It’s not as hard as it used to be finding sushi here in the midwest anymore. It can be hard finding good sushi. Fortunately I live in a community that contains an Air Force base and a university with programs such as bioengineering that draw a diverse and sophisticated population. It is no longer impossible to find good sushi. The variety may be less than what’s available on either coast or in bigger cities, but someone (like me) with a taste for the Japanese delicacy can find satisfaction, along with sashimi, sunomono, and low-sodium soy sauce.
But it hasn’t always been easy. Here are some fish tales from my journey from doubter to aficionado.
The first time I tried sushi was in one of those social situations where it is simply impossible to refuse. (Not unlike the time I ate egg salad, which I loathe, at my sister’s mother-in-law’s.)
I belonged to a martial arts club, and one weekend we were invited to the sensei’s house to help answer mail and do some other dojo-related paperwork chores. His wife, a lovely Japanese lady, served up a plate of sushi. That she had made by hand. Using seaweed from her family’s farm in Japan. Short of a deathly fish allergy, there is no conceivable way to refuse such an offer. So we all gulped a little and then gulped a little.
I don’t know what everyone else thought, but I found it odd yet somewhat pleasant. I believe I acquitted myself well. And I decided that if the opportunity ever came up again, I would certainly indulge.
That opportunity came on my husband’s and my fifth anniversary. We got dressed up and went to a tony Japanese restaurant about 45 minutes away. (Sushi had not yet penetrated the local market. Now it’s available in the local supermarket.)
We ordered a sushi appetizer and tempura entrees. I informed my husband that under no circumstances was he allowed to ask for a knife and fork. The sushi portion of the meal went swimmingly until Dan noticed the little pile of green paste on his plate and scooped up a healthy mouthful. Of course it was wasabi, and of course the top of his head blew off. A fan of horseradish in all its forms, he still likes the stuff, but now in more judicious quantities. The pickled ginger is much more forgiving.
(Later in the dinner I complimented him on how well he was doing with the chopsticks, despite his lack of practice. He replied, “Honey, I’m a compulsive overeater. I’d eat with my elbows if I had to.”)
Not everyone is enthusiastic about their first encounter with sushi, or compelled by circumstance to try it. But sometimes another person can be convincing and compelling.
I once dined with a husband and wife at a Japanese restaurant, The wife passed on the sushi.
The husband turned to her and said:
“Do you really want me to tell the children that you wouldn’t even try it?”
Bam! Emotional judo for the win. (He would have done it, too.) She had no response possible, aside from the most profound of dirty looks.
I have no problem with people who actually don’t care for sushi – once they’ve tried it. My friend Tom was a case in point. We were dining at an excellent sushi bar and he expressed a desire to give it a try.
It was beautiful sushi. Gloriously dark red tuna reposed on a pillow of sticky rice. Of course when Tom asked to try a piece, I had to say yes. If he was ever going to like sushi, this was the piece he would like (aside from oshinko or other non-raw-fish varieties, of course).
And he didn’t like it. But I was so proud of him for trying. Without even the threat of disappointed kids.
My husband’s coworkers were not so brave. They had a tradition on birthdays of letting the celebrant choose the restaurant. Dan chose a local sushi bar, and had to put up with the disgusted faces and the gagging noises they made as he ate his way through a platter of assorted delights.
Of course, when sushi became trendy a few years later, all the fellows were bragging about how much they loved it. Dan refrained from reminding them that they were raving over what they had once considered – and derided – as bait.
And what of fugu fish, the potentially deadly blowfish that, unless properly prepared, can kill with an insidious neurotoxin? Am I brave enough to try that?
Fortunately, I don’t have to answer. There are, to the best of my knowledge, no properly qualified fugu masters in our area and so no fugu on the menu anywhere around.
But if I ever get into a social situation where eating fugu is the only possible option, I like to think that I would smile, say, “Domo arigatou gozaimasu” and dig in. It might be the last thing I ever did, but I would die politely.