Tokyo Fish Market: Chaos, Great Sushi

There's nothing like the taste of raw fish at 7:30 in the morning.

Unless it's the taste of beer at 7:30 in the morning to wash down the fish.

That's what the tableful of club-goers next to me are having, just after they, and I, have finished touring Tokyo's tumultuous Tsukiji fish market.

Eating breakfast at one of the dozens of casual eateries that ring the sprawling fish market is a tradition for travelers and Tokyoites alike, and sushi -- made from fish bought at the market, cut up and made with rice and seaweed while you watch -- is easily the most popular item on the menu.

Tsukiji fish market, located waterside on Tokyo Bay, in central Tokyo's Tsukiji district, is the world's largest wholesale seafood market. Wholesalers, retailers, teamsters, tourists, buyers for supermarkets and major department stores and the occasional celebrity chef hang out here from the chilly, predawn hours until the action winds down in late morning.

	Tokyo Fish Market

Unexpectedly, and with none of the central planning that Japan is famous for to account for it, Tsukiji market has become a popular draw.

To see the place at its best, rise when it's still dark and head down to the covered market's rambling, warehouse-like main structure, located near the Tsukiji subway station and practically in the shadow of Ginza, this phantasmagorical city's luxury shopping district.

The fish market has been in its present building since the 1920s, and looks it. It is the anti-Ginza. It is functional, worn, crowded and very, very busy. Forklifts lift and motorized, three-wheeled carts skitter on water-covered, concrete floors. Wholesalers lay out some 400 kinds of sea creatures on beds of crushed ice or pull them, wriggling, from tubs of water.

In short, it's very much a working market, not a Disneyfied recreation. Admission is free and visitors are permitted to wander around, but only if they stay alert and out of the workers' way. Only registered buyers can purchase the fish.

Once upon a time, visitors could observe the six-day-a-week auction of big, whole tuna that begins shortly after the market opens at 5 a.m. (The market is closed on Sundays and some holidays.) But the crowds got so big, they raised sanitation concerns, and Tokyo's city government, which runs the market, restricted the tuna auction to professionals.

No matter; there is still plenty to see.

I arrive at the market sleepy and a bit dubious. I am not a morning person to begin with, and I wasn't sure how interesting a fish market could be. Wading into the market in boots to deal with the flooded floors and a warm coat to ward off the refrigerated chill, I take a sweeping look around.

It looks like pure chaos. People and machines swarm everywhere. I have to jump out of the way every 30 seconds. But it soon becomes apparent that this is purposeful chaos. The dastardly little three-wheeled carts miss you by inches, but they miss you. The buyers bustle up quickly to the wholesalers' stands because they must act fast; they are an essential link in an old system that provides Tokyo and much of Japan with that day's catch.

	Fresh Fish

Given that Japan is an island nation with deep links to The Deep, theirs is no small job. The market is both economic institution and spectacle. I've seen big markets before, but nothing quite like this.

Alas, it all may go away. The market's shoreline location is coveted by developers and the market has outgrown its aging facilities. Japanese media report that the city plans to move the fish market, though visitors will still be allowed to stop by, and at least a few of the surrounding eateries will decamp to the new place.

After about an hour, I leave the fish market, cruise past an outer ring of shops offering kitchenware -- long, curving carving knives, chopsticks, pots and pans -- and gravitate to the sushi joint where I take breakfast. It has eight stools and a counter. It is one of dozens of similar places in the immediate vicinity. As far as I can tell, no place is better or much more popular than any other. You just follow your instincts and take your pick.

I snatch up whatever the sushi chef puts in front of me. I bypass the beer the clubbers are enjoying; they were up all night and are practically pickled in alcohol. I am not, so I make the safe choice: tea. A kitchen helper puts a steaming pot of tea before me, and the chef -- alluding to green tea's supposed health-giving properties -- smiles and says, "No cancer!''

When the bill comes, I brace myself, turn it over and see it is about $15 -- not bad at all, considering I am in one of the priciest cities on the planet and have just had the freshest and best-tasting sushi of my life.