"It’s a cuisine, not a dare," I find myself saying to my mother over a long-distance phone call.

"I don’t even want to hear about it," she says.

"The rumors of people dying are hugely exaggerated. Nobody dies from eating fugu anymore. The last case was..." When, exactly? I realize it could be last Tuesday, for all I know.

"It’s poison blowfish. Poison. In your mouth."

"Ma..."

I can hardly blame her. This is how the conversation inevitably goes when discussing that most storied of Japanese dishes: fugu, a.k.a. pufferfish, so named for their penchant for expanding like a balloon when upset. While the rumors of sudden death are exaggerated, they aren’t entirely false. The vast majority of pufferfish species do indeed contain some concentration of a powerful paralytic with the menacing name of “tetrodotoxin.” But the substance is generally limited to specific internal organs, and the vast majority of poisoning cases involve home cooking, a practice that is strongly discouraged by the powers that be in Japan. The Bureau of Social Welfare and Public Health website devotes an entire section to home fugu poisonings, complete with a handy chart of recent fatalities (sample: “2007. Cause: Fugu-liver soup, received as souvenir”). This is precisely why even the most experienced sashimi slinger needs to go through a strict training program to obtain a license to prepare fugu in Japan. 

The Shunpanro: crossroads of culture

Coming from the “if you’re going to do it, do it right, especially when horrific poisons are involved” school, my wife (and fellow CNNGo contributor) Hiroko and I aren’t keen on playing pufferfish roulette in our kitchen. We book a flight to Shimonoseki, a city at the westernmost tip of Honshu island and the undisputed epicenter of Japanese fugu culture. We've already reserved a room in the city’s most storied ryokan inn, Shunpanro, famed for its exquisite handling of the fish. 

The Japanese government has closely monitored and regulated the fugu industry for centuries. In the late 1500s, a spate of fugu poisonings among samurai, caused by lax preparation, led warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi to outlaw the dish. The ban wasn’t lifted for almost 300 years, until a politician convinced the Emperor to lift the prohibition after supping on surreptitiously served fugu... in the exact same ryokan that Hiroko and I are visiting. (When fugu are outlawed, it seems, only outlaws will serve fugu.) And did I mention that we can see both the historic naval battleground of Dan-no-ura and the island of Ganryu-jima, upon which famed swordsman Miyamoto Musashi bashed Sasaki Kojiro over the head with an oar in 1612, from our room? That this area is “historically busy” is putting it mildly. 

Under the Sea

Wanting to savor the experience, we decide to take a quick spin through town before dinner. Fugu statuary and signboards slide by as we pull into the parking lot for the Kaiyokan, the city’s gleaming modern aquarium facility. In an "only in Shimonoseki" twist, it turns out that a major portion of the displays are dedicated to pufferfish from around the world. Did you know that tora-fugu, the ones most often served in Japanese restaurants, like to burrow into the seabed to sleep? They even squeeze their tiny eyes shut. Perhaps they even dream.

"This is so cute," coos Hiroko as she snaps a photo of a particularly chubby specimen snuggling in the faux seabed. She’s right. It is cute. Cute enough to give one second thoughts about eviscerating and consuming these creatures a few hours hence. With those glistening eyes and bespotted coats, they’re like little aquatic versions of Bambi, albeit lethargic, potentially lethal Bambis. Silhouetted by the light from the enormous tank, Hiroko and I make eye contact. The touching scene was quickly shaping up to be one of those “teachable moments” in school curriculums, where doe-eyed children learn about the true meaning of life.

"Are you feeling what I’m feeling?" I ask tentatively.

"Definitely,” she replies. “I am totally looking forward to dinner tonight!"

Off with their cute little heads. 

Dinner Awaits

We return to the inn, where, in traditional fashion, the meal is served not in a dining hall but rather brought to our room. After a quick dip in the communal baths, we slip into our yukata robes; back in the room, the nakai, or room-maid, awaits our homecoming with a menu for the evening’s festivities. When we mention having seen tora-fugu the size of small German shepherds floating in the tank at the aquarium, she corrects us. “We don’t call them fugu here in Shimonoseki. We call them ‘fuku,’ which sounds luckier.” Ten-kilo pufferfish aren’t uncommon, she continues, but two- and three-kilo specimens make the best eating. 

And eat we do. The course begins with usu-tsukuri, fugu sashimi sliced so thin it’s transparent, arranged in a traditional flower pattern with a sprinkling of boiled fugu skin in the middle. The sashimi is delicately flavored, almost melting in the mouth with a subtleness that is borderline addictive. And the skin -- tora-fugu is one of the few species of puffer whose skin can be consumed -- is marinated in a tangy sauce, with a pleasant mouth-feel that is like a less rubbery version of octopus. Course after course follows: fugu porridge, fugu nuggets deep-fried to perfection, all of it washed down with tokkuri decanters of regional sake. Were it winter, the brew would be served hire-zake style: gently heated with a fugu fin in it for extra flavor. But this being the summer months it's served refreshingly plain, cold and sweet. 

When the table is finally cleared, a good two hours later, we feel as swollen as pufferfish ourselves. Urban legend would have you believe that one's fingertips and lips tingle after eating the dish, triggered by traces of poison left by the chef to stimulate the diners. There is absolutely nothing of the sort. And as I type these words, a week later, I can report with confidence that I am still very much alive -- not to mention looking forward to another go-around with a delicacy whose infamy is decidedly inflated.