======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
Sushi is a meal that I consider a treat. I enjoy it immensely. It’s because I enjoy it so much that I try to make it a meal that I only eat every so often. Once or twice a month on a Friday I’ll try and get a reservation at a sushi restaurant that I haven’t been to in the Chicagoland area and ball out. It’s fun for me and it’s a great alternative to spending a money on drinks at the bar.
I’ll start with a spicy miso and then move on to some sashimi. I’ll get a couple of different rolls and try something that the chef or server is recommending and hopefully glug down some saki.
I’ll dab all of it with a little bit of wasabi and dip that shit in soy sauce. I’ll continuously point at the food with my chopsticks while simultaneously nodding/chewing and say stuff like “this is incredible” and “this meal is second only to sex.”
Like I said, I enjoy sushi. But when I leave that sushi restaurant, wherever it may be and after the final roll has been eaten and the last drop of spicy miso soup has been slurped, after the edamame is nothing more than empty skin pods in a bowl and the sake bottle is bone dry, I always find myself wanting more. My lust for and hunger for sushi is insatiable. No matter how much I consume in a sitting, there is always room in my stomach for more.
Just last Friday I found myself inside of a Taco Bell ordering a crunchwrap and a few D-loco tacos. I wasn’t even drunk at the time. I had a few glasses of Pinot Grigio and a shot or two or sake so I was on my way to drunk but I certainly wasn’t there yet.
The time read 10:30 p.m., and I had just shared five or six rolls with three other people. The Taco Bell employees looked at me quizzically – no one of sane mind enters the TB Cantina in my neck of the woods before 1:30 a.m. and I had just strolled in there rabid as a werewolf on Halloween night. And this is normal for me after eating sushi. I usually get myself a second dinner after eating it because it doesn’t fill me up like a cheeseburger or chicken shawarma would.
I will say that I don’t like any of the fried food that sushi restaurants have to offer and maybe that’s part of my problem. I also feel like it’s “Americanizing” sushi and that’s not a good thing. I hate any roll that has cream cheese in it or is deep fried in any way – I prefer the traditional fare that Japanese restaurants have to offer. Sashimi is the gift that just keeps on giving. I’d mainline sashimi with a rusty, used needle found in Central Park if I could. That shit is delicious.
Perhaps this is a commentary not on my stomach more so the American public. Because I don’t think is a “me” problem. I think I am just a part of the stupid, fat, American stereotype when we’re discussing food because I never learned how to stop eating. We were raised on massive portions, unlike in Europe where people eat smaller sizes and, in general, are of better health than their American brethren. This is cliche, and it’s been a relatable meme for sorority girls all over the country, so trust me when I say that I hate saying this – but I don’t stop eating when I feel full. I stop when it begins to hurt. I’m in good shape and I don’t think I have weight problem, but I don’t eat to live. I live to eat.
So maybe the solution is just order more sushi? I already feel like I’m overdoing when I’m in a restaurant and I wolf down two or three rolls by myself. Or maybe I just continue down this path of two dinners when I decide it’s a sushi night in Chicago. Maybe sushi was always meant to be the warm up for a larger, more stomach sustaining meal. Or maybe I’m just a gluttonous American who doesn’t know his limits. I’m betting it’s the latter..
Image via Unsplash