We had heard a rumor that sometimes still, on early mornings, in certain countrysides a "tofu man" rides a little cart around selling tof (as the locals say) much as he and his ancestors have done for centuries. How would you know it's really him? we ask, hearing it as folklore and turning him mythical. Well, there is a call he makes, a whistle sort of; a sound that has remained unchanged through time and remarkably gets reported consistently no matter who we may ask. (Getting straight or consistent answers from Japanese people is something I gave up on shortly after I arrived.) The old ones told us it's a whistle of 2 notes which sounds very much like if you were to sing softly and melodically the word itself. The first note is lower and held longer: to---Fu! For personal amusement, we asked a number of students, proposing to each as if they were the first we'd ever consider turning to for such top-secret information. Each would sing the 2 little notes for us, failing to see the curiosity but happy to amuse us. The tofu man is an understated given in Japanese culture. Though now, in the relatively recent days of widespread refrigeration he has become somewhat outdated and forgotten. Sadly, the solitary tofu peddler is becoming obsolete and his sound may be becoming somewhat a thing of the past...

For months Andrew and I kinda joked about "the sound of tofu" and wondered if other foods had sounds. We tried out a few. Eventually, like all jokes, we sort of forgot about it and moved on to others.

Last month while exploring the vast and varied emporium of Japanese foodstuffs in the very early morning at Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo, we were stopped in our soaking wet tracks by a sound. Walking down the endless narrow isles, lost a little in our own thoughts, our bellies full of raw fish and a little down due to the relentless freezing rain, we both stopped and in an instant, looked at each other, simultaneously, "I know that sound!" And then a moment later, eyes wide, "Tofu Man!" Sure enough, we recognized, in it's authenticity, that lonely melancholy whistle we'd heard imitated so many times. There in Tsukiji we found what we weren't even sure we were looking for, the Tofu Man! And this was some gem of a Tofu Man too. Youthful and so bright, suddenly it seemed the sun was shining on us! It was like the clouds parted, this guy had the shinning, peaceful face of a slender Buddha in an all white outfit. Instantly, we gravitated to him. He was all smiles and light, contrasting more than a little with the truly blue sound of his call. He gave us delicious and fresh samples, talked a little with Andrew in Japanese as I stood by, sheer awe all over my face. Andrew, who was at the time in a hearty making-tofu-from-scratch phase tried to get some tips from the man whose family has likely been making the wonder food for ages but in true Japanese fashion the man blithely and nimbly avoiding giving him any real information; smiling and winking like Santa Claus would if you asked him how he did it. He did tell us that they used water from Shizuoka (where we live!) because it's the purest in all of Japan. The energy and beauty of this man! Had we been closer to home, undoubtedly we would have bought a healthy supply. We wanted to stick around but we really had very little to say (maybe not cool: we worship the idea of you and would you be our leader?!) and understandably the man was not as interested in us as we were him; though he was friendly and polite he soon had had other customers to attend to. Before leaving though, we noticed and bought one each of the little souvenir tofu whistles he had for sale. To---Fu!

In my neighborhood you'll find: one mom and pop sushi stand which includes a grown young man son in a crisp white apron, t-shirt and paper hat who smiles and waves shyly each time I pass. There is one antique and miniature green tea shop with sliding paper doors run by a partially senile or at least very forgetful old man who each time I stop in and re-establish myself as an American, gets out a dusty old box and proceeds to show me a collection of yellowed letters from his daughter, some kind of doctor in the US. Using his crooked old pointer, he puts particular emphasis on her Pennsylvanian address, sometimes showing me her corresponding entry in his own dusty address book. Across from Tea Man a family runs a rice shop inside what doubles as their living room. There are, of course, several small fish & produce markets each with their own cast of characters. The fish guys are haughty and intimidating and each morning I see fresh blood on the cutting board and their gnarly hooks out front. The market directly in front of my building and my main one stop shop tries to get me to buy roasted potatoes most mornings as I go to work. "Smell these things, would ya, they smell delicious!" Andrew tells me they say, in his funny old Japanese person voice. I grocery shop there every Monday afternoon and occasionally buy some of their fresh flowers as a treat to myself. Recently discovered and heralded as a long since forgotten prince, is one stoic old man who makes and sells tofu as well as seems to ooze it's powdery ingredients from every wrinkle and crevice on his body. Eyelids, ears, hair, wrinkles, wrists, fingernails; we call him The Tofu Weeper. There are several tiny bars within walking distance, more often than not run by someones grandmother in an apron and shuffling about tatami floors in slippers and asking us in Japanese "Are you sure you can eat that, because sometimes you can't eat that?" The closet and the best izakaya happens run by a tiny, smiley and thoroughly adorable young man name Yohei who serves whole grilled fish and has excellent taste in sake and music. Inside Yohei's place, which is more or less a shack dolled up with kitsch there is always a timeless-looking iron kettle boiling over an open charcoal flame. There are a few friendly regulars here and it just so happens to be frequented by one of the freshest, classiest Japanese gents I've ever met who calls himself Mark. Mark has rosy cheeks, pops his collar and appears to be some kind of local show runner/councilman. The first night we met Mark he was with his buddies, Stone Gate and Pond Digger. But those two are another story. Around these parts there is also one very mysterious looking and striking loner type who stalks the streets dressed in a tan trench with the most majestic and velvety jet black hair, the longest and most luxurious I've ever seen on a man or a woman. Andrew perfectly dubbed this person the Gender Ambiguous Mohican. GAM lives across the street from the market, keeps a beautiful garden and though we have never spoken, can be seen it seems, almost everywhere I go.

Finally, to my delight, this week a Sri Lankan carryout has opened in between Yohei's place and mine, across from Tea Man and next door to Rice Folks and while it seems curious and more than a little out of place, so must I. To me it just makes this place called Sanbancho all the more magical.