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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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The Demon Who Feeds on Raw Fish
So I'll bet you're curious as to how the Demon who Wrangles the Other Demons spent her New Year's Eve. Well, let me tell you, it was quite a mellow evening chez Sublingua. Max and I decided to go out for a divine sushi dinner, and, not having made a reservation, were led only grudgingly to the sushi bar by some teenaged hostess in a cheap black evening gown and red plastic lei around her neck. In the short walk over to the sushi bar itself, we were admonished several times that at least one of us would have to order from the sushi bar if we sat at the sushi bar. And I'm too old to take offense at (or even take seriously) teenaged hostesses who think and act as though the job of seating restaurant patrons is equal in stress level and prestige to that of air traffic controller, so Max and I just waited patiently and then allowed ourselves to be benevolently led over to the sushi bar (which, except for one other couple, was completely empty). And wasn't I glad we came? Because I sat down, took one look at our sushi chef, and fell completely in crush. He was American, about 26 or so, with longish dark brown hair (pulled back into a ponytail) and dark brown eyes. He looked a bit like one of my younger brothers Little M, but he had some of the most beautiful hands I have ever seen on a man (which I noticed right off because after he greeted us, he handed a sushi menu and pencil over the bar to me). From that point on, it was a day's work to keep my eyes off him for long enough to order from the sushi menu, or hold up my end of the conversation with Max, or keep from spilling food all down the front of my shirt. Max ordered tea and I ordered sake. The waitress brought us miso soup and the chef handed us some edamame. I couldn't decide between a chirashi dinner and a random assortment of nigiri sushi, so I asked the chef about the chirashi. We talked a bit about it and I decided to have nigiri sushi, but then couldn't decide on what to order. Finally, Max took the sushi menu away and ordered for me: unagi, ika, an exquisite blue fin toro, and a beautiful flying fish roe (tobiko?) sushi that, when it came, looked like clusters of tiny champagne grapes (even Max, a long-time vegetarian, couldn't resist them and put one or two of the tiny eggs--each egg no more than a millimeter across--in his mouth to taste them). I finished these, noticed the chef was not currently busy making someone's order, and asked if he got a break. He almost smiled and said, "No break." I said, "Then can I offer you some sake or a beer?" He said, "Small Kirin." I didn't hear, so he said again, "Small Kirin." I repeated it, and then began looking around for the waitress, who was nowhere to be found. Another of the sushi chefs (a Japanese man who wore a nametag that read "TUI" and a hat that made him look a bit like a stand-in for Curley from the Three Stooges), noticing what was going on, called for a waitress, who came over immediately. I ordered a small Kirin for the chef, and she kept asking, "For the chef? For the sushi chef?" We got it worked out, much to the amusement of the chef himself and the other chefs behind the counter. When his beer arrived, on a tray, with a glass, he took the beer, rejected the glass, poured some into his own teacup and toasted us. "Kanpai," he said, "Happy New Year." We replied, "Happy New Year," and touched cups, his teacup filled with beer, Max's teacup filled with tea, and my tiny white cup filled with the last of the sake. I ordered more sushi then, some aji (a Spanish mackerel from Japan), and asked the chef when he handed it over the bar to me, "How does this compare to the saba?" He replied that the aji was more natural, the saba, being marinated, was more "powerful." I said, "Powerful? I'd like to compare them. Can I have the saba also?" He prepared and handed over the saba, looking into my eyes as I took the plate from him over the bar. He had, as I said, dark brown eyes, but he didn't hold my gaze long enough to tell anything about him from them. He went back to his work then, focusing intently on making sushi for other orders. I talked with Max for a bit while trying to keep from looking at the chef. I began watching the other, most senior chef at the bar. He worked quietly and elegantly. At one point, he leaned over to speak with my chef, and as I studied his face, he lifted his eyes without lifting his head and looked directly into my eyes. His eyes were black, gentle but knowing, and gave me the feeling that I was looking into the eyes of a kind of independent and powerful animal. I smiled and looked away, returning my gaze to his face as soon as he dropped his eyes to his work. Again, as soon as I looked at him, he raised his eyes to mine. I held his look for a moment, smiled again and looked away. Max got up from the bar to go to the bathroom and my sushi chef came over, asked, "Would you like more sushi?" I said, "I don't know. What's your favorite?" He considered for a moment, then replied, "Uni." I love uni, it's one of my favorites, and I said so, adding, "I'll have uni." He made the uni quickly, in a way that I've never had it, with a slice of avacado rolled inbetween the rice and the seaweed. He passed it over the bar, again looking into my eyes. He indicated the slice of lime he had placed on the side, saying, "Squeeze the lime over it." I said, "I've never had it with avacado. Is that unusual?" He made a small gesture, somewhere between a shake of the head and a shrug, and went back to his work. I squeezed the lime over the uni and ate it. It was wonderful with the citrus and the avacado, which added another layer of silkiness to the already silky uni. I truly enjoyed every bite of it. My chef came back in a bit, asked if I wanted more sushi (at this point, he had recognized that Max was not eating raw fish, had finished his oshinko roll and eaten most of a vegetable hand roll but had ordered no more). I was finished, felt as though I were about to burst, so I said, "No. Thank you." He called over the waitress to add up our bill, and while she was away, cut an orange in half, cut the flesh away from the peel and divided it into sections and placed it back into the peel, and placing each half into a bowl, handed them over to Max and me. We ate them, thanked the sushi chef and stood up to leave. I wished him a happy New Year again as we left, wanting to find out his name but not wanting to ask, and somehow was glad that I didn't. I woke up this morning, the first thought of the New Year in my head the beautiful possibility of this divine and reserved sushi chef. It was a reminder, a much needed and much appreciated reminder, that things will not always stay the way they are, that what has been painfully occupying my heart for the last ten months will not always painfully occupy my heart, that there is the possibility that something else will enter my life, and that that thing will be infinitely more satisfying. So I'm always thanking the universe for beautiful boys it seems. But this time? This time, I really mean it.
More lies:
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