Something I Could Eat

I had read that Dotonbori looks like daytime even after the sun goes down, but I didn't really believe it until I stood at the edge of the canal myself.

Enormous signs stretched above the street in every direction — a giant mechanical crab with moving legs, a puffer fish lantern the size of a car, and above it all, the famous running man, lit up in neon, arms raised as if he had just won a race. The canal below reflected all of it in broken, colorful lines.

Around me, the street was packed — tourists taking photos with the crab, groups of friends laughing outside okonomiyaki restaurants, vendors calling out prices over the noise. I had traveled here alone, and for a moment, standing in the middle of all that energy by myself, I felt both completely invisible and strangely at home.

I had arrived in Osaka only two hours earlier, dropped my bag at the hostel, and come straight here, following the sound of the crowd more than any map. This was my first real night out in Japan, and I could feel my stomach reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything since the airport.

Everywhere I looked, there was food. Takoyaki stalls with their little round grills, sizzling and steaming. Okonomiyaki restaurants with open kitchens, the smell of grilled batter drifting into the street. Skewers, noodles, ramen bowls glowing under red lanterns.

I was starving, and completely surrounded by food I wasn't sure I could eat.

As a Muslim, I try to eat halal, which mostly means avoiding pork and alcohol, and knowing what's actually inside a dish, not just what it looks like on the outside.

That's harder than it sounds in Dotonbori. Takoyaki batter sometimes uses lard. The rich, smoky sauce brushed onto okonomiyaki is often made with ingredients I couldn't read on any menu. Even the savory broths, the ones that smelled the most wonderful, were usually built on bonito fish stock mixed with things I had no way of identifying from the street.

Before my trip, a friend from university had warned me: "Just be careful in Osaka. Everything smells amazing, and almost nothing is safe." I had laughed it off at the time. Standing in the middle of Dotonbori now, hungry and surrounded by food I couldn't confidently order, it didn't feel funny anymore.

I walked past stall after stall, reading signs I couldn't fully understand, smelling food I couldn't confidently order. A few times, I almost just pointed at something and hoped for the best. Each time, I stopped myself.

I thought about giving up and settling for a plain rice ball from a convenience store — safe, boring, and definitely not the first night in Osaka I had imagined.

Then, tucked down a smaller side street, away from the biggest crowds, I noticed something small and green in a restaurant window.

It was a certification sticker, printed with Arabic script and the word HALAL underneath in English. Beside it, a smaller sign read: "Halal-friendly menu — please ask our staff."

I almost couldn't believe it. I stepped inside, a little reluctant at first, and a server noticed immediately.

"Halal menu?" she asked, before I could even explain. She pointed to a laminated card on the table, showing dishes marked clearly with small green icons, and patiently walked me through exactly which ingredients were used in each one.

"We get a lot of Muslim travelers around here now," she said, almost apologetically, as if surprised it had taken Osaka this long to catch up. "Osaka wants everyone to eat well."

I ordered a wagyu okonomiyaki, made with a halal-certified sauce instead of the usual one. When it arrived, sizzling on its little iron plate, it looked exactly like every other okonomiyaki I had seen sizzling in every other window that night.

It tasted even better than it looked.

I ate slowly, watching the chaos of Dotonbori continue outside the window — the crab still waving its neon legs, the running man still frozen mid-celebration, tourists posing for photos under lights bright enough to read a book by.

An hour earlier, I had been ready to settle for a rice ball and call it an early night. Now, with a full plate in front of me and my worry finally gone, my first night in Osaka finally felt like it had actually begun.