Omakase

If you are looking for a review 3.8, otherwise continue …

I was hungry-ish.

Thought maybe sushi. Looked up a few spots and picked one in the neighborhood. Reservations showed open at 7:30pm, so I decided to head over (it’s now 7:32pm). A couple minutes late couldn’t be that big of a deal.

I walk in. The whole room turns. The hostess asks, “Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” I say, “but I saw 7:30pm was open?”

She looks around. At the same time, a gentleman at the sushi bar moves his jacket and lets her know the seat’s available. She seats me. The room is still quiet, eyes still on me.

The server hands me two options: $100 or $200. I pick $100—trying not to look nervous—even though in my head I was thinking $30. She walks away.

I turn to the man who moved his jacket and whisper, “What’s going on?”

He looks at me and says, “It’s omakase.”

My only frame of reference: the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi and 100s of sushi dinners back in Seattle.

The first piece comes out. “Mackerel from Spain,” the chef announces. He does the same for the next ten or so pieces—naming the fish, the origin, every detail.

Weirdly, I’m still hungry.

Then I see him pull out a fatty piece of tuna and start scraping it, slowly. All I’m thinking is…I hope that’s for me. He begins assembling it, and I realize it’s a hand roll. God, I hope it’s for me.

No eye contact. No clue. Then finally, he looks up—quick smile—“Final.”