Sushi

 

To me, sushi has remained an oddball in my diet. While my enjoyment of fish and rice has remained consistent for the most part, types of fish, the juxtaposition of rice and seaweed, and perhaps the sodium content of the soy sauce have ebbed and flowed according to my personal tastes. 

Perhaps my hayday of sushi enjoyment was prominent during my toddler years. Toddler taste buds, much like their eyes, are what Jerry Spinelli calls “scoopers”; they scoop up everything they see with little to no discrimination. In the case of taste buds, anything a toddler can put in their mouth, they probably will. In my case, that included this jolly cooperation of fish and rice. Some members of my family, who probably thought raw fish was synonymous with death, found this alarming. My grandparents, or so I’m told, looked upon me eating tuna maki and asked my parents incredulously as to what their grandson was eating. In hindsight, I should be so lucky that I was raised on such exotic meals. Had my upbringing been otherwise, I probably would have grown into one of those greenhorns who consider Maruchan instant noodles to be authentic Japanese cuisine. 

But as I grew, my tastebuds graduated, or perhaps regressed, to accommodate certain tastes and textures. Perhaps this is a byproduct of growing up, but it’s an inconvenience for a budding foodie. My toddler palate was more accommodating towards salmon makizushi as well as the Japanese version of shumai, a sort of pork or shrimp filled dumpling. I will fall upon my sword and admit that such things do not interest me as an adult. I haven’t dared to venture near salmon for some time despite mommy’s urging, and gyoza looks more appealing than shumai any day, although they're probably not too different. 

Sushi probably has a more colorful history than any other kind of food in the world; even more than McDonald’s Happy Meals, and that’s saying something. While I won’t give you a complete history lesson of how some people in a country shaped like a torn boot learned to ferment rice and wrap it around fish, I will say how odd it is that what is now considered sushi was reserved for those on the higher end of the pecking order. Fish and rice, for the fancy people? What did everyone else have? Iterations of sushi have also been interesting. Funazushi, for instance, is when fish is left to ferment for months, and is apparently tasty despite the abhorrent odor; and whilst this might be a rumor, certain “sushi recipes” mandated that the fish be covered in the feces of an albatross. I have yet to experience a meal so eccentric, and I’d rather share my experience with this food that some might find mundane, but that I find remarkable. 

Baron Baron is a restaurant that we’ve been frequently visiting whenever we return to NYC. It’s probably one of the few Japanese restaurants I’ve been to that are actually run by Japanese. Others are no doubt Korean or Chinese run businesses that unintentionally monopolize on the cluelessness of your typical overweight American, albeit in a non-malicious manner. The layout of the place is standard (I think). The sushi bar is visible for all customers to see whilst the hot dishes and appetizers are prepared in the kitchen out of sight. Tables with tatami mats are situated closer to the entrance, likely meant to accommodate larger groups, whilst tables with chairs low to the ground run parallel to the bar. My parents sip on miso broth and I try to pour myself an extra large glass of Sapporo while they're distracted, and after burning the shit out of my mouth’s rooftop on some gyoza, it’s sushi time. 

Nigirizushi is the name of the game for ma and pa. Fish of all colors, resting on an altar of rice, are lined on the plate with wasabi and ginger amongst other garnishes. Tuna, Salmon, Yellowtail, and perhaps even octopus if my memory serves. And speaking of serving, here comes my food. It’s the Makizushi I know and love, but embraced in the rice lies the source of my debauchery. The first three rolls are spicy tuna, a burning sensation that creates a wonderful contrast with the rice upon passing the lips. This choice is an admittedly frail attempt to wander beyond my comfort zone, as going from standard tuna maki to spicy tuna is hardly a step in the right direction. The positioning of the rice is hardly something worth celebrating either, but believe it or not, I was very fickle about that as a younger man. Seaweed should always be on the outside according to myself fifteen years ago, forgetting that where the seaweed is hardly matters once it’s in my mouth. Now for the next three rolls, fried chicken and spicy mayo. Yeah, yeah. Roll-eyes time. But it's a spectacle worth noting. Besides, the Japanese treat fried chicken with reverence as much as Americans do if Katsudon is anything to go by. The roll is a texture extravaganza. The softness of the rice, juxtaposed with the crunchiness of the chicken, is a marvel. The hen bits could have been scraped off the bottom of the fryer for all I care, but I love this shit. With dainty chopsticks, I devour in a Sapporo-induced haze. The blend of American ragtime and J-pop provides a chaotic ambiance that is the best kind of backdrop for all this ecstacy. It’s perpetuated even further by the conversations held by friends, partners, and spouses alike, situated in the tables next to us. I will always enjoy this, time and time again, even as my paradigm shifts and my tastebuds freak out once more.