Life is a Gift: Eat Up!
You never really know for sure what you have until it is gone. My friend Paul and I have a terrible weakness for sushi. Of all places to find fresh, expertly-prepared sushi, Indiana should not readily spring to mind...and yet...
We live in a college town which manages to support three sushi bars, but only one truly satisfied us. We really couldn't afford the place, but once in a while we decided to indulge.
The
manager had a large, purple birthmark on his forehead. It crept over his
left eye under his thick, black-framed eyeglasses. He and Paul would chat
about the stock market, and I would turn my attention to the chefs behind
the long glass cases. One day I noticed someone new at work behind the
sushi bar. His name was Eddie and he had just arrived from New York to
help out indefinitely. I knew preparing sushi and sashimi was an art form
of sorts, but not until I met Eddie did I truly understand.
The other sushi chefs had always done an adequate job — our California rolls were carefully formed, the nigiri style fingers of salmon and tuna neatly banded with deep green seaweed. But Eddie worked with a quiet intensity that I relished. He concentrated on every detail. Even the wasabi did not escape his attention. He carefully formed each bit of the spicy horseradish paste into the shape of a leaf — the surface of which he finished by drawing a few tiny veins with the tip of his knife.
Not long after we met him, he began to talk with Paul and me about his craft. He started making sushi when he was very young; it was something he always enjoyed. He shared some of the basics with us: the knife used to cut the rolls of fish and rice should be wet at all times and it is important not to cut against the grain of the rice, for instance. One day he asked us if we would like something special. Of course we would. It was the day Eddie made us our first green dragon.
I nearly cried when I saw it. The green dragon had salmon roe eyes, great, protruding whiskers, elaborate scales made out of thinly shaved avocado, and a neck band of seaweed. His segments were arranged so that he snaked around two exotic sauces in tiny, silver cups. He was beautiful, and he was delicious. We ate him slowly and respectfully — the way one should eat any dragon.
Eddie photographed the green dragon and the next time we visited him at the sushi bar, the photo — enlarged and laminated — was affixed to the restaurant window. We felt strangely flattered...
And there were other creations! Special dipping sauces, rolls made with fish skins, cucumbers turned into birds of paradise, even an arrangement he called the dreamboat. I wondered if he did this for everyone or just for us. And I asked myself, what would it be like to be his girlfriend and enjoy culinary pleasures reserved just for me?
It got to the point that we were going to the sushi bar a couple times every week, each of us spending upwards of $120 a month. There's only one thing that I'm very sorry for, and it has nothing to do with the money. Paul, pagan that he is, wanted to have sushi and see a matinee in the same afternoon. I thought this was crazy; we would never have time to eat and make the movie that he hoped to see, but he wanted to try. We told Eddie about our plan, that we just wanted a quick fix. He whipped up some California rolls and a few other morsels, we devoured them and were gone in about ten minutes time. I thought he looked disappointed that day, but I can't be sure. I told Paul we shouldn't have considered his art just a snack to inhale, but Paul thought I was being silly. It was, after all, a restaurant, he said.
A few months later Eddie left for good. He was going to Philadelphia to marry the girl he loved. The green dragon photo was taken down from the window since no one was able to make them like Eddie. We knew we were awfully lucky to have met him. You never really know what you have until it is gone. Appreciate what you have. Soon it may decide to move to Philadelphia.
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