Our neighborhood
mini-mall has let us down again. The
older daughter had talked about “Japanese” food. Usually, she, the vegetarian is not
interested. I knew this suggestion would
make the younger one very happy. Sure
enough, she came home and unsolicited began asking if we could have sushi somewhere.
I get to go to Japan fairly regularly. As a rule, I just avoid any “Japanese”
restaurants outside of that country because the drop off is so precipitous. There are exceptions. But even in large cities like Beijing, or Los
Angeles, the gap between what locals think is high-tone and what’s common fare
in Japan, is rather broad. This is
particularly true for good sushi with options that extend beyond salmon.
There are perhaps four or five different places within a few
minutes drive that offer “Japanese” fare.
There’s one next to the supermarket that wasn’t very good fifteen years
ago and still isn’t. There’s another joint, not far that is also middling. Then there’s that new one at the Euro mall,
that always spills kimono-clad staff out on to the wooden path, presumably off
to steal their smoke breaks.
My older one gets to choose and she chooses a restaurant
that none of us have been too before, tucked back behind Starbucks. Walking over from the parking lot there is
noxious smell of open sewage. Someone
must have struck a pipe. This ominous
opening clouds the evening and soon we are told by the place she picked that
the wait time would be over an hour.
Odd. Perhaps it actually is
good. We head to the “other” place
across the plaza, that none of us have been to in a year or so. Dish after dish is middling and quickly we
all agree that we will never return.
Friday, 03/10/17
Friday, 03/10/17
No comments:
Post a Comment