KARMAKAZE SUSHI, or IF YOU KNEW SUSHI LIKE I KNOW SUSHI

Susan Lumiere

   I seem to attract bizarre incidents and have strange karma involving sushi. My parents and I never ate it during the two years we lived in Tokyo—we did eat sukiyaki, tempura, yakitori, and miso soup. We also sprinkled tons of aji-no-moto, smoke-flavored monosodium glutamate—the notoriously toxic MSG—on our food and survived.(What is Chicken Teriyaki? The name of the only surviving kamikaze pilot of WWII.)

    Where does sushi come from? Japan, right? Nope. That’s what I thought until I read that it originated in China in the 2nd century BCE, 2000 years before refrigeration. It was a dish called “narezushi,” fermented rice and heavily salted raw fish, and lasted longer than unsalted fish. The rice wasn’t eaten and was used simply as a red snapper wrapper to preserve the contents. At the end of this story, you’ll get to read about a hilarious incident that happened when I dared to try throwing MY rice away.

      In the 8th century CE sushi finally swam over from China to Japan. It was a lot plainer than the gourmet dynamite rolls and fancy seaweed (nori) cones with wasabi and gari (ginger) that we enjoy today. Modern chefs constantly come up with innovative and unusual combinations.

     Sushi and sashimi were slightly popular in the West after WWII, when Japan re- opened for international trade, tourism, and business; but they didn’t become wildly popular until the late 1960’s. Kawafuku, a restaurant in Los Angeles, is credited with being the first to introduce sushi to America. Raw, raw, raw. Little Tokyo, you rock.

     Some diners are hesitant to try raw fish. That’s one reason the ubiquitous California roll was created—a combo of cooked crabmeat, rice, dried seaweed, cucumber, and avocado. Even though sushi restaurants have proliferated and spread all across the US, one in three Americans are too squeamish to eat fish that is uncooked.

     One potentially lethal fish served raw is fugu. It’s a type of pufferfish or porcupinefish. Because of the high toxicity, a Japanese chef must train for three or more years before serving it, learning to carefully remove the deadly sections. The liver is considered the most delicious part, but it is also the most poisonous. 

      Did you  know that “nyotaimori” and “nantaimori” refer to the practice of eating sushi from a naked woman’s or man’s body, respectively?  I love sushi, but that is more unappealing to me than eau de sardine. (Eww de sardine) Imagine an all-you-can eat sushi bar featuring a naked Sumo wrestler as the fatter platter.  Did Fred Astaire and “Ginger” Rogers know about this?

Nyotaimori is not exactly what author William Burroughs had in mind in 1959 when his book, The Naked Lunch, came out. The work is a collection of autobiographical vignettes describing Burroughs’ travels and addiction to heroin, morphine, hashish, and oxycodone. Fellow beatnik, Jack Kerouac, inspired the title, which means “a frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork.”(or chopstick?) That’s a bit too cryptically surreal for me. Ker-o-whack must have been on crack or hallucinating on LSD when he came up with that.

      In the article I read, mention was made of French artist Edouard Manet’s painting, “Le Dejeuner sur l’herbe,”

“The Luncheon on the Grass,” as a possible inspiration for the title. Manet’s masterpiece shocked the Parisian art connoisseurs of 1863. The men at the picnic were formally dressed, but the two ladies were in the buff. Had the men been undressed, as well, it would have somehow seemed less scandalous. Either way, the hors d’oeuvres and petit fours were on the picnic blanket, and it was not “Luncheon on the Ass.”

      Now come four strange personal encounters I’ve had with sushi. I’m hoping you’re relieved and not disappointed that none of them involves nyotaimori. I know I am. Believe it or not, I’ve been mistaken for a Japanese person three times in my life; and it has nothing to do with my diet or my tempura-ment, even though we are what we eat. I’ve saved the best for last.

    I was a vegetarian for nine years and missed out on the sushi craze; but when I switched back to an omnivorous diet, I fell in love with spicy tuna rolls and uni (sea urchin) with shiso leaf and made up for lost time, leading to close encounters of the weird kind.

    Once in North Hollywood

I was about to gulp down a succulent raw oyster when, to my horror, I discovered not a black pearl but a black worm crawling on the inside of the shell. The poor worm had far more to fear from me than the reverse, but I wasn’t having any of it. When I told the manager, he and the chef just laughed at me, the silly American. Due to cultural differences, no apology or mention of a free meal was made. I was so appalled that I forgot to look at my check to see if I had been charged extra for the worm! The oyster remained as silent as a clam.

