I Fought Deer for Snacks in Hiroshima

At first I thought the thing was stuffed and on display. The doe stood so still—with eyes frozen like molasses-covered pebbles, and so close to droves of incoming tourists—that the image was confusing and surreal. My brother, who had been to Miyajima before, said I hadn't seen anything yet.

Just a few more yards, and I saw them: deer and deer and more deer hanging around in the open, nonplussed by the visitors on the sunny weekend. One was being spritzed at by an ikayaki vendor's water pistol, though the deer was in no rush to back off from a nearby row of grilled octopi. Even after a light bop on the head, it just stood back blankly. These deer were more like cats in the bodies of big dogs. They don't pose or do tricks or listen; the only thing they seemed to care about was food, though it's not like I was there for any other reason, either.

Miyajima is an island off Hiroshima, serving as a cosy home to the Itsukushima shrine, oyster farms, and wild families of deer that are virtually domesticated because they're so acclimatized to human presence (and are willing to put up a fight for your snacks and plastic bags). Thankfully, it is winter, so their horns have naturally fallen off. Otherwise, the one that head-butted my dad for some roasted corn would have been a larger issue.

It also is home to the world's largest rice spoon, which you can buy miniature versions of in many of local gift shops—it's some Umberto Eco shit.

The island is also a really pleasant place to kill a Sunday afternoon, as made clear by my family, the other families, and the gauntlet of snack vendors. Hiroshima and Miyajima, like all areas in Japan, takes a lot of pride in the local specialties, most notably momiji manju—red bean pastries in the shape of maple leaves—and okonomiyaki, a poutine-esque layered car crash of noodles, salad, and an omelette, the name of which roughly translates to "whatever you want, dude."

The shimmering local dish in my eyes, however, was the oysters. Sure, my friend's face turned pale when I told her I planned to inhale the things during my trip (what with radiation having a nasty tendency to linger in water) but I was comforted by the fact that these shellfish are fussy tenants and refuse to breed in waters with anything "off" about them. If Hiroshima's bay was less hazardous than New York's, then I felt I could eat soundly. We shook on whether or not I'd develop any surprise mutations. I'll get back to you in ten years.

Though I began the day with a deep-fried curry oyster ball—a palm-sized mound stuffed with those intense flavours—the oyster party really began at Yakigaki No Hayashi. The restaurant had a healthy line, an active sizzling two-cook grill out front and general tourist "ooh, ahh" infrastructure, lassoing people in with literal ropes dangling in an aquarium to show how the full-shelled critters grow. They also had pitchers of water at the table and a French-Canadian server; my brother and I debated which was the rarer sight.

First off, my familiar territory: raw oysters. My brother hadn't had them in a while, but Hiroshima doesn't typically eat oysters raw, even though that's how I most enjoy them. I should have taken a hint. Not that my tum-tum took a hit, but those allegedly living things tasted pretty lifeless. Sure, they were served with some spectacle—a tiny replica of Itsukushima's gate sat in the bed of ice—but that blended shot of ocean flavour usually associated with each slurp was nowhere to be found. It's like their local oysters developed some sort of defence mechanism where they aim to taste as bland as possible when eaten alive. The jerks.

We then had the deep-fried oysters, which were better, creamy and oniony, like fancy fish sticks. If our cultures crossed over, there's potential for a fantastic po' boy somewhere in there. But eventually we got to the real deal—oysters Hiroshima-style.

Described as baked, they're actually grilled over a fire, their shells flipped and whipped along the heat. Because of this, they resembled tiny beef hearts. Meatier, plus-sized versions of their uncle muscles. A rich salty filling transformed from their green pulpy guts.

Just like Jurassic Park, Miyajima is not an island you get to escape before eating some desserts and running from the local wildlife. Regular momiji manju are one thing, but one bakery sold them deep-fried and mounted on a stick.

Further into the island, vendors were replaced by gift shops and artisan woodworks of demons and waterfalls. But the lone snack chefs were still reppin' Hiroshima, yelling out on sleepier roads. Before taking a cable car to Mount Misen—which we didn't fully climb because we ran out of time from snacking—we picked up baked yams and roasted chestnuts. The baked yams were a little dry by that point, but the chestnuts were warm, sweet, and starchy.

My brother pretended to accidentally feed one of the smaller deer a chestnut, which then began to trail us around like a family pet. Getting Bambi to back the fuck off was difficult, because yelling at it meant assuming that it knew both a foreign language or any language all. Without a Super Soaker, we tried the ikayaki vendor's other method and attempted to bop it off. That didn't work either.

We resorted to being clever, or at least trying to. We tossed a second chestnut down a set of stairs towards a river, but it wasn't taking the bait. The deer wanted the payload, the sweaty paper bag mostly full of shells at that point. We only managed to escape while crossing a bridge, due to a brave crew of three Japanese people who formed a human wall to separate us from the beast.

Heading back toward the ferries as the sun began to set, the island town seemed more populated by deer than humans. Two to one, at least. Vendors wrapped up for the day, though maybe we were too tired to fight against nature for our noshes anyway. One of the last things I saw before leaving Miyajima was a woman wrestling with a stag for a plastic bag. That's the memory I'll take with me—an island full of snacks worth fighting for.