The griddle runs the length of the counter, black steel, scarred from years of batter and oil. It is 21:22 and the place is full, which in Osaka seems to mean six seats and everyone's coat touching everyone else's coat. The cook does not look up. Two spatulas, a flick of the wrist, and the okonomiyaki turns over clean, cabbage and pork crackling against the heat.
The woman beside me orders in rapid Kansai dialect I only half catch. She notices me watching the flip and laughs, says something I do not understand, and passes me the bottle of sauce anyway. That is the whole conversation. It is enough.
Steam fogs the low window behind the counter. Bonito flakes curl and wave in the rising heat like something alive, which I suppose they briefly are again. The smell is sweet and smoky, Worcestershire and scallion, and it clings to my jacket in a way I will notice again tomorrow on a train somewhere else entirely.
I think about how much of travel is this: strangers at close range, no shared language, some unspoken agreement to just get through the meal together. Nobody performs for anybody. The camera stays in the bag most of the night, too dark, too close, not enough room to frame anything properly. I take one shot anyway, elbow braced against the counter, and I already know it will be blurred at the edges. Good. Some nights should stay a little out of focus.
