HomeLeave 2012 part I
With complete disregard for chronology, I would like to say sushi. Hama Sushi. In Little Tokyo, L.A.* Recommended by the waitress in the local micro brewery, it was a nice spot with two little old men ~and one junior of middlin’ age who was kept hopping~ working the bar. It. Was. Good. And the final tab was surprisingly manageable, less than a Ragna Adventure Dinner.
There is something very intimate in sitting at a sushi bar, asking the chef for a hand roll, seeing him shape and roll it and pass it over, from his hand into yours, then consuming it in the same motion, the last movement of a dance begun by the chef, with the nori and the rice.
Watching him inspect each piece of fish, both sides, with such care before laying it gently on its solid little bed, moved me strangely. It was an act of respect for both the fish as sacrifice and myself as recipient, and my tender respectavore heart was satisfied.
Even the cut rolls were given pains-taking attention; I saw him checking both sides of each piece to be certain the most attractive would be facing me. Every bite is formed by hand, inspected, and set before the customer as a work of art.
This is sushi; rice, respect, respite from fast mass food product. It’s not just raw fish.
*A sign on the wall requests no photos nor cell phone usage in Hama, so I took no photos. Go see for yourself: 347 E 2nd St