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  • The name of this place had intrigued me every time I drove by until one drizzling, dismal evening months ago. While waiting for a phone call from a lovely young lady I suspected was standing me up, I stumbled through the door overcome by hunger and dead set upon realizing the exotic, lusty and modern experience the name and sign promised. Immediately crestfallen upon seeing the decor, I draped my wet coat and hat around one of the classroom chairs festooning the cramped sushi bar. Neither the itamae nor any customers were in evidence. A young woman, American, came from the back and in an unplaceable NPR accent asked me which menus I'd like. Clearly lonely and at the end of a long shift, we spoke pleasantly while a proliferation of drinks was paraded before me. The water tasted .. odd. Smelling of a mop-bucket after cleaning a gym floor. Tea next, in the saddest, stalest teabag I have ever seen, pitifully leaking its essence into the mop water. Okay, something bottled and stronger? Alas, the sake was lukewarm and unremarkable. Somewhere amidst the drinks buffet I'd ordered several courses of food, which came out apologetically, ordered as though the unseen and unheard chef was battling eddies in the space-time continuum. Entree immediately, then sushi, soup, then, finally, a wilted, miserable salad. The rice was dry, the (chicken?) bland, the vegetables wilted. The soup was the mopwater, but warmer, and salted. Presumably someone had come in advance of me, ordered the entire restaurant's supply of 'interesting', 'delicious', and 'tolerable', then with an evil cackle absconded with his culinary trophies. My waitress apologized about the order, looking contrite but not surprised. The shining light of that evening-apart from the cordiality of the young lady who kept me company amidst the dust, faded posters, and ancient paneling-was the 'fire island roll'. This single element of color, flavor, and spice rescued the night from the Raymond Chandler direction it was taking. I got my phone call, paid my tab, and left, frighteningly sober and still hungry, my head (and stomach) full of naught but unfulfilled promises. [ed: it's entirely possible the experience above has been colored in some fashion by the passage of time, and too many detective movies.]
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