There is a sushi restaurant in the strip mall across the street from my house. It’s the good kind of sushi restaurant: one that has a sign which reads simply, “sushi”. We’re pretty sure it has another name, but it’s in Japanese and we never remember it. Despite being in a strip mall, it is beautifully furnished, and the people leaving the restaurant are more often dressed up than not.
The owner is also the sushi chef. He is always full of energy, and wears a kimono that looks like something Mr. Miagi would wear in karate kid. The most recent kimono I saw him in was white, with tiny black dragons all over it, and a red collar. He would be a stereotype if he wasn’t so authentic.
This man is the best sushi chef I have ever seen. Watching him with a knife is nothing short of astounding. He creates the most beautiful sushi you could ever imagine; gleaming blood-red pieces of tuna atop tiny perfectly sculpted hills of rice or a pinch of micro greens artfully wrapped with seaweed around an asparagus point. He frequently gives you other dishes besides what you order. The first time we were there and this happened, we were a little alarmed, and told him we didn’t order it. He smiled and said, “I know. But I felt like making it. It’s good. You should try it.” He does this every time we are there. And the best part? He sings while he is making sushi.
We got there late last night. It was about an hour before closing, and we were the only ones in the restaurant. As usual, we got an extra dish — some sort of spicy tofu thing — and lots of wonderful, beautiful food. By far, it was the best birthday dinner imaginable.
I think after we move, I will drive back here, just to go to the sushi restaurant.