We ordered from a waiter who didn’t speak a word of English, pointing to indecipherable words on the menu. As we made our choices, the waiter sometimes asked questions, sounding surprised – a rather unobtrusive Japanese surprise. Of course, we understood nothing and nodded foolishly while clucking like two impatient hens. I felt as if I was Obelix, waiting for the dishes of Mannekenpix, the chef who cooked meals for the Titans, as I buckled down to one of the many tasks concocted by my son.

Various fish and shellfish sushi soon appeared on our table: we identified salmon, tuna, eel, fish roe (but what kind?), as well as a type of octopus. We didn’t recognize a slightly sharp-tasting white fish, nor a viscous shellfish. Then came a large noodle soup that we gathered was called udon, with shrimp fritters, mysterious vegetables, fried tofu and seaweed. So far, so good. Then we were served a bowl of plain rice, which on closer inspection turned out to be dotted with tiny whole fried fish, including the eyes. My mother protested, but we ate everything (and crunched, because those little fish were crispy), wincing as we did so.

The pièce de résistance was served by the chef himself. He came to our table with a live squid in his left hand and a large knife in his right. We stopped laughing like silly geese and the booming chef gratified us with an incomprehensible speech as he laid the creature on a wooden board. Then he calmly sliced it, placing the thin transparent strips in small bowls. Mum looked away; I laughed and pointed out that, since she ate live oysters, she could try the ‘almost live’ squid. Then the chef stood there in front of us. We thanked him, but he didn’t leave. He was obviously waiting for us to try it. We had no option. I grabbed the camera and caught my mother’s grimace and gag reflex as she put a piece of quivering squid in her mouth.

We washed it all down with some sake, then squandered a few thousand yen (a few tens of euros) in a smoke-filled pachinko – a sort of jam-packed casino, echoing with the sound of jangling, flashing machines, where thousands of workers seeking an adrenaline rush come to forget the emptiness of their lives. To round off our foray into Shinjuku in style, we tried a beer with wasabi at the Robot Restaurant, watching a cabaret show that was a cross between an episode of Bioman on speed, a cardboard cut-out parody of an American musical, and a Bollywood movie with ear-piercing singing, dancing and screeching.

Back in Shibuya, we joined a bunch of particularly tipsy Japanese for this group karaoke, and competed singing Eurovision songs and wearing absurd costumes.