My wife, Jean and I ate at a local Japanese steakhouse tonight in celebration of her birthday.
And while I didn’t have to be “dragged there screaming and kicking,” I honestly wasn’t all that keen on the notion. I mean, I’ve done it once before, and I just don’t “go in” for the oriental gymnastics which accompany a meal such as this.
For you see, although I am a former university professor, and a pastoral counselor who has “sat with” thousands of clients over the past quarter century, I am by nature a slight introvert. And my introvertism displays itself the most when it comes to new experiences, (or those which I didn’t especially enjoy the first time around).
And thus, you can imagine I attempted to “worm my way” out of my wife’s concept of fun, and suggested we devote our time, money and efforts to a nearby American steakhouse; to no avail.
As a result, we met our daughter, two granddaughters, and grandson at the Sakura Japanese Steakhouse, and were promptly seated at one of their fry tables. A pastoral counselor, retired LPN, social worker, county detention specialist, university student and middle schooler; (which is “neither here, nor there,” but it gives you a flavor for the composition of our little group).
It didn’t help that the Japanese gymnastics had already begun at the fry tables surrounding us, and I became privy to some “strange and wonderful” goings on among the attending short order cooks.
Click, clack, click, clack. The “presentation” began with the (impressive) Juggling of the Spatulas. Subsequent to this, our neighboring host poured oil on his fry table, and yellow flames leapt three feet in the air; the heat momentarily permeating the atmosphere of the surrounding tables.
Pt. 2
While we waited for the arrival of our personal fry cook, I continued to take in the carnival atmosphere at the nearby table. At this juncture, the “fry guy” began slicing up bits of meat and vegetation, and subsequently flicked bits of it in the direction of his patrons’ open mouths; the succulent delicacies hitting the mark perhaps half of the time, the remainder landing on the floor; and the satisfied customers rewarding their culinary servant with smiles, laughter, and applause.
That was enough for me. I chose to turn my attention back to my wife and relatives, and made small talk while we continued to await our version of the individual who had so recently ‘consumed’ (no pun intended) my attention.
And as we waited, something occurred which I had not, ‘til then, given a moment’s consideration. Two young ladies joined us at our table; seating themselves at my left hand. There were, after all, four or five unoccupied chairs at the fry table, and it was never designed to be an “us 4 and no more” environment.
These African-American ladies appeared to be in their early twenties, and it seemed apparent, (at least to me) that they were friends. However, during the course of the next several minutes, the young girl to my left ordered a margarita, and spent copious amounts of time tapping her fingers on the screen of her smart phone. In the meantime, the young lady to her left ordered water, and sat quietly pondering the sheen of the fry table.
“Odd,” I thought. Two friends out on the town, and the one ‘consumed’ (there’s that word again) by some invisible, geographically distant e-person.
It was about this time that our short order cook arrived, and proceeded to accomplish many of the same oriental gymnastics I had witnessed in the preceding quarter hour.
Pt. 3
And as our fry man set to work, I found myself conversing with the two strangers to my left. I suppose during the course of our impromptu visitation we exchanged upwards of a hundred words, but our laconic, but interesting exchange revealed that my young table mate was, at 38, older than she looked, and that her compatriot, at 15, was no compatriot at all, but rather, her daughter.
Having informed the former of the two that I had initially thought they were friends of the same approximate age, I learned that they resided in Bartow, my nearby hometown, and were alumni of the same high school from whence I also received my diploma.
And with this, our “Johnny on the Spot” oriental attendant, having accomplished the gymnastics I’d witnessed at a nearby table, spread a layer of eggs and rice on the metal palate before him, and subsequently sliced and diced some steak, chicken and vegetables; alternately dishing out copious quantities of the same onto our respective plates.
Suddenly, the young man cast a glance in my direction, and asked a heavily accented question which I was unable to decipher. Thankfully, Jean turned her face towards me and interpreted the words she believed proceeded from his lips.
“You want some Saki?”
Given the presence of my grandchildren, (and the fact that during my seven decades on this planet I had consumed all of half a glass of alcohol), I deferred. However, when asked the same question, one of our party acquiesced.
Suddenly, our oriental host picked up a plastic spray bottle, and sent a three foot stream of the clear alcoholic beverage towards the eager mouth of my relative, and tapping out the seconds with his spatula. Click, click, click. Ten, eleven, twelve.
Afterward
In retrospect, the whole experience was, (I hesitate to admit) edifying. Well, that may be a stretch. But it was interesting, and I didn’t fall down dead.
I think maybe my wife could convince me to do it again;
...sometime in the next century.
By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 78. Copyright pending
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