It was summer 1997 and my first one in Japan.
High temperature records were reached in Osaka.
In Hirakata-shi, a city of the province of Osaka, there was no sea breeze to cool the sultry air. We were surrounded on all sides by mountains and this great bowl in which we resided had become a giant sauna.
On a Saturday of the middle of the summer, Mrs. Sano prepared for me a glossy bowl of soba.
To be very precise, Ms. Sano placed a series of small pottery bowls on the table along with a large bowl of crushed ice below the steaming soba noodles. In front of each small bowl, there was a plate of condiments, some spring onions cut into small strips and some wasabi.
You should have seen my eyes when Mrs. Sano asked me to join her at the table.
Was I supposed to use my chopsticks with the crushed ice?
Was I supposed to grasp some of the noodles together with ice? 
What was I supposed to do with my soy sauce? 
And how was I supposed to use the condiments?
Every day, it was the same thing. The dishes, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Sano, deeply questioned the little I knew of food culture.
All the embarrassing questions in my head were silenced and banished at the magic discovery of the first bite.
I was 20 years old at that time. I still remember the particular taste of the soba; I can still recall this incredible feeling of freshness on my tongue.
I didn’t know that it was the beginning of the journey of initiation into the mystical joy of icy soba.
I went to dinner tonight to a Japanese restaurant with the Australian of my heart. When the server presented me with a bowl of crushed ice, I immediately knew what was going to follow and I smiled from ear to ear.