Ginsu + Alcohol

Old friend Kevin rolling through town on his way cross-country back from Suburban hell Tampa, and new friends Jayanta, Kelly (Urbaca facial master) and Regan all had dinner with me last Wednesday night at local sushi restaurant Obi.

Among Portland sushianados, Obi is known for being of a certain acceptable quality, albeit with slow service.

We rolled in around 9pm and were the only ones in the restaurant. Kelly and Regan had arrived first, and were facing towards the sushi bar, making me take a seat with my back to the door, anti-Mafia style.

The waiter there is some skinny hippie dude. The busboy doesn't speak English well, or isn't very bright, or perhaps simply has problem with math and order fulfillment. The sushi chef/owner is an aging Japanese man the color of wet bamboo.

After we go through a long ordering 'process', in which the hippie forgets to ask me what i want, the hippie turns to go and then thinks better of it. He turns back to us, and says, "I know you guys have just gone through the ordering process, but I just want to let you know that we can't guarantee any of the food." We take this to mean that maybe they're running out of different fish, like maybe they might not have any Hamachi in the back, or perhaps there's a competing order that may exhaust all available seaweed supplies.

We clearly state that we want the rolls as they come out, and not to wait until the entire order is ready.

45 minutes later, the first roll comes out. A 'Crazy roll' – avocado, eel, crab – but i use the term 'roll' in the loosest sense of the word. Neither hand nor chopstick nor Act of God could keep those things together. It resembled some kind of sushi caserole. Hey, there's a good idea.

Perhaps it was just the record 98 degree heat that made the whole thing fall apart.

45 minutes later, after numerous requests to hippie waiter to bring the rolls as they come, the next two rolls arrive. At this point, Kevin is bemoaning west coast service and longing for the corporate mandated attentiveness at Hooter's & Outback Steakhouse.

They're both Spider rolls, but one is inside out, and the other one is *really* dry. Or vice versa.

At this point, Kelly who is an aesthetician(i'm sure i misspelled that – what does the Bill Gates Dictionary (Abridged) say? erm, nothing), and thus an expert in faces and skin, says, "He's totally fucked up!"

Boy howdy, was he. He was doing some weird drunken sushi master Hokey Pokey like dance. He would wobble and then reach toward an ingredient, think better of it, bring the hand back in, wobble some more and then reach toward the item again. And… repeat. He was pasty faced and mouth-breathing. Four sheets to the wind. Etc.

And holding a ginsu the whole time.

We were worried about getting Japanese finger sushi (aka yakuza roll). The next roll was supposed to be a 'Tunafornia' – california roll with tuna wrapped around the outside – but it looked more like he had taken taken a california roll, spackled it with tuna and then had it cut by a cubist.

Obi is saying a bunch of stuff, but it's unclear if it's in Japanese or English

By now, we're giggling hysterically, barely picking at the sushi. (Mathematical formula – raw fish + 100 degree day + drunken cook = no fucking way) We ask the hippie to cancel any orders that are theoretically coming down the pike. He says that's cool and that he won't charge us for the new rolls. Nothing is mentioned about the deformed rolls that we've already disdained.

Kelly than works up the nerve to ask for confirmation of inebriation. The hippie laughs and says yes. Further questions yield the following information: Since 10 am. Beer. About twice per month. More lately - he's going through hard times.

Then, a cute young twentysomething couple on date number two or three come in and attempt to sit at the sushi bar. The drunken sushi master waves them off with a very samuraiesque, "No." In a rare fit of attentiveness, the busboy grabs them as they uncertainly start to walk out and sits them across from us.

We're frantically trying to get their attention, which with the giggling must look like some kind of mass epileptic fit, which if you think about it, should scare them off, too. The hippie waiter quickly comes running over to their table (department of disaster mitigation) as Obi starts to yell at the busboy in an alcoholic rampage. Interestingly, the sushi chef is coherent enough to realize that he has neither the desire nor the dexterity to continue making sushi.

Obi (to busboy): Hai. No. Ugglebwwwaarrrgh. (POUNDS ON TOP OF SUSHI BAR).

Busboy (in fantastic English): "Hey, fuck you, man. You can't talk to me that way. Drunk mother fucker. Fuck off."

The cute couple still looks confused, but they finally make eye contact and we all do the overly obvious look from them to the door, the cutting-off at the neck sign and get the fuck out of here signs. Laughing, they finally leave.

Including alcohol and tip (really, giving somebody money for putting up with their bosses' shit is the pity fuck of dining out), $12 a pop.

In the end, we left hungry, but this is the one sushi meal we'll remember after 5 years of living in Portland.