No rules. No dress code. No judgment.

That's Kaa-chan's take on sushi — and Kaa-chan has been eating it for over 50 years.

Growing up, Kaa-chan's dad wasn't really a nigiri person. So sushi at home meant one thing: demae (出前) — calling the local sushi restaurant and having it delivered straight to the door.

And this wasn't like today's food delivery apps. Back then, the taisho or one of the staff would load up a big wooden okamochi (carrying box) onto the back of a bike or bicycle and ride it over to the neighborhood themselves. The sushi arrived not in disposable packaging, but in a proper wooden or lacquered sushi oke (寿司桶) — a wide, flat tub made for the occasion. When you were done, you'd wash it out and leave it by the front door. Someone from the shop would come by the next day to collect it.

It was warm. It was local. It was just how things worked.

So for young Kaa-chan, sushi was something you ate at home, relaxed, around the family table. Sitting at a proper sushi counter? That was a whole other world.

In Kaa-chan's 20s — Asakusa, Trying Too Hard, and Going Home Stuffed

The counter culture came later. After university, Kaa-chan's first boss was an older gentleman who absolutely loved sushi — and he'd often take the team out to warm, unpretentious sushi spots around Asakusa and the old shitamachi neighborhoods.

Kaa-chan showed up armed with one half-remembered fact from a manga about a sushi chef: start with the mild white fish, work up to the richer cuts. So every time the boss asked "what do you feel like?", Kaa-chan was internally panicking, trying to remember which fish counted as white fish. 😄

The boss would lean across the counter and ask the itamae-san (板前さん) — the chef — "what's good today?" A few suggestions back and forth, and then things would just... unfold. That's omakase (お任せ) — leaving it in the chef's hands.

First came the tsumami: small bites to go with drinks. Sashimi, ankimo (monkfish liver), shirako (cod milt) when in season. The boss sipped nihonshu slowly. Kaa-chan, not a sake person back then, stuck with beer.

Here's the problem with beer and delicious tsumami: you get full. Fast.

By the time the nigiri started coming, Kaa-chan was already well on the way to full. But this was a real counter, a real chef, a real occasion — so Kaa-chan kept eating anyway. The walk home was always a slow one. 😄

Trying to act like an adult. Going home absolutely stuffed. That was sushi in Kaa-chan's 20s.

In Kaa-chan's 30s — Kaiten-zushi to the Rescue

Then came the career change. Then came motherhood.

Kaa-chan's son loved kaiten-zushi (回転寿司) — the conveyor belt kind. And honestly? It was a lifesaver.

The noise, the energy, the mix of families and kids and grandparents — it's the perfect environment for a child. Nobody's looking at you. Nobody cares if your kid is being loud. And beyond the sushi itself, kaiten-zushi places serve udon, ramen, karaage, ice cream, pudding — enough variety that even a picky child can find something to love.

Kaa-chan also discovered that kaiten-zushi was perfect for a quick solo work lunch. Order, eat, done — fast enough to fit between meetings. On most days it was a convenience store onigiri eaten standing up, but when Kaa-chan needed a little boost, a few plates of sushi and a sprint back to the station did the trick.

In Kaa-chan's 40s — The Solo Lunch Counter, Kaa-chan's Secret Treat

By the 40s, there was finally a little more breathing room.

And sometimes — not often, but sometimes — the craving hit: real sushi. The kind where a craftsperson has spent the morning doing proper prep work. The kind you can taste the care in.

So Kaa-chan developed a habit: slipping into a non-rotating sushi restaurant alone, at lunch, on the way back from a work errand.

Dinner omakase is a bit of a mystery box — you don't know the final bill until it's over. But the lunch set? Fixed menu, fixed price, no surprises. Kaa-chan could sit down, enjoy every piece without doing mental arithmetic, maybe even decide there was room for one extra plate — and leave full and happy, with zero guilt.

That solo sushi lunch was one of Kaa-chan's most treasured small luxuries of that decade.

So Here's What Kaa-chan Wants to Tell You

If you're hesitating — "the counter looks intimidating," "I don't know the rules," "what if it gets expensive" — you're not alone.

Honestly, at least half of Japanese people feel exactly the same way about counter sushi. Kaa-chan, now in her 50s, is one of them. 😄 Years of easy, no-fuss kaiten-zushi have made the traditional counter feel higher stakes than it did in childhood.

About that white fish rule: there is a reason for it. Starting with mild, delicate flavors means you can fully appreciate the richer, fattier cuts that come later — the flavor builds gradually. But it's not a rule. It's more of a loose framework that chefs use when putting together an omakase sequence, adjusted based on what's fresh and what the guest seems to enjoy.

If the counter still feels like a lot, start where Kaa-chan did in the 40s: the lunch set. Clear menu, clear price, no performance required. Eat well, smile on the way out. That's the right answer.

Kaa-chan's sushi story spans decades — from demae deliveries as a child, to stuffed walks home in the 20s, to conveyor belt chaos in the 30s, to quiet solo lunches in the 40s.

And the goal for the 50s? Sitting at a counter at dinner, ordering whatever looks good, not doing any math. 😄

If you get the chance to sit at a Japanese sushi counter, don't overthink it. Just enjoy.

— Mogu Mogu Kaa-chan
A Tokyo mom who still gets a little nervous at the sushi counter — and thinks that's perfectly fine.