D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
December
2008
A Yen for Fish
A sushi safari is a good reminder of why man invented fire.
Despite my flinty, squint-eyed exterior, I am a very worldly and sensitive soul, and seek out opportunities to expand my database of experiences and wisdom. Sometimes, this happy-go-lucky philosophy of trying new things can backfire horribly, as evidenced by my purchase of a pair of low-cut fashionable jeans that make me look like an Italian gigolo, or the time I took my daughter to a movie called High School Musical, which had neither high school-age actors or anything that remotely resembled music to my ears. Sometimes it works out pretty cool, like a trip to Europe or attending live Shakespeare. Other times, you find yourself going to a sushi bar for the first time.
I have heard about sushi, which is a Japanese word for "We haven't discovered fire yet." Raw fish seems to prompt a lot of very sophisticated people to expound endlessly on the complete fabulousness of sushi and its multitudinous health benefits. But I was never interested enough to actually put down my chicken-fried steak long enough to check it out for myself.
Recently, however, a friend of mine who must have felt compelled to test the limits of our friendship coaxed me to go to dinner at a sushi restaurant. This eatery has been getting rave reviews from a bunch of overpaid, fatuous yuppie pinheads who ascribe infinite worth to anything that isn't produced by God-fearing union workers right here in the good ol' USA. I was somewhat resistant to the proposition until it was explained to me that the restaurant had a liquor license, after which I was far more receptive to the idea.
I volunteered to drive, and as I aimed my wheezing old domestic sedan into a parking spot, I realizing I wasn't in Kansas anymore. I wasn't even in Nagasaki, as evidenced by the mud-and-bird-crap matte finish of my sedan wedged between a brace of expensive, shiny German cars and a couple of Saabs and Jags thrown in for good measure. I walked in with my friend, and a fit young woman dressed completely in black greeted us. I immediately jumped in front of my companion, ready to protect her against the unexpected appearance of what was obviously a ninja. Turned out she was only the hostess, and she wanted us to take a seat, which I declined as I have plenty of chairs at home. She meant at a table, so I sat and asked for the liquor menu.
While my friend looked at her menu and made strange little lip-smacking noises and guttural sounds of pleasure, I scanned the beverages. I had tried sake once before, and as I am not a big fan of pouring turpentine into my mouth and waking up with my head in three distinct and migratory pieces, I asked if they had beer. The ninja waitress said yes, so I ordered a Chinese beer that I like to drink every now and then to see what the Commies are up to. My friend ordered something tall, expensive, and containing enough sake to fuel an aircraft carrier for a week.
If you like seafood, you would love this restaurant. If you like cooked seafood, however, you're out of luck, because it seems that the harnessing of fire escaped the culinary geniuses of Japan. The Japanese attempted to overcome the fact that they were serving raw fish by disguising it in a complicated melange of steamed rice, sesame seeds, mango, seaweed and what smelled suspiciously like feet wrapped in wet bacon.
My companion was wise in the ways of the sushi, and called out the many dishes by name. "That's uramaki, that one is sashimi, donburri, futomaki. . .," she said. "Carpe diem," I said, thinking that meant, "Seize the day" when in fact here it actually means "raw carp."
In the spirit of new experiences, I put things in my mouth that I never imagined I would do of my own free will. I ate octopus, raw fish, seaweed, more raw fish, and followed it all up with even more raw fish. I wiped some wasabi on my tongue to not only displace the taste of wet fish meat but also to sear the negative experience into my psyche to prevent it from ever happening again.
I would've used a fork or spoon to handle the wasabi, except there wasn't any silverware — that, too, is apparently an ignorant convention of us North Americans that would detract from the otherwise wonderful experience of eating fish tartare. Instead, we were to use small sticks that looked like wooden knitting needles to pinch our food with. This would be a splendid plan if it weren't for the fact that spring rolls fall apart when you lift them to your mouth with small sticks, and you can't pick up rice grains with them, either. So you wind up eating disintegrating sushi with your hands with a bunch of overpaid and overdressed cavemen.
I have heard that the best things in life are free, which dovetails nicely with the Lightcap Saw: The worst things in life cost more money than an Air Force toilet seat. After sitting there picking up rice off the table and chugging Chinese beer for two hours and still being hungry, I got the check. I politely called the ninja waitress over again to ask her to convert the ticket from yen to dollars, as there were far too many zeroes on my bill and I had no idea what the conversion rate was that particular day. She smiled patiently and explained that it was already presented in dollars, and that the gratuity was not included. Realizing the ninja stood between me and the door, and that my friend probably wouldn't enjoy a technique that I like to call "dine-n-dash," I reluctantly handed over my credit card, knowing it was about to face substantial damage.
As we left, my companion asked me what I thought. I smiled contentedly and rubbed my belly, saying somewhat obsequiously, "Well, that was something else!" She poked me in the gut, and told me that we could swing by Weinerdawg for an after-dinner chilidog. The best part of that is, the chilidog was actually cooked all the way through, and cost me under two bucks. Who says Americans don't know how to cook good food?
Henry Lightcap cooks his seafood in Las Cruces.