Pretty much the title says it all.
In fact, I have no story for today. I’m just sprawled, thinking about how much I love sushi.
The texture (except for scallops), the taste, the chopsticks, and the speedy preparation. I heart the hand towels, the knives, and the cute little jackets the chefs wear. I even adore the little squares of precut foil, exactly the size necessary to broil two pieces of eel.
I also heart (in no particular order):
- That little bar you sit at with everything arranged perpendicularly, which does not have enough space for American-sized plates.
- Mixing the wasabi and soy sauce together: first making a little non-lumpy paste, then adding sticky brown liquid until it’s nearly the color of poo after a lot of salad.
- Seeing the occasional shrimp try to crawl out of the display case.
- Introducing sushi newbies. Watching their faces as they discover a new love. Or a new disappointment – depending.
- Attempting Japanese greetings. Or – more accurately – discussing whether to attempt Japanese greetings.
- Drinking sake out of the little cups, and remembering that I used to think sake tasted like semen. I spent a long time wondering why guys drank it.
- That I can eat more sushi than anyone else I know. Save one person (who also beats me at the running).
- The fact that my 99% meat-and-potatoes family is kind of digging the raw fish and mini rice bricks.
- Nishino…the best sushi restaurant in Seattle…AND its walkable location from my house.
- The plastic green grass in takeout.
Anyway, the list goes on. And on. And on. (I haven’t even touched tempura…) But I think you get the idea.
Every day another story (except for days I go out to sushi for dinner) -
Sofie
