There are a thousand benefits to being in a romantic relationship,the last 900 being the non-obvious, non-sexual ones. Among this number sit some sly spices that season the broth with a sneaky yet welcoming kick.
The enduring unpredictability of such personal revelations are what makes the ride worth the occasional bout of motion sickness. Patrick and I were a good four years into our relationship when he began experimenting with international food beyond what dots the typical American strip mall (Italian, Chinese, Mexican). First was Thai; he quickly converted me (this was long before Hagerstown got its own taste of Thai, in the form of Red Curry) and I to this day remain an advocate for the edibility of tofu. For serious.
Over the past several months, both in Hagerstown and in his home base of Olney, we have paid multiple trips to Japanese restaurants, enthralled by the powerful lure of the teppanyaki. Tonight it was another trip to the Sakura in Olney (not affiliated with the Sakura in Hagerstown). It was a bit after 6, which of course meant the place was packed jelly tight with sundry hungry folk. Our wait was only 15 minutes out of a potential 30, and the time positively flew by as we pondered why the Japanese love kittens so damn much. I was just about to bring up the contradiction of a culture loving both cats and Snoopy to the point of appointing both iconic status when we were called.
Our table was a dozen strong: 3 couples and a party of six that sat across from us. As per usual whenever I am around a large group of people (acquaintances or strangers, it matters not), I felt the strong need for some alcohol. To that end, I ordered a Green Dragon. Patrick had some smooth sake, which came in a blue-gray carafe for one. I actually had gulped down a can of Coors Light before we left the house, just to get a small buzz happening in anticipation of a crowd. As I was later to discover, some people need a bigger one.
Not content with mere soup and salad, Patrick made some selections from the sushi menu: two orders of salmon, two orders of yellowtail. Ah, sushi! One of the three indisputably marvelous things that the Land of the Rising has given America (the other two being Nintendo and Ichiro Suzuki. I don't count Gaki No Tsukai, 'cause they didn't give that to us, we had to rip it away violently and spread the good viral word).
"That's gonna be eight pieces. We'll split that, right?"
"Oh yeah."
And really, I didn't think I had to ask. Whenever 'trick and I share a food which can be equally partitioned--e.g., pizza--we do so. Also, I was paying for the entire meal, so yeah. Gimme mines.
I tasted a salmon then yellowtail; both delicious, the salmon almost too good. Before I knew it, there was only one piece left, the final salmon.
"You can have it," Patrick offered. I gazed at him and saw eyeballs ready to erupt. "If you want it, go ahead." His tone was friendly; I almost believed that he wouldn't have ripped my small intestine out if I dared position my chopsticks over that delectable plop of raw fish and rice. In the end, I conceded. Final sushi count: Patrick--6 Jenn--2.
A period of quiet ensued, broken by Patrick's accusation that I was being inexcusably pouty. I protested and resolved the issue by pointing at the porcelain kitty perched over the sushi bar.
Patrick had shrimp, while I enjoyed shrimp and chicken. My decision not to order steak stemmed from the last two occasions that I had, only to be met with disbelief when I stated my preference to have the meat "well done". I had no clue that this was such an unusual request. As I heard three other people around me request "medium rare" steak for their entrees, my inner sigh of relief was damn near audible.
The red-hatted chef was as showy as expected, with the onion volcano and rolling eggs in full effect. He was not especially verbal, save for some brief conversation with the Cambodian man sitting right next to me.
"Have you ever seen that much rice on a grill? And five eggs!" Patrick was wowed.
Every Japanese meal I've had has been beyond reproach, and so it was again. It was as I looked around to see how many other people besides us were using chopsticks (only one!) that I noticed the woman across the table. One of the party of six, she was between a man who looked about in his 30s and a young boy. To assume, one would say the man was her boyfriend/husband, and the child her son. Perhaps. I could more assuredly state, however, that this woman was out of her freaking gourd on some substance.
The first sign was her embracing of the assumed significant other. It was not the grasp of the outwardly affectionate inasmuch as the lazy hug of the fucked up. When she freed him from her intoxicated grip, her eyes were barely able to remain open and her entire upper body had the slow, overmeasured movements peculiar to the non-sober individual. Patrick and I were undecided on the narcotic to blame, although alcohol seemed the likely culprit. However, she was clearly drinking a soda, so if spirits had flown, they would have preceded her arrival.
"Blehwofejefwfgjlwe".
She spoke! And what a slutty slur it was, flattening consonants like a runaway steamroller and elongating vowels like a medieval torture rack. The only part we could make out was the most telling: "I need six more shots."
What? Bitch, you look like you've had sixteen!
There was no harm done, and nothing exceedingly embarrassing. I did feel bad for the kid next to her when she took her right hand and started stroking his head. Not in a tender way, mind you; rather, it looked like she was running her hand through cement, slowly and with undue pressure. Even the couple next to us asked if we noticed anything funny about her.
There were four birthdays on our side of the restaurant. I think sometimes people be lyin'. One of them was at our table, the drunk's boyfriend/husband. He was not pleasantly surprised. He didn't even want a Polaroid taken to mark the occasion. Come on, man.
Amazingly, we have not yet encountered a drunk person at a Japanese restaurant in Hagerstown. I suspect it is only a matter of time.
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