialities. Like wasabi-flavoured Kit Kat, raspberry-truffle flavoured popcorn, black sesame ice cream. Or the perfectly ordinary loaf of bread that, when sliced, reveals whorls of green tea. And the wonderful bun with a heart of soft butter.

Back in Mumbai, we often think wistfully of those sushi-laden conveyor belts. But the good news is that I’ve replenished my stock of sticky rice, seaweed sheets and vinegar — and am rolling out dubious sushi by the plateful.

Shabnam Minwalla is a journalist and the author of The Strange Haunting of Model High School and The Shy Supergirl

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