It wasn’t my first time in the country. I spoke Japanese just adequately enough not to be a burden on everyone around me. But early one morning, after a long night out, once the local train line had started up again, a buddy of mine, leaning halfway out of his seat, asked me what I wanted while I was in town—what I really wanted. And I, leaning even farther out of my seat, told him that I wanted something comforting. Something fucking delicious.
So he took me out for omurice. It all but rewired my brain.