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May. 30th, 2004 08:32 pmSpecial thank you to photog friend Jamin for the new portrait in my LJ icon. :-)
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I went to a fun Chinatown dinner evening in honor of Rachel's birthday last night. Memorably good tempura at Ginza, which is always a favorite of mine.
I could (but will try not to) wax poetical about how very much I wish I liked sushi. Sushi is the most aesthetically appealing food imaginable. It is exquisite to the eye, gently lyrical in it’s arrangement. The complexity of each individual piece ripples outward to a serene simplicity when viewed as part of the plate composition. Sushi is art. I can gaze at it with an appreciation otherwise reserved for fine sculpture or painting.
Putting it in my mouth is another matter. I’ve gamely tried it, oh yes, many times. But it’s one of the few foods that I can’t swallow without gagging. Give me an elegant tray of sushi and I’ll ooh and aah forever over the jewel-like flying fish eggs and the primly perfect roundness of a maki, but at the same time I’ll be wishing it were made of marzipan or something I do like. Sushi is a treat for my eyes only.
There are odd cultural parameters about sushi in America that I don’t see about any other food. A good number of times I’ve been informed regretfully “I could never date you if you don’t like sushi.” No matter that I had neither harbored nor exhibited interest in any of the men who said that (I could never fall in love with a person who would base a relationship on food choices or food in general). But in each case, they felt the need to establish this sushi boundary. Nobody ever does this about, say, peanut butter, or their favorite cereal.
I love almost all other Japanese food. Tempura, shabu-shabu, sukiyaki, and the luscious yaki tori are only a few. The friends last night made no mention whatsoever of my alternative menu choices, which was refreshing. But try going out for Japanese with most sushi-lovers and off-handedly mentioning “I don’t like sushi.” You’ll find yourself on a not-so-slow boat to China, believe me.
*******
I went to a fun Chinatown dinner evening in honor of Rachel's birthday last night. Memorably good tempura at Ginza, which is always a favorite of mine.
I could (but will try not to) wax poetical about how very much I wish I liked sushi. Sushi is the most aesthetically appealing food imaginable. It is exquisite to the eye, gently lyrical in it’s arrangement. The complexity of each individual piece ripples outward to a serene simplicity when viewed as part of the plate composition. Sushi is art. I can gaze at it with an appreciation otherwise reserved for fine sculpture or painting.
Putting it in my mouth is another matter. I’ve gamely tried it, oh yes, many times. But it’s one of the few foods that I can’t swallow without gagging. Give me an elegant tray of sushi and I’ll ooh and aah forever over the jewel-like flying fish eggs and the primly perfect roundness of a maki, but at the same time I’ll be wishing it were made of marzipan or something I do like. Sushi is a treat for my eyes only.
There are odd cultural parameters about sushi in America that I don’t see about any other food. A good number of times I’ve been informed regretfully “I could never date you if you don’t like sushi.” No matter that I had neither harbored nor exhibited interest in any of the men who said that (I could never fall in love with a person who would base a relationship on food choices or food in general). But in each case, they felt the need to establish this sushi boundary. Nobody ever does this about, say, peanut butter, or their favorite cereal.
I love almost all other Japanese food. Tempura, shabu-shabu, sukiyaki, and the luscious yaki tori are only a few. The friends last night made no mention whatsoever of my alternative menu choices, which was refreshing. But try going out for Japanese with most sushi-lovers and off-handedly mentioning “I don’t like sushi.” You’ll find yourself on a not-so-slow boat to China, believe me.