Wagyu. People toss the word around like it’s magic, like it’s some kind of secret handshake into the world of food luxury. But really, it just means “Japanese beef.” Simple as that. Still, over the years, it’s become a global status symbol, showing up in overpriced burger joints in Toronto, in hot pots in New York, or hidden behind glass cases in boutique butcher shops. I’ve had Wagyu outside Japan before—meltingly tender, almost obscene in its richness—but I always wanted to try it here, in the country that gave it to the world.
I wasn’t even hunting for it that day. I was at Tokyo’s famous Tsukiji Fish Market, weaving through the chaos of tourists, the smell of grilled seafood, the clang of knives on cutting boards, the calls of vendors selling everything from uni to tuna belly. Then, tucked right into the middle of it all, I saw it: a small stall, nothing fancy, selling Wagyu skewers.
I lined up, jostled shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, and struck up a short, playful conversation with the chef manning the grill. He handled the beef with reverence but without ceremony, as if to say: this is what it is, nothing more, nothing less. When he handed me my skewer, I swear I could feel my wallet deflating. It cost an arm, a leg, and maybe one of my testicles.
And then I bit into it.
What can you even say about Wagyu in Japan? It’s an explosion. A million percent beef flavor, a million percent fat-driven perfection, like the cow was bred, raised, and fed for the sole purpose of creating this one moment in my mouth. The richness coats your tongue, lingers, and then forces you to pause. You don’t eat Wagyu fast. You let it wash over you.
Was it worth the price? Honestly, I don’t know. Food like this walks the line between absurd indulgence and genuine cultural experience. But eating Wagyu in Japan—even just off a skewer at a busy market—felt different. It felt right. It felt like I was participating in something real, not just consuming hype.
Would I do it again? Probably not—unless I win the lottery. But would I tell a friend to try it once in their life, in Japan, where it was meant to be eaten? Absolutely. Some meals aren’t about logic, or price, or portion size. They’re about the story you take away. And mine is this: one skewer of Wagyu, eaten in the middle of Tokyo’s most famous market, surrounded by chaos, joy, and the unmistakable taste of Japan.
