Next, we're off to Namjatown. We were warned that Namjatown was no Disneyland, and no kidding: It's sort of like the Enchanted Forest of Tokyo, but built by one of the largest game companies in Japan instead of an eccentric with endless truckloads of concrete. But we weren't there for the second-rate amusements, we were there to kick ass and eat gyoza. And we were all out of ass.

Gyoza Stadium isn't so much a stadium as a collection of food stands in the traditional Japanese style. There's ten or so little huts, each a counter where a friendly lady takes your order and a small kitchen in back where the chef does his gyoza thing. It's very confusing at first: Each has a giant menu describing, in Japanese, what their gyoza's all about. (I can spot the kanji for gyoza, and that's about it.) So, dozens of choices, all indistinguishable from each other. Usually I'm fine with not being able to read menus because I can just ask for something by name—but here I can't exactly say, "I'll have the gyoza, please!" After a few minutes of total befuddlement, I realize that there are picture menus next to the counter, so I can at least point. They were all delicious, of course.

The other fun thing was we found the Miracle Fruit Cafe. "Miracle fruit" is an odd fruit (a drupe, I'll have you know) that blocks the sour receptors on your tongue. Suck on some miracle fruit for a few minutes and it changes your perception of taste. We ordered the experiment kit, which comes with test tubes of different liquids, slices of lemons and limes, plus other things like kombu and stinky dried fish. I didn't get good tongue coverage, so some sour slipped by, but straight lemon juice tasted like lemonade. Lemon and lime wedges, wonderful. Vinegar still burned the throat, but the initial recoil was gone. Tomatoes and tomato juice were sweeter but still tasted like tomato. The rest was still god awful dreadful.

So, feeling sick with a stomach full of vinegar and lemon juice, I learned something: Your tongue is the guardian of your stomach, and deserves respect. Don't play tricks on it, and don't drink lemon juice.

We had a quick stop at the hotel, then it was off to I-don't-know-where to meet a guy for dinner, a Coda fan, really nice guy who works at Sony Playstation on the PS3 web browser. We picked him up at his office and saw the swank Sony digs, then went off in search of the restaurant he'd picked, through the bitter cold, and faint with hunger. Okay, it wasn't that bad, but we were sure glad when we finally found it. It turned out to be a traditional Japanese place, though I'm sure it's much more nuanced than that, that it's a particular style from some region and era of Japan—these layers of meaning are lost on me. (I was, I admit, disappointed that it wasn't curry. I still haven't had curry this trip.)

But back to the rambling: We've been on our feet for two days straight (and I'm sure the lack of sleep hasn't helped) and now we have to wedge ourselves under the table—and there's no cheater pit for your legs like in American "authentic" Japanese restaurants. My legs instantly fell asleep and sent out shooting pains to complain about their treatment. Despite that, and the embarrassing outgassing of my socks, the food was really enjoyable and the other Japanese guys our host had invited were all great company. When we got to the main course, gas grills were brought to the table and a stew was set cooking. It looked and smelled good, and I was pleased with my ability to eat and even enjoy unrecognizable foods. And then I saw the bowl of egg-shaped things, random sizes but all pinky-white. The guy next to me: "Do you know what these are? They're baby eggs! Unhatched eggs!"

I always feel I should be open to new experiences, and Japan has a great way of giving to them to you with no effort whatsoever on your behalf. The trick is to not think about it, I told myself; just open your mind and experience it. Also, it's probably just like a hard boiled egg, no problem. So in it goes, chew, and there's the surprise: it pops and some kind of.. liquid floods my mouth.

I should have expected that. Japanese food has a cruel sense of humor with us foreigners.

Luckily, I didn't gag like I did last time I was in this situation, and once the proto-proto-chicken fluid headed down my throat past the cholesterol-loving part of the tongue, I found it was actually really good. (Mike agreed, and thanked me for warning him about the surprise.) After this, there was a bit more food—though nothing so dramatic—and the rest of the meal followed its pleasant, congenial path while my lack of sleep started catching up again. I felt like a kid out past his bedtime, and I just wanted someone to carry me home.

Finally, at last, we were done. I prised my poor, useless legs out from under the table and beat the life back into them. I shambled out, we said our goodbyes and very-nice-to-meet-yous, and we packed ourselves into the subway car, stuffed like a sausage with the hordes of people just now getting off work at 11PM.