Uncooked, that is. Sushi. I'm not a fan.
Oh I'll eat it, I don't hate it. I just would rather eat some animal raised on corn, and it it isn't available then any warm protien will do. I'm a big fan of char.
Problem is, out here on the left coast, everyone wants to show you how cultured they are, and since everyone I'm my industry out here is Asian, Indian or Asbergers, I have to eat a lot of Sushi, because they don't haave it here, curry, because there's no Indian food in Indiana (what kind of food is more fucking Indian than corn for chrissake? Did Sacawagea not sell a bag of Fritos to Lewis and Clark? Do these people not know history?) And the Asbergers guys have to show everyone how much smarter their high school guidance counselor thought they were and pretend ti like both. With a diet coke.
Like I said, I don't hate sushi, but I'm not going out of my way to get it. But this week I've had to, and last night I went to my first, honest to goodness, gourmet sushi restaurant. And unfortunately, it was exactly the same experience as if I was out to dinner at Bucko's Sush Bar, Tackle and Tanning Parlor in Buttfuck, Oklahoma.
Crappy beer, cheap, warm saki that tastes like my urine on Monday morning (don't ask), and a quick devolution from "isn't sushi interesting and fun" to "let's see if we can get the round-eye to eat garbage". So after a couple of hours of California rolls, high-carb rice, tuna, salmon and salt, the one guy at the table who knows all the Japanese words for bait turns a nice dinner into the never broadcast, NC-17 rated pilot of "Fear Factor".
You see the glassy stare before you hear the giggle, but you know what's coming when you see him wave the waitress over and he's not looking at the menu. At this point, all the sober people in the party start to beg off, "Not me, sorry. I couldn't possibly eat any more today..."
"Don't be a wuss, they don't have this in Indiana, we need to let maddad try this.. Look, how's the Mitsubishi Fuso?"
"Oh, very good. Yes we ha dot."
"We'll take four... no six. For the table."
"Siiiiix? OOOOO-Kaaaay" At this point the waitress starts looking nervous and several of the more knowledgeable sushi eaters at the table suddenly have to take important phone calls. I, of course, simply look confused.
"What's Mitsubishi Fuso?" I'll ask the guy next to me. He'll answer, "Well, if you've ever had Hitachi, it's a lot like that." And the bait-master will overhear and shout him down, "It's not like Hitachi at all, it's like Sumitomo or Toshiba! Hitachi isn't perch!"
And I'll be relieved, because hey, who doesn't like perch. Then the half Asian guy across the table will perk up, "Hitachi? We ordered that? Not my favorite. I don't like the texture." The guy next to me will say, conspiratorially, "Not Hitachi, we're getting Misubishi Fuso." and the half Asian guy will look sick for a second and ask me why in the hell I ordered that and storm off in a huff.
I'll finally ask the waitress what Mistubishi Fuso is and she'll tell me the truth, that it's the shit gland of the North African White Rhinoceros Perch, an endangered species who's venom has been used for centuries by the Afar tribe of Somali to reduce the size of the tribal elder's scrotal sac during the annual migration. The painful side effects and homicidal mood swings are nothing compared to treading barefoot onto your bag while running from a lion in the middle of the night. Of course, the actual cut of fish tastes exactly the way the homeless guy who is "guarding" my rental car smells, but it's the texture that's really the kicker... I mean, I'll never be an East European gonzo pornstar, but that doesn't mean I can't sympathize.