So last night saw us at yet another famed-to-be-the-“best” sushi place, which just happens to be down the road from us. (The irony of moving into a new kitchen is that after spending all afternoon sorting things out, the last thing you feel capable of doing is cooking.) I had heard great things about their cocktails (all tweaked, like Bloody Mary with Wasabi; cosmopolitan with sake and so on), the fact that they serve freshly grated wasabi – straight from Japan, we were told by the owner, whose gimmick is clearly going around to all the tables grating the stuff himself – and, of course, the sushi.
Well the sushi was great, as was the tempura. Until, that is, said owner walked by and noticed my conceit at dipping a piece of tempura into soya sauce rather than theÂ dipping sauce provided on the tempura plate.
“Are you dipping tempura into soya sauce?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
And then in that most irritating of manners, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, whatever, if you like (read: “you stupid moron, what kind of a philistine are you?”)… but the tempura sauce is really better. But it’s up to you (chorus: “you philistine”).”
Apart from the fact that the bill was pretty monstrous for an easy Wednesday-night-let’s-grab-a-bite, that pretty much confirmed that I won’t be going back there, no matter how good the damn sushi is, and no matter that we were given a complimentary teaspoon full of ginger ice-cream to enjoy with our plum wine.
I only wish I had asked him if he had meant to come to work without combing his hair. No biggie, but…