Thursday, April 23, 2009
There once was a time when eating Japanese food in this country was an austere, strange, highly foreign experience. Shizo leaves dressed cold sashimi, sake was served warm, and you could find a plethora of seaweed, gnarled mushrooms, and even the occasional yam on the menu. It was a weird affront to our American palates (and portions). To me, this is a good time.
To the rest of America is seems, sake bombs and cream cheese are a good time. When did most Japanese establishments turn into loosely veiled TGI Friday’s? Every time I am convinced to go to sushi, I am struck by the scene of ruckus, tiny- tittied waitresses, yelping sushi chefs, and heaps of mayo. Mayo over muscles. Mayo mixed with cock-sauce, drizzled over a roll. Mayo in potato salad (seriously?). My nimble mouth stretches helplessly to fit in a slice of a California roll the size of my fist… rice is forced out through my lips and piles listlessly on the plate. Chucks of fish and seaweed are gnawed off mid-bite in an attempt to halt my gag reflex. Is this anyway to serve food? And is this anyway to name food: Double Climax, Sexy-Sexy, Blond-Bombshell (see above reference to TGI Friday’s)? At the end of the evening, I am overwhelmed at the staggering amount of food I have managed to pile down and the enormous bill ($20 lunch? Of course!). I’m freakin’ sick of it.