Trial by Seafood

It was this kind of day today:



As though the weather knew how sad I was feeling about the imminent departure of my colleague and friend, Steven. Tonight the International Friendship Society, where I am taking over Steven's position as volunteer English teacher, held a Farewell Steven/Welcome Sara party. They chose as the venue a very nice (and probably very pricey) traditional Japanese restaurant, the kind where you take off your shoes at the door and sit on cushions on the tatami floor, and every item on the menu is an obscure Japanese delicacy. This did not bode well for my digestion.

When we arrived, the table was already set with a full plate of food, which I foolishly took to be our main course. Before we ate, the waitress explained what each item on the plate was: "In the upper left-hand corner here we have jellyfish, mochi, cheese and wasabi-flavored edamame. In that corner, shellfish and [some kinda Japanese fish I don't remember the name of] with lemon. In the lower left-hand corner, tuna pasta, octopus and potato, and in the lower right-hand corner tofu and shark gristle." Oh, goody. But I decided I would suck it up and eat it all. The upper left-hand corner went down OK, even the jellyfish. The lower left-hand corner was a cinch. The tofu wasn't terrible, and even the shark gristle didn't taste bad, strange as it was. Egged on by Steven, I even managed to consume the entire shellfish. And that's when they brought out round 2.

A salad, topped with real gold flakes, to celebrate new beginnings, and consisting of lettuce, tomato, shrimp and raw fish. I gambare-ed my way through it, only to be faced with two different kinds of fish (cooked, thank God), one with the tail still on. I plowed through that, and was feeling pretty good about myself when the waitress minced in with a tray of little green dishes, which she announced contained "Hand of Turtle." Steven tells me the look on my face was priceless. I couldn't even look at the curved, knobby greenish shapes in the dishes until someone finally explained that they weren't indeed turtle fins, but actually a kind of shellfish that looked very similar:



No one faulted me for not eating them, so I thought I was doing OK when a ripple of excitement ran up and down the table, and excited whispers of "The main dish!" clued me in to what would ultimately be my downfall: the sushi. I had actually come prepared to suffer through as much sushi as they wanted me to eat, and yet after the jellyfish, the shellfish, the octopus, the shark gristle, the shrimp, the raw fish and the sight of those turtle hands, I just couldn't imagine forcing down any more strange, rubbery seafoods. I politely ate the egg and then tried to surreptitiously set the rest to one side:



But they weren't letting me get away with it. "Is this your first time eating sushi?" someone asked. I shook my head and explained that I'd eaten it several times before. "Did you know that sushi is the best and most expensive Japanese food?" says someone else. I shake my head, trying not to blush. He goes on to explain, "It's because the restaurants must choose the best and freshest fish." I nod, feeling ever more miserable. A few more minutes pass. Then, "Maybe you could just try one." I look at the raw slabs of fish lying before me, and a queasy sensation takes hold of my insides. I shake my head. "I'm feeling quite full now," I mutter. I notice out of the corner of my eye that the waitress has slipped a communal plate of vegetables and pickles onto the table when I wasn't looking.

And yet, that wasn't the end of it somehow, for in just a few more minutes the waitress appears with a dish of ginger-flavored chicken. "This is chicken," everyone assures me, and a few of them add, "It's OK to eat the chicken even though you didn't eat the sushi." I nod and smile, but I really don't want to eat anything else. However, they keep indicating the chicken and smiling widely, so I oblige them by taking a few bites... As I'm moving the chicken around my plate, my neighbor leans over, points to a covered dish I hadn't noticed before, and says, "Have you tried this yet?" He lifts the lid, I look inside and my stomach gives another lurch:



I don't know what it is, and I don't want to know. I just want the lid back on. And then the waitress glides back in with steaming hot bowls of mushroom and onion soup, which I discover contain small, rainbow colored bits of something bobbing up and down among the vegetables. I take a few sips, trying to appear as though I'm really enjoying the meal, and I say a little prayer of thanks that I'd gone for the wine instead of just the grape juice.

At this point, I don't even dare to hope that it was the end of the meal, which is good because in just a few short minutes several waitresses and a waiter dance in with trays full of fruit and ice cream desserts. I notice that they don't set any in front of me or Steven, and in a moment the reason for this is revealed. The two of us are to receive a special "sugoi" dessert. The lights are dimmed. The shoji are slid open, and then in wafts the waitress carrying two huge piles of fruit and ice cream topped with sparklers, and she sets these down before Steven and me. When the sparklers burn down, the lights go back on, and Steven and I discover that our dessert came with a gift:



Ohtawara-themed banners. The dessert looked good, so I decided to go for it, and I discovered that the simple and fresh flavor of the fruit did wonders for my stomach. This was fortunate, for just then the occupants of the table began to demand that I make a speech. I stood, smiled, and thanked everyone for a delicious meal. As I settled back down onto my cushion, I felt very proud of myself. Perhaps someday I may even be able to lie as well as a Japanese person.



The spoils of the evening