Text — Obsushion
Last week, I lay awake in bed. It was 1:48 am, and something I craved so powerfully was keeping me up: sushi. Yes, that’s right. I longed for the seaweed, raw fish, and rice combination that every middleclass white person longs for. But it wasn’t just desire—I needed it. I sent a quick text to my roommate Nick, who was separated from me by half a foot of drywall. “I need sushi, and I need it now,” the SMS read. Nick, awake thanks to a profound and unhealthy obsession with Angry Birds for the iPhone, immediately replied. “I. Would. Kill,” came in first and was immediately followed with “Unfortunately no one delivers sushi at 2am.” In a mess of fabric I’ve come to call bed sheets, I stuck up my nose. I take pity on the greater Medford/Somerville area, I thought to myself, that it lacks the cultured sushi snobs like myself. The remedy was simple: I fell asleep (though sad) and awoke (still hungry) and went about my day (lacking Japanese culture in the size of raw bite-sized bits). I organized a dinner to go to one of our favorite sushi restaurants with friends. My week was transmuted from Wednesday, Thursday, Friday to how long I would have to wait until Yoshi’s. Reflecting, now full of spicy salmon and sweet potato rolls from the dinner a few nights ago, I understand the influence sushi has had on my life. It is odd because normally white people just use it as an excuse to seem culturally competent. “Oh yeah! I love Asian culture. Hey, you ever have sushi?” Or, “Well, this spaghetti and meatballs are good, but not as good as this shrimp maki I had the other night.” Or even, “The War in Iraq? Well, listen, it’s—well, it’s sort of like sashimi, if I can create a culturally rich metaphor here.” My unhealthy obsession with what-I-didn’t-know-was-one-of-my-favorite-foods was first pointed out by my friend Rachel when she came to stay with me over Thanksgiving break. Every time I passed a sushi restaurant, or any establishment that was decorated with a sort of Japanese font and promised some sort of seaweed variant, I had a habit of saying “Oh, that looks good!” or “Yes!” or even “Let’s eat here immediately.” “David,” she told me. “Yes?” I told her. “You’re obsessed with sushi restaurants.” It’s hard to come to terms with addictions. But it makes sense. Trace back. My favorite restaurant at home before my foray into bubble tea was the Plum House. It had miso soup, warm towels you were supposed to put on your face, green tea, and sushi. It had bento boxes. It had love and support when I needed it. Fast forward into high school. My friends and I would routinely visit a restaurant called California Rolling in the Village Gate—sometimes even termed the occasion Sushi Sunday. This place had Skanky Thursdays (where the chefs could dress as skimpily as they wanted) and even three-dollar-rolls Monday (where the rolls were three dollars on Mondays). But to top everything, California Rolling had dessert sushi. The best way to envision this is to think about everything that’s ever made you happy and then top it with chocolate syrup. It is an incredible combination of the traditional seaweed sushi outside with fried berries, rice, chocolate, and coconut shavings. No English words can do it justice. But if you’re skeptical, I understand. Some day, long ago, I was as well. And then I tried it. Eventually, my life goals included having fun, getting into a good college, and doing a sushi tour of Rochester. My friend Emma and I hopped around. We went from Wegmans to Piranha to Plum Garden. It was our graduating goal to make it to the new sushi establishment: The Sakura Home. We did. It sucked. Yet, even so, this Japanese Tour de Food continued when we both went to college in Boston. I found friends at Tufts—I suppose they found me too—but it was comforting to know eventually all of them (except for one weak link) enjoyed the succulent rawness that was my seaweed delights. Thank God Tufts’ global awareness goes into a knowledge of cultural foods, too. We celebrated Nick’s birthday at Tapei Tokyo. One dish, topped with Bacardi 151, was set aflame. Another was entirely pink. It was delicious, though a little expensive. Who can complain? My improv troupe, here, too, understands the social and stimulating significance of sushi. Most of our reunions with alumni take place either a Japanese establishment or a Mexican one (the former because of the food and the latter because of the ability of the seniors to order margaritas and make us feel bad). So it seems like sushi’s stuck to me like a fresh ball of rice does to its green, crispy encasing. It’s an odd little delicacy to be oddly attracted too, yet I don’t mind. Each bite is a combination of fond memories and deliciousness. Sushi’s become, I think, a little more than food. It’s friends, it’s home, and it makes me seem really understanding of culture. Right?
