"No, that couldn't be," I said to myself earlier in the year when I noticed that the Bethel Park Pizza Hut had been converted into... an Asian restaurant? That would mean...sushi in Bethel Park???
2 nights ago on dreaded Black Friday, Kay and I were driving along cozy Library Road aimlessly when I suddenly remembered that relatively recent development and charged forward.
Like Bigfoot, Kay didn't believe it existed.
"It used to be a Pizza Hut?" she asked with the tone of a skeptical police officer interrogating a UFO eyewitness.
"Yes! Keep going! It's there! It's there! I know I saw it! I read reviews on Yelp," I replied.
"What's the name again?" she inquired.
"Rice Inn."
"Ricin? Eeeeww. That's a poison!"
"Oh, stop."
"Well, they at least better be open or else...it's a date with The Redhead," Kay coldly promised.
Sure enough at 8PM on a weekend, Rice Inn's doors were unlocked. The interiors are sparse but tasteful with vibrant, upside down glasses housing the light bulbs. Bourdain's new CNN program was running on a flatscreen telly near a sushi bar.
A complimentary serving of Edamame was the precursor to our supper. Salted and bulbous, I'd never had these soybeans served to me in this manner before. At first I ate them whole! That is until I realized that I had better tasting results when I popped open each pod to get at the nutty, wholesome beans within.
I officially began my journey into the inexplicable with a pair of Uni or Sushi with Sea Urchin for the novices among thee. The quivering, ornately presented cylinders of seaweed, rice, and a paste-like roe were bedecked with fanned cucumber. When placed whole in my mouth, what I tasted amidst each opulent morsel's inherently sensual texture were the faint whispers of caviar, foie gras, oyster, and thus...the ocean. This wasn't an appetizer; this was a seduction. The glob of wasabi remained untouched, but the flower of shaved, pickled ginger (I've a soft spot for it) I ate only after I finished the sushi.
6 swelling, humongous fried pork dumplings came next. Abundant with ground meat filling and golden brown on the outside, had I not shared them with Kay, I could have made them my entree. The balls of savory minced pig stayed within each potsticker, which required knife, fork, and at least two bites to consume wholly. In all seriousness, Rice Inn's dumplings are the largest specimen of this perennial Chinese favorite I've ever experienced, and they alone make a trek to the far South Hills worthwhile.
Based solely on its fanciful, poetic name, I chose a main dish that fell under the Thai heading. Dancing Seafood Supreme was composed of jumbo shrimp, sea scallops, crabmeat, tomatoes, onion, peppers, carrot, basil, and "chef's special spicy Thai chili sauce" as stated in the pamphlet I took home. The sauce was only warmly spicy and never overthrew the majesty that was the pleasingly plump and abundant bits of crustacean and mollusk. The tatty and tart tomato pieces were a welcome surprise and fleetingly fooled me into thinking I was eating an Italian stew made with the day's fresh catch.
After barely finishing each of our big-hearted portions, we bade our trusty server Celine along with the rest of the buoyant staff farewell and headed back home without having bought a single damn thing on this damnably consumerist holiday other than a wondrous Asian supper at a family-owned establishment.