The Great Sushi Debacle

Okay, as an Anglo-American in Japan, it is impossible to blend in as one can in say, France or Germany.  I have, however, I feel, managed not to be the "ugly American" and invite any kind of disdain from the Japanese.  Until tonight.

I had been in Japan for more than two weeks and had not had proper sushi.  I love sushi.  But because I don't know what the word looks like in Kanji I usually don't know which restaurants are serving it.  When I do ascertain sushi is indeed on the menu, the restaurants often appear rather intimidating and formal (i.e. expensive).  The casual and hip conveyor-belt sushi like one finds in Tokyo is not as prevalent in Kyoto.

So after another long day exploring Kyoto I decided to stop somewhere to grab a drink and a bite to eat.  I wandered down a side street near Kawaramachi Dori.  I spotted a sushi joint - not touristy, but not locals-only either.  Perfect.  It was empty.  I sat down at the counter, perused the picture menu, then ordered a small mixed sushi platter.  I watched the old chef prepare my meal with great precision and skill.  He placed it before me.  I was about to pour the soy sauce in the oddly shaped chopstick holder when the old man stopped me, gesturing to a slightly larger dish.  It would only get worse from here.

I took the first piece with my chopsticks, dipped it in the soy sauce and, because it was too large for my mouth, attempted to bite it.  We (my non-Japanese readers) have all been there.  You've got the piece of sushi grasped firmly in your chopsticks; you size it up; you know it is too big to be eaten in a single bite; you try to bite it; it falls apart.  So I've got half of it in my mouth, the other half, the bit still in the chopsticks, has succumbed to the force of gravity.  I make a vain, awkward attempt to both keep it from falling and to get it into my mouth.  It ends up in the bowl of soy sauce and splashes on my white shirt.  Now I've eaten sushi before, many times, but I know what the old man is thinking, "Fucking amateur.  Ugly American destroying my art".  I can see it in his face.

I take the second piece thinking, well that won't happen again, I'm a cultured American, I know how to eat sushi.  It happens again.  I'm bright red now, I know.  I can see the disdain in the old chef's face.  A polite scowl has come across his face and his arms are folded indignantly.  He takes the remaining pieces of sushi one by one from the platter and cuts them in half with his very long knife.  I am mortified.  I have been reduced to a Japanese child.

I can no longer enjoy the meal; all I can think of is getting the rest of the sushi down as quickly as possible and getting the hell out of there.  I manage to tell the old man in Japanese, "That was delicious."  I pay, and bolt for the door.