
My friends and family would never typify me as "typical," or in my words "cookie cutter." I have some great eccentricities, or better yet, quirks, that keep life with me interesting. One of those things is the fact that I adore sushi. It's gone from a "what is this on my plate?" to a "when can I have it again" love-love relationship.
Here's something to think about though. Sushi chefs (itamae) are creative. They can put together hand rolls that look like they should be in art museums. Looking at the colorful array of fish, rice, and veggies emerging from the rolled piece of seaweed, I have new found respect for the little guy in the tall hat that just nods like a bobble head doll and smiles. But their creative sides have lent themselves to the dark side, and more and more are turning devious, even evil! There's more going on behind the smile than I could ever know.
Maybe the itamae knows that I envy his ability to slice up the slabs of tuna, salmon, yellowtail, and other delectable fishes from the sea into perfect rectangles with such skill and ease. Maybe he knows that I wish I knew what made the rice stick together so well. My Uncle Ben's 90 second rice just didn't work! He looks down at me from atop his wooden box behind the glass-enclosed sushi bar. In his mind, he's cooking up a plot to take me out, to stop my envy, and exert his power over me, even if he is four inches shorter than I am when barefoot.
When I turn my head, the little guy moves his hand to the left, faster than those anime cartoons characters bouncing all over the TV screen. A green blob is plastered on top of the rice. Before I can turn my head back to watch the masterful artist at work, he's already sealed my fate. The green blob is hidden by a seemingly harmless red-wine colored piece of tuna. Toothy smile still showing, he nods his head up and down rapidly, like a bobble head doll sittng in the back window of a Toyota. He seems innocent enough, right?
Itamae knows. He knows that I'm weak. He knows what will make me cry. He is going for the slow kill. Later, he'll be watching me, enjoying his handiwork, all the while, keeping up that annoying perfect innocent smile. I'll be enjoying a conversation with a friend, chatting and deftly picking up piece after piece of sushi with a set of wooden hashi . Suddenly, my face seizes, my eyes close, and I hope the sensation will go away. My entire mouth is burning, going straight up into my nose, and flowing as tears out of the corners of my eyes. I feel like I might never be able to swallow. I'm cursing the itamae under my breath. Behind me, he's falling over on the floor laughing. Another American's downfall in his restaurant. It kind of reminds me of the soup Nazi, a la "Seinfeld."
Something keeps me coming back though. Wherever I visit, all across the country, I try to find a good sushi bar in the cities that I hop around to, from San Diego to London and back again. Still, there must be some unwritten code at sushi chef school that says you must have seek revenge on the unsuspecting American who partakes in the Japanese version of a cheeseburger. Every place I've been, I always get screwed by the blob of wasabi that hides in the middle of my dinner.
You'd think I'd learn after seven years of eating sushi. I guess I'm just a slow-learner.
Recent Comments