Last night I took the family out to a fine Japanese Restaurant. I had sushi, and we sat at a hibachi table, so that my daughter would get to see the world famous Hibachi ritual as practiced in Japanese restaurants all across this many-faceted globe of ours.
Oooh, look, he’s juglling the spatula and tines!
Yayyyy! Now he’s juggling an egg on the spatula!
Ooooooo! Look he makes the big flames!
And now we have the world famous onion volcano followed by the onion choo-choo train!
If you’ve never seen this, you are a deprived individual and need to harken your ass to the closest Benihana post haste. You wouldn’t want to die without seeing the onion volcano, because then your life would have been without meaning.
Of course there is always the grand finale. The chef keeps some food behind , and at the end, he goes around the table flipping pieces of shrimp and chicken at the customers who try and mostly fail to catch it in their mouths.
Then he comes to me.
My modesty has prevented me from mentioning this before, but I happen to be the world’s greatest mouth catcher. Quite simply, I am the best there ever was, the best there is, and the best there shall ever be.
This was how I ate when I’d hurt myself and couldn’t use utensils. Mom and Dad would just throw stuff at me, and I’d catch it. After a few months of this, I got good.
I catch the little bit of shrimp he tosses at me with the casual disdain of the consummate pro.
There are about twelve people at the table and they all clap, and smile. They all miss the subtext of what occurs between myself and the Chef, Harry Moto. None of them are on my level, and they all miss his reaction to my casual disdain.
I have lain down the gauntlet and Moto has picked it up.
He flips a piece of beef at a small kid on the other side of the table and as it bounces off his chin, he fires a piece of chicken off his spatula at me hoping to catch me off guard.
Like a snake striking, I snatch it out of the air. Moto’s eyes narrow. I snicker.
His knife strikes and his spatula clangs as he hits some elderly customer in the eye with a piece of tuna, and then he turns to me with a mean smile.
He sends a piece of chicken my way with a high arcing lob, and I follow it with my eyes with casual disdain. That’s an amateur move. I expected better. I prepare to grab it on my outstretched tongue, when suddenly the words of Admiral Ackbar on his Mon Calamari Cruiser flash through my head (and thank God somebody ordered Lobster, or I never would have remembered)
“It’s a Trap!!!” I think!!
I look away from the lobbing poultry just in time to see a chunk of New York strip hurtling at my face at terminal velocity. Wicked glee is writ all over Moto’s face.
In what has to be the catch of my life, I lean left and snag the beef, then channel my momentum backwards, almost tipping the chair over to catch the falling fowl.
In a fury Moto starts hurtling food left and right, taking out his defeat on the unwitting patrons, but he leaves me alone. He has met the master.
Afterwards, he accepts his defeat gracefully. He bows to me and presents my daughter with the magic chopsticks he has made with a rubber band so that even my daughter can use them.
The food was excellent. Sometimes it’s not easy being the best. There’s always some young gun out there who wants to take a shot at you.
I put the chopsticks on my wall…
With all the rest.
