The Location: The sushi bar at Whole Foods Market
The Date: I don’t know…some time earlier this week
The Time: Lunch-ish
The Ambiance: Crowded, bustling
The Menu: All manner of Pacific Rim splendor
The Goat: Me
So I ambled up to one of the few remaining seats encircling the two Japanese sushi chefs, who were busy going about the business of not cooking fish. It’s a place I’ve been before, and while not a “regular” (possibly as an irregular), I thought I was at least recognized by the guys in the tall white hats.
It turns out that the direct eye contact, knowing nods and broad smiles I received upon arrival weren’t signs of recognition…they’re just pretty much par for the course when you don’t speak a word of English. O.K. Duly noted.
As one of the chefs made his way over to deliver what appeared to be some sort of orange-encrusted orange to the business-suited businessman on my left, he again made eye contact with me…even hesitating as if to take my order. Since someone had told me that the shrimp was really good, I decided to try it. “Ebi,” I said smiling. “Yes,” came his quick reply, the autopilot of all answers in an ethnic restaurant setting of any type, delivered through a smile so broad that I inexplicably developed an instant distrust in him. Could have been the way he wielded that Ginsu knife like an apron-clad ninja, but I really think it was the forced, false pleasantries that planted the seed.
But I refused to fall into the trap of sushi profiling. Although it warranted me watching him just to make sure he didn’t inexplicably spit in my food.
As I watched, it didn’t take long to realize that he was getting my order wrong. There was no shrimp on his cutting board. Instead, he was roughing up some manner of long black eel as he spoke in a hushed foreign tongue with his co-worker. The faux smile now gone from his lips, I was no longer concerned with him spitting in my food. That would have been much preferred to the prospect of having to choke down what amounted to a raw, wet snake.
Once prepared, I was relieved to see that the sea serpent wasn’t meant for me after all. It went to a woman who either had an iron constitution or simply didn’t know her way around a sushi menu enough to not order the one thing that, when placed in front of you, was guaranteed to cost you your appetite.
As the chef made his way back toward his station, I made eye contact again. He smiled again. I said, “Ebi” again. He said, “Yes” again. Only to begin preparing a California Roll. Most definitely not shrimp. Again.
This time, the dish was given to a woman who I know had arrived at the counter after I had. I know because I noticed her when she burst onto the sushi bar lunch scene -- her tennis outfit impeccably pressed, destined to see no action that day, if ever, and she was engaged in an animated cell phone conversation with someone who obviously shared her love of not playing tennis.
Alright, this was ridiculous. I demanded satisfaction. I partially stood, partially leaned over the counter, to make my point to the man intent on ignoring me. This time there was no smile from me as he once again passed, looking up. “Ebi,” I barked. And oh, there was that smile again. That smug little grin that said, “I’m in charge here dipshit, and I’ll get you your precious shrimp when I’m damn good and ready.” Though through sparkling white teeth what actually came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”
That’s when I saw it. The brief flash of his nametag that I’d to this point paid no attention. It read, “Ibi.”
He nodded and went back to his station, most certainly utterly confused as to why the guy in the dirty jeans and t-shirt insisted on greeting him incessantly.
I put $2 in the tip jar, ordered a chicken salad sandwich from the deli and returned to my office to eat my lunch in shame.
