As a child of the 1960s, I often wondered what my life would be like in the year 2000. I know I would be 40 for most of that magical year, but, other than that, the possibilities were endless. I, like most kids dreaming of the future, imagined Jetson-like cars soaring overhead, robots and computers serving humanity, wearing suits that would make Ace Frehley jealous, space travel for the masses (with at least one lunar base) and public relations with some alien race. I myself would be a tall man with a well-trimmed beard and flowing dark brown hair.
As of last week, I officially became one year short of the half-century mark. Now, well into the 21st Century, I am a ‘big and tall’ man with flowing grey hair and a beard that reminds anyone over the 7th grade of ‘The Big Lebowski’ and under the 7th grade as Santa Claus. The only thing soaring over my head are gas prices for the still earth-bound cars, humanity serves the computer, no lunar bases, only a select group of rurals who CLAIM contact with aliens and Ace Frehley now dresses like me.
A tradition in my family is that the birthday boy or girl gets to pick the restaurant where we celebrate. My son hasn’t gone beyond McDonald’s. My daughter likes a local ritzy spot called the Market Place that gives away a free dessert called a ‘Chocolate Mess’ (basically a tall glass covered in fudge with vanilla ice cream, whipped topping and a lit candle). My wife also liked this place, but I imagine would prefer a couple of other ritzier joints in town that serve wine with no kids.
Me…I go for the Japanese hibachi. I like the personal surroundings as the master chef literally plays with our food, creating huge bursts of flame from the sautéed onions, slicing and dicing our meal with expert dexterity.
…at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.
We filed our way into a spacious eatery named for the famous dormant volcano that most people envision when they hear the name of Japan. We entered over a bridge spanning an indoor waterfall and stream filled with large orange and white koi that looked like goldfish on steroids. To the left were a set of tables for those not intent on the hibachi experience, while on the right was a sushi bar with a few patrons enjoying the nutritional benefits of raw fish and the sharp tang of wasabi.
If you’ve never tried wasabi, it is a green concoction that makes horseradish taste like mayonnaise in comparison. As a comparison, at a wedding once, I accidentally put an enormous slab of what I thought was mayonnaise onto a cracker. I spent the next ten minutes trying to claw my brain out through my forehead.
We were first informed that this was a members-only restaurant (being in a dry county, establishments that serve alcohol must be registered as ‘private clubs’), so we dutifully paid the membership fee and made our way to the chef’s table, where we then had to wait until the area around the hibachi (or cooking surface) was filled. Apparently, the chef doesn’t play to a partially packed house.
We made our orders. I noticed an item called ‘Sukiyaki Steak’ and asked for it. I was familiar with the song ‘Sukiyaki’ from many years ago, the first in a foreign language that reached the top of the American music charts. I also knew the word itself had nothing to do with the song. It was placed there by a stateside producer so the American audience would recognize it.
Before I describe our hostess, I want to emphasize first and foremost I have the utmost respect for Japan, its people and its culture. Their traditional music is melodic and serene, the realm of theatre, especially Noh and Kabuki, is awash with originality and pageantry and the Shinto faith is a religion of honor, love and peace of mind. Despite being bitter enemies in my parents’ day, the ability of the people to rise from the atomic ashes to take their place as a world power mere decades later stand as a testament to the enduring spirit of the Land of the Rising Sun.
Having said that, our hostess was a cross between a Stepford Wife and Mrs. Roboto.
She had a face that seemed to be surgically fixed in a permanent smile, reminding me of the character of Joo Dee, the ever-agreeable tour guide of Ba Sing Se in the cartoon series ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’, only not as personable.
A request by my daughter for a glass of apple juice was met with the curt ‘One serving only’. Smile. My son ordered chicken strips from the kids menu. ‘We don’t cook that at station. We bring to you’ she replied. Smile. My wife asked for boiled rice instead of fried. ‘I bring to you later’ she said. Smile.
A frequent patron sat next to me and wondered if the red-hatted chef would work at our table, which made me turn to notice the three or four chefs did, in fact, all wear different colored hats. The patron said the one in red was notorious for setting bonfires in the dining hall. Thankfully, once the area was filled by another family, our cook, wearing a yellow hat, rolled his wares to our spot.
‘Hellloooo, how are youuuuu? Heh heh heh! We’re gonna make some goooood fooood tonight. Heh heh heh’, he said in a voice that made me fidget in my seat and the womenfolk squirm. I’m almost positive that, in his native language and among his fellow countrymen, he is a bright, hard-working young man intent on making each meal the most enjoyable and delectable. When using English in his shtick, however, he emanated a personality that college professors would call ‘spooky’.
Even if he wasn’t wearing the red hat, he must have placed second in the ‘Commit Arson in Your Own Workplace’ competition. Within minutes, the metal surface heated up and a quick spraying of cooking oil and a liquid I could only guess was nitroglycerin was squirted on and ignited. I noticed out of the corner of my eye the patron next to me moving his chair back rather quickly. I did the same. The rest were caught in the heat and blinding flash of the fireball.
The chef then placed a couple of eggs on the grill, spinning them around and balancing them deftly on his spatula before breaking them and chopping them up. Then, without warning, he said to my wife, ‘Ooookay, catch’ and flipped a blob of egg at her face. I think the idea was for her to catch it in her mouth. Instead, it bounced off her right cheek onto the floor. The kids, of course, wanted their chance and met the same fate. I was adept with tossing the occasional movie popcorn, so I had a little more success, with only a stray strand lodging in my right eye.
In short order, the vegetables, shrimp, chicken and beef were on the grill, spreading a mouth-watering aroma around the dining area. This was quickly quashed by the addition of some heavy syrupy substance that I could only guess would be the famed ‘sukiyaki sauce’. It all but blanketed the smell of the steak and veggies, which were then shoveled onto my plate. Lesson learned.
My son had already received his chicken strips and wolfed them down, only to now be forced to sit and watch as the rest of us got our All-Star produced meal, so he sat, head bowed, as we began eating. I felt exceedingly sorry for the little guy, as did his sister and mother, who all cast sideward glances as we dropped a spoonful of our meals onto his now-empty plate.
Throughout all this, the chef asked my wife at least three times ‘No friiieed rice for youuuu, right?’, to which she replied in the affirmative. Still, after he had concluded his routine and carted his ensemble away, she had not received her rice. She brought this up to the robo-hostess who came to check on us.
‘I have not yet received my boiled rice’, my wife said.
‘You sure?’, the hostess asked. Smile.
‘Yes’, my wife said.
Five minutes later, the hostess came back with a small bowl of white rice. ‘Sorry’, she said. Smile.
We left in a hurry once the bill was settled. No tip. I apologized to my family for the ordeal they endured at my expense.
Next year, we’re trying the Gyro place downtown near the bank. Hopa!
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