     The next incident happened near Leisure World, the retirement community in Seal Beach. I was walking with some lovely senior friends. One of them had a bad hip. She thought that the five of us could cut through an upscale Japanese restaurant to save her from walking too far. As we paraded through the empty dining room, the manager became so enraged that she screamed and socked me as hard as she could on the shoulder. That’s when I noticed a dish called “Sakitumi” on the menu.

     Now it gets better. At a Korean-owned Japanese restaurant called Rickshaw, my cousin and our boyfriends ordered dinner. As I bit into an oyster, I promptly spat it out. I’d never tasted a rotten oyster before; but it’s unforgettable, aside from being dangerous I immediately ran to the restroom to rinse out my mouth. I saw the owner in there and wisely, as it turned out, decided not to confront her in that enclosed setting. When I returned to my table, I discreetly informed her that five of the oysters were fine but that the sixth was rotten. She came barreling toward me with a wild look in her eyes and started shrieking that I was lying and trying to get out of paying my bill.  According to her, the “proof” of my mendacity was that had I truly eaten a rotten oyster, I would have immediately been sick and in need of “amboolance.”

I had tried to approach her quietly, so as not to create a ruckus in front of the other customers. Then her equally irate husband joined the fray, shook his fist at me and swore in Korean. Wacko Wife fixed me with a fearsome glare and shrieked, “YOO, get outta my lestolan.” Then she kind of came out of her trance and noticed that there were three other customers at my table. One by one, she gazed evilly at my cousin and our dates and screamed! “And YOO, get outta my lestolan.” My boyfriend had a hair-trigger temper, and I was so glad that he didn’t punch the paroxysmed pair or hurl hamachi (yellowtail) at their faces. The four of us couldn’t stop laughing. As we stumbled out toward the exit, a drunk at the bar leered at us and shouted, “Fugu.” Actually, it was the English language version of that curse, but just as venomous

    As the parting salvo, Mr. and Mrs. Psycho-tsunami swiftly rushed toward us and manually shoved us out the door into the parking lot. No customers or sushi rolls were harmed during the making of this story. It was actually worth all of the commotion, rancid oyster and all, to experience such a funny incident. The menacing duo was lucky that we hadn’t ordered “Sue-me” salad.

     Here’s the last story. It’s a doozy.  One of my favorite sushi establishments was a poorly-lit, buffet-style place in Santa Monica called, ironically enough, Todai (Lighthouse)— it was todai for—or from. Since it was an all-you-can-eat-for-one-price outfit, signs were posted warning diners that they must finish their rice. I didn’t blame the owners. Ravenous sushiholics could have bankrupted the business had they eaten only the expensive fish without filling up on the cheap rice. 

    As I made my way back to my table with a heavily laden plate, I noticed a burly, brooding, stone-faced woman stationed near my chair.  She had been assigned to observe me and make sure that I ate all of my rice. There was no way I could have drop-kicked it under the chair without detection by the monitor lounge lizard. In an understandable breach of etiquette, I failed to invite Godzilla to sit and share my table. She glowered malevolently at me and only me for the entire time I was seated. Undaunted, I scarfed down impressive quantities of glistening grunions. After eating my fill, I had four small, rectangular prisms of rice left on my plate. The rice Nazi scowled at me and barked, “YOO did’n eat yo’ lice!” I felt no guilt. I wasn’t even planning to go back for seconds, so how could eating the leftover rice have prevented the restaurant from going out of business? I looked at her and said, “Tell you what. I’ll take these nuggets with me and promise to eat them as soon as I get home.” I was being sassy and knew she hadn’t understood a word I had said, even before she repeated her mantra, “YOO did’n eat yo’ lice!” I wish I could have witnessed the staff training session that must have taken place at Todai before my arrival. Again, cultural differences must have made it okay to treat a patron as a criminal or enemy agent instead of as a welcome guest. 

    Finally, I lisked getting up from the table, lice uneaten, and made my way to the lestloom. Somehow, there was no lock on the door in the bathroom stall. Looking back, I think this must have been deliberate. You’ll see why in a minute.

     As I sat on the commode, the wooden door slammed open and banged against my knees; and there stood my nemesis, the commode-o dragon. (Appropriately enough, the word nemesis is described as “the inescapable agent of someone’s downfall.”)

More than the door was unhinged. As I stared at the intruder incredulously, she bellowed, “YOO did'n pay yo’ bill!” There is no way you can convince me that this termagant wasn’t a holdover from the WWII Yamashita POW camp in Japan. I knew I’d hear no “Gomen-nasai” (I’m sorry) or “Warui warui” (My bad.)

Another way of apologizing is “Yurashite.” Hmmm, I can see myself muttering that to the scourge, but my pronunciation would be the opposite of an apology.

    And now, after all that, this fish tale has come to an end. It’s time to say Arigato and Sayonara. 🌸🇯🇵