Lessons from a respected teacher; valiant attempts to speak the language to colleagues at work; a well-used pocket dictionary conspicuously displayed in my back pocket. I was serious about learning the native tongue when I first moved to Japan.

If I spoke Japanese, I would possess insight and knowledge other foreigners lacked. While they wallowed in ignorance, I would experience the “real” Japan. When I talked, others would nod and agree, thinking to themselves, “He has to be right. He speaks Japanese.”

Somehow it didn’t quite turn out that way.

Like most foreigners I used a crutch on my initial trips into the community around me. I went with a bilingual friend or frequented establishments where I knew English was spoken. But eventually I gathered my nerve and cast crutches aside. Under the cover of darkness I began making solo forays into the community. This was the real test. There was only me, my ability to speak the language, and my trusty dictionary - no crutches for old watashi-wa.

One evening I decided my linguistic talents had reached the point where I could go to a tiny, but famous, yakitori shop. The establishment served all sorts of chicken that had been barbecued on little bamboo skewers - chunks of breast meat, pieces of thigh, hearts, gizzards, liver, wings. If it belonged to a chicken’s anatomy, it was certain to be served in one form or another.

When I pushed aside the curtain and entered, I was pleased to see an empty stool near the centre of a lone counter. As I sat down, I could hear the word “gaijin” murmured by several customers. This pleased me as I knew this was the word for foreigner. I was entering alien waters and about to experience the authentic Japan.

The proprietor timidly approached me. Recognizing he was afraid I couldn’t speak Japanese, I uttered - in Japanese of course - some kind words about his famous shop. He relaxed noticeably, bowed slightly and welcomed me to his humble little restaurant.

I had previously visited less renowned yakitori shops with English-speaking Japanese friends. These experiences taught me there is a portion of the chicken breast considered to be the tastiest and most elegant tidbit served - sort of the filet mignon of the chicken. Not wanting to appear uninitiated, I decided to throw budgetary restraints to the wind and to go for the top of the line.

I should have known something was wrong as soon as I placed the order. The owner gave me a strange glance and the shop that had been quite noisy, suddenly became silent. When the chatter began again, the noise didn’t reach its previous level, and I could occasionally hear the word “gaijin” mentioned in the conversations around me.

When my order arrived, I found the reason for the silence. In the middle of my plate, skewered from head to toes, was a barbecued, embryonic chicken. It had been plucked from its shell shortly before natural instincts would have forced it to peck its way out of confinement.

What was I to do? Not wanting to appear rude, I took a deep breath, and ate the cartilaginous little bugger. A couple of the customers at the counter sighed with relief, the proprietor smiled and I reached for my tattered dictionary.