-George Carlin
Mental note: never trust sushi made by a t-shirt-wearing half-Asian in a dirty little hole-in-the-wall, served by a smilin’, Southern-drawlin’ Junior with her nose-pierced. Or so says my not-so-happy stomach.
I suppose I should have seen this coming as soon as I walked into the wind-chime-laden door, unimportant college football games being blasted on the over-hanging TV from the late eighties, almost all the booths and rickety tables empty of human occupants. But I stayed, two high school friends acting as moral support, calmly playing with my oddly-misshapen chopsticks as I waited for the Northgate platter and a bowl of Miso soup to arrive.
When I was little (read: fifteen-years-old), I went through a period of time where I entertained the thought that it would be mildly amusing (I am refraining from using the word “fun”) to become a food critic when I was older. Eating new and strange and, most importantly, expensive foods on a failing newspaper’s dime was my early teenage idea of a lucrative career. But then I remembered that I hated new and strange foods. The food critic dream died by the time Ratatouille finished its movie theater run.
How I started to eat sushi is anyone’s guess. I could bring reference to Pokémon Stadium’s Lickitung Sushi Eating Mini-Game but that would be two pop culture references in less than three sentences, so I wont. But, in any case, I love sushi, somehow.
Just not this kind.
No comments:
Post a Comment