Market officials have learned their lesson. They've asked hotel managers not to send too many tourists their way. They've posted signs in five languages warning visitors to watch their manners during the auctions. Others prohibit cameras with flashes, which can blind buyers from the arcane hand signals used in the purchase process.
As onlookers jam into a narrow aisle roped off from the auction, one man snaps pictures with a high-speed camera, his flash sputtering. Two uniformed guards with rubber batons rush to tap him on the shoulder.
Bystanders frown. They fear another tourist ban that would rob them of the pleasure of walking Tsukiji's 1,700 stalls, which sell giant crabs, bright red octopus and just about every other marketable sea creature.
Many know the place considered the kitchen of Japan probably will be relocated and modernized, thus diminishing the charm of a market that has been in the same spot along the Sumida River since 1935.
City officials plan to move Tsukiji by 2014, replacing the hundreds of colorful hand-pulled fish carts with high-tech conveyor belts and an electronic tagging system.
For now, though, the market still functions much as it did when it was founded in the 16th century, when local fishermen supplied the then-shogun at nearby Edo Castle.
At dawn, workers ring large cowbells to summon the tuna bidding. Fussy brokers are still inspecting rows of hulking frozen bluefin tuna the size of refrigerators, whose tails have been cut off to provide a window to the color and fat content of the flesh.
As spellbound tourists look on, buyers use flashlights to peer inside the gutted fish, rolling samples of meat between their fingers. They wield 3-foot-long hooks to roll the big carcasses. Tags show where and when each tuna was caught and by what method.
The regimen is more than just kicking the tires of a used car. It's a display of kata, the ancient Japanese notion of ideal form, whether it's origami, a martial arts pose or a broker in search of the perfect piece of tuna.
Buyer Osamu Maruyama calls each tuna an individual.
"They're like humans" says the 52-year-old, in a red jumpsuit soiled by blood and fish guts. "Some are tall, some skinny, some are fat. I look for the young fresh ones. The elderly tuna are not so fresh. It's the same with people."
As the auction wraps up for the morning, workers use handcarts to pull the purchased fish to nearby stalls where they will be hacked into pink chunks bound for sushi restaurants worldwide.
Australian Bernard Murphy is a bit disappointed at the show: "We were hoping they'd throw the fish like they do in Seattle."
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john.glionna@latimes.com
