Yoshoku is a catch-all label for foods of western origin that have been infused with Japanese sensibilities, originally a product of ingredient cost, availability, or palatability during the Meiji Period. I think it occupies somewhere between the intensity of a steakhouse and the subtlety of a shokudo cafeteria, in varying degrees more Western and more not, producing such arrangements as hambagu (hamburger steak) and miso soup, and a space where curry rice and vichyssoise appear on the same menu.

Bistro Queux: 5 Chome-7-5 Nobi, Yokosuka, Kanagawa 239-0841

Bistro Queux sits past the JERA Yokosuka power station, to the left past the tunnel, before Route 212 turns onto Nobi-Kaigan. In the foyer, a sheet of paper lists rules: all must order, no loitering, single diners at counters only. I’m asked to sanitize my hands then guided to a counter seat in the corner. The restaurant is empty, but my little section is tidy, stocked full to predict my needs before I know them. A basket for my bag, a small bell, a fan. I’m handed a menu and reminded that 160-gram portions are recommended for females and larger for male diners.

I order a set meal. Almost instantly, the scent of demi-glaze drifts from the kitchen. Soon, a salad with balsamic dressing arrives, followed by spinach puree cream soup. Flattened rice accompanies the main course: delicately cut, and neatly arranged, pan-seared zucchini, carrots, and potatoes. The accompaniments tiptoe around a fist-sized hambagu in a puddle of sesame sauce. A golden liquid of water and fat flows from the meat, and I race to savor both it and the sauce. The rest I eat with rice.

Before long, the plate is empty and I sit quietly. It’s the type of silence that turns spoon-on-porcelain and AC humming into whispers from the back of the kitchen. I stare at my water, the glass, the ice, the small floral arrangements and wheat bouquets. It’s calming. It’s brief. I pay, and exit.

Restaurant Ichiriki: 1 Chome-4-18 Negishicho, Yokosuka, Kanagawa 239-0807

Close to Kita-Kurihama Station, Restaurant Ichiriki sits on Route 134, but it offers no parking. When I went on a Wednesday afternoon in June, soon after opening for dinner, there was one couple seated in the corner; the bicycles outside were theirs. I’m a single diner at a four-top, it’s just me and the condensation on my glass of tea. Asked if I’m ready to order, I ask if the salmon comes with rice. It does not. So I order salmon and a separate serving of rice.

I watch the road outside as students from nearby schools pass the plastic display case. The chef cooks and the server cuts vegetables. And a soundtrack of classical music plays above their soft chatting.

Soon, three bone-free cuts of salmon garnished with green onion and drizzled with a peppered, soy sauce vinaigrette arrives. On the side, a wedge of lettuce, tomato and cucumber with dressing, and of course, a side of rice. The buttered salmon was soft, with added zest courtesy of the lemon; it existed between a punchy salmon bake and gentle, home-broiled salmon breakfast. I turn, as unsuspiciously as I can, to the dessert board and order crème brûlée. I scrape every bit of the thin, silky custard beneath the broiled crust of caramelized sugar like ice on a lake waiting to crack and float away.

Café Restaurant Gusto: 4 Chome-21-2 Miharucho, Yokosuka, Kanagawa 238-0014

Finally, Gusto, the family restaurant chain– to see if it fits the yoshoku category. I walk up the steps and am greeted by the one employee running the dining room. It is late on a Wednesday evening. I take my seat and unfold at least four different menus; so many options to order on the tablet. It’s not crowded, besides young children, high schoolers and an elderly couple in the corner. Some with friends, some with family, some alone, crossed-legged against the partition. I look out the window over Route 134 – it might rain. The silence is a muted kind, filling the gaps between tablet beeps, notification pings, faintly indistinguishable music, and the delivery robot wheeling down aisles. I wait for my rice, salad, and hambagu, the latter two with a garlic-based dressing. And I eat, as I watch people leave, and enter, finding their favorite seats, or navigating the cashier-less checkout. By the time the tomato extract and onions settle at the bottom of my soup and the plates begin to dry, I have my banana sundae and pile the napkins in the center of the table. And as I go to pay, I ask myself: why did I think this was yoshoku again?

I don’t need to return to any of these places. But now I have a little more reason to stay. Like I know something about the place. And it knows a little more about me. And so, I’m happy.

Yokosuka Naval Base

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