If You Knew Sushi

There's a sushi place near me, one of two or three in a chain, that's run by a guy I probably know. He certainly seems to know me, although you never know if that's really the case or if he's just being really friendly, as the manager of a place like that ought to be. My problem is that I don't remember faces, and I don't remember names. I do remember things I read thirty years ago, sometimes in excruciating detail, so I suppose I should write people's names down on little three-by-five index cards. I hear Bill Clinton did things like that, and look where he wound up.

But it's a Tuesday night, and my wife is downtown having dinner with her boss and my daughter is off at basketball practice, and neither one of them ever wants to go out for sushi. I can always go for sushi. So given the circumstances, what's a guy to do? Go for sushi. It's a good idea, but I seem to have picked one of those nights.

The guy who runs the place greets me at the door and wants to know how I've been. I decide to spare him the grisly details of my eroding health and impending death ("impending" meaning sometime within the next fifty years, although you never know...) and simply tell him "fine." He escorts me to the sushi bar, where it seems to be OK to eat by yourself, and asks me what I want to drink. "Oyster shooter!" says I, because they're actually pretty good even if the innards are somewhat disgusting to the uninitiated. They're out of oysters, so he suggests the scallop shooter, which I accept.

One of the things I like about the sushi bar is the fanfare with which the various dishes arrive. The Sushi Meister who prepares my drink announces "Scallop Shooter!" to the world as he hands my drink over the glass. The drink is filled to the brim -- above the brim, perhaps -- and it's not possible to fully retrieve it without spilling some, but I manage to not spill much. The family to my right seems somewhat impressed, as I hear "mumble mumble Scallop Shooter! mumble" within their conversation. And the scallop shooter is quite good, very scallopy, although I miss my oyster.

The maguro is up next, but it doesn't get quite the same fanfare as the scallop shooter. Not as impressive, I guess. Around this time a woman sits down next to me, perhaps in her early forties, with a young teenage boy. She's also popular on her cell phone, so I get to learn that the young teenage boy is her son when she tells the person on the other end of the phone that "I'm having sushi with my son!" I also learn that the son likes unagi -- or that's what he orders -- and that Mom likes maguro. She seems oddly unaware of many things about her son, so I decide that she's divorced and that her husband got custody. She orders one roll, but the chef makes a disapproving face and she asks him for his recommendation. "Taiko Folsom!" he says.

So Taiko Folsom it is, and I'm still not sure of anything about this lady except that her jeans fit very well and she's finding out an awful lot about her son. Maybe it's just the sushi talking, but I hear him explain that he's more of a barbecued beef guy. She seems delighted to learn this, so I'm happy for them. Some of the more pleasant family outings we've had have been at this particular sushi restaurant. It could be the atmosphere, it could be the fact that most things on the menu are finger foods. Anyway, they seem to be happy, I've enjoyed my sushi, and now the Sushi Meister is offering me (and the lady next to me) a complementary plate of... squid, I believe. Calimari salad. I like the stuff.

I'm just about ready to leave, I've paid the check, when the Sushi Meister announces "Taiko Folsom!" and hands an enormous platter over the backwall. It's a roll with multiple fillings and multiple sauces. It looks like teriyaki and chili sauce and whatever the white sauce is, and it looks pretty good, so I look at the chef, point to the roll, and say "Next time!" The woman looks at the chef, looks at me, and says "Would you like a taste?" I'm not prepared for this, so I try to demur. "Oh, thank you, but I'm stuffed. I couldn't." She's still holding the plate up, offering it to me. "Are you sure? There's no way I can finish this!" I think about it. Now it seems like it would be impolite to turn down such an offer, so I say "Well... Maybe a small piece" and I fish a small piece out of the middle, thanking her profusely. And now that I can see her, it turns out that she's attractive, pretty in a way that some women who need to be attractive for their jobs or for their marital status are, and the offer of a taste takes on a new meaning.

But me, I'm just out for sushi, and I have never ever guessed correctly that someone was flirting with me except for that drunk lady on the plane once, but she was not only obvious about it but insisted that I take her business card just in case I needed to call her up for a date. So I tasted the sushi, and it was good, and that's what I'm having next time. And if you find yourself in Folsom, I highly recommend the scallop shooters and the Taiko Folsom roll. Oh, and bring your son or daughter. You just might discover something.

Who knew?