The scale told me I’ve gained two pounds this week. This was not cause for alarm–and not just because I’ve spent years in sensory deprivation tanks and primal scream circles undoing the shame my mother instilled in me about my body. No, in this case, I know that it’s simply because I’ve still got two pounds of sushi in my stomach from last night.
Ok, I know that economy is not the foremost thing one seeks out in a sushi restaurant. Don’t send me links about the dangers of parasites or the benefits of high colonics*, ’cause I know. I know. I am a glutton for punishment, mostly because it gives me something to complain about.
But how can you not view “All-You-Can-Eat-Sushi for $12″ as a challenge? That’s cheap–almost too cheap.
This was one weird-ass sushi joint. I picked it because it had been in the neighborhood for over a year and I hadn’t been in. There were over 200 rolls to choose from. And the sushi chefs were in an undisclosed location in the restaurant–all the plates were delivered via high-tech dumbwaiter, which gave me visions of undocumented workers chained to the walls in the basement and made me seriously consider the provenance of the fish.
There were some strange rolls indeed. My world went wobbly when I saw something called “Ham Roll,” but I wasn’t sure I could force myself to eat it completely and I wasn’t about to pay the penalty fee for NOT eating it (What are you in for? Ham roll penalty.), so I stuck to standard fare. Things with tuna, avocado, salmon, eel. Gustatory meekness encased in nori.
Our waitress was completely flummoxed by this concept of “serving.” She was really in the weeds, to use the food service parlance. As a result, I watched my tray of sushi sit at the wait station for 10 minutes before she brought it over to me. That displeased me greatly, though all in all, the sushi wasn’t bad. I’m glad I had the forethought to order more than even I guessed would be possible to consume, because clearly the waitress was never coming back to the table.
This morning I felt a fertile heaviness in my belly. I tried to envision a CHUD-like eel-tuna-salmon chimera gestating in there, the product of my wastrel consumption the night before. Kind of like the way flushing used condoms down the toilet breeds mutant alligator men in the sewers.
*I neglected to add this: I have fantasies of going to Spa Samui but K’s idea of a vacation doesn’t involve fasting and shitting into a strainer. His loss.
Stroke me.
