Boy Meets Sushi

My first experience of trying (and falling in love) with sushi.

I remember the afternoon my godmother brought me to my first sushi restaurant. A day that felt like the thick of summer after a heavily inclined hike in San Francisco. We had arrived, but I wasn’t sure where exactly. We walked down a tight flight of stairs to creak open a metallic door covered in stickers. We continued down to what seemed like a doomsday bunker, I eagerly swept the doorway curtain and my eyes were greeted with a U-shaped bar. A conveyor belt surrounded two chefs with what seemed like an ocean of wooden boats covered with orange, red, and white finely sliced fish on top of rice. This was my introduction to sushi. 

We sat in front of the bar on stools and took in the thick aroma of vinegar and fish on a hot day in a small room. When one of the large boats slowed in front of us, my godmother and I took both hands to pick it up on each side and moor it between us. I was mesmerized by the small details of the sushi, the direction of fat on the thin fish slices, and the bright green paste sitting next to the thin cuts of lazy yellow and wet-looking ginger.

My interest grew in the fluorescent green plastic that imitated grass. My godmother, Mady couldn't help but laugh as she noticed my strange fascination with the cartoon-like grass. She then asked the chef what it was for. The glossy bald man smiled at us and replied, “Preservation of flavor, and the smell won’t fight the next smell”. What a weird concept of smells fighting each other, I thought.

The chef reached out and handed me chopsticks with several rubber bands attached at the top and paper folded in between. Then he motioned the movement necessary for trying to pick up sushi. I was lost on how to proceed with eating, so I waited for my Mady to take the lead and I would imitate. She picked up her chopsticks and poured soy sauce into its tiny bowl. After a few clicks I made with my chopsticks I picked up the red one with what I thought was confidence, the maguro nigiri. I dipped it in the soy sauce and saw the black liquid move upwards, drowning half of the sticky rice. I failed to pick it back up so I tried a second time with success. 

My shoulders relaxed as soon as the nigiri tuna hit my tongue. My eyes closed. The cool tuna, and tang of vinegar from the rice was a step into a realm unknown to me. The salty soy sauce gushed out on the insides of my cheeks and tricked my saliva to keep up with what was happening.

My eyes opened and the chef who handed me the rubber band chopsticks smiled with a nod waiting for me to say something. All I could say was shown with a smile, a sense of joy. Something new had been introduced to my life. Both my godmother and the chef noticed that moment, they seemed happy. As was I.

Tamago-ly yours,

The Greasy Pen