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Along Nishikujō Harikōjichō in Minami ward in Kyoto sits an unassuming little place. It's hidden in plain site, situated on an angled intersection corner. We walked past it on our way out and didn't give it a second thought. Our second pass through Kyoto, Anna, [Michael] Murphy, and I departed the large group to seek out something (anything!) other than the food court and sushi train at Aeon Mall (the kids couldn't get enough). With not much time to spare, we ventured to visit To-ji Temple.

On the route back, we spotted a woman cooking through an open window and walked up to La Table de Petite Coron (Table of the Little Crown). Diners can choose to sit bar-side outdoors or inside at one of the five two-top tables.

The façade is awash in a soft yellow hue; inside is calming sea mist green. Light fixtures are simple screwed-in bulbs. Cutlery is paper napkin and gold-adorned plastic wear.

"Come in," the woman beckoned with a hand motion and a smile. She apologized and said, "Only two left." Willing to risk the time, we agreed to share two plates of chicken curry among the three of us and made our way to sit down.

It was a warm enough day that I was glad the door was ajar. The breeze broke the stifled air, warm and scented from the kitchen activities. We poured ourselves a glass of water from the sweaty glass jar. I gestured with my camera asking if it was OK for me to photograph while she worked. With a slightly embarrassed smile, she nodded yes and turned back.

Watching this beautiful young woman prepare the plates was enchanting. Most American restaurants are fully-equipped with industrial-sized steamers and ovens and ubiquitous triple-wash sinks. This makes cooking safe of course, but perhaps a bit antiseptic. Industrialized. Small establishments of Japan are decidedly more bespoke.

She scooped the rice out of a common kitchen sized rice cooker. She worked from a small sink with neatly-ordered dish towels arranged overhead. Pots and pans were strewn about beneath a grease-spattered range. A hand grater hung at the ready just within reach.

What Japan lacks in formality and Serve Safe protocol, it more than makes up for in attention to detail and authenticity. (Strange how we Americans take so much care in safe food preparation but so little care in the quality of the food itself.) How satisfying to watch her hand fry each chicken cutlet, carefully cut and lay the slices in perfect angled order on the plate. How endearing to watch her ladle up just the right amount of curry sauce and fill the void next to the sticky rice mound. How mindfully she garnished the plate with a small side salad and cheerful pickled radish rosette. All an embodiment of what food really means. So much more than simple nourishment. A connection. An offering. Nothing short of sumptuous performance art.

Perhaps with a perfect combination of hunger, angst for the time, and nothing short of a spectacular meal, hers was one of the best meals I've eaten. Not just that day. Not just in Japan. Ever. Unlike the vibrant burst of flavor in an Indian curry, Japanese curry roux is understated and sweet. The chicken was cooked to perfection, light and delicate on the outside, soft and moist throughout. This is the tale of slow food in a hurry. Even when minutes count, so does the effort and joy in cooking a dish. Because we were sharing and I was the "extra plate," I was sure to be diplomatic in my portions. Truth be told, I could have eaten it all.

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