Sushi Guy

Walk into any inexpensive sushi bar in the city. Grab a table. Sit down. Imagine for a moment that you've avoided that nefarious soul who haunts your maki dreams; imagine that you're safe. But alas! Try as you might, he'll find you. Whether through karmic (in)justice or the premeditated viciousness of a sadist, this gentleman will slither into a booth within earshot and unveil his poisonous fangs.

You know, of course, that I'm talking about Sushi Guy.

Sushi Guys come in all sorts of exterior variations which makes them difficult to tag on a quick scan of the room. Among the most prevalent, however, are the ones I codename Marcus: seniors in college, normally some background in theatre, caucasian, undersexed, wearing short-sleeve button-ups that scream "just try to call me an engineer, you plebian who's utterly oblivious to meaning of the japanese symbol plastered on my undershirt!".

Marcus always brings 'friends' to sushi, but never another Marcus. When this man is in his element, the room's not big enough to share. With barely concealed contempt, he cringes as his novice underlings order their California and tuna rolls but he also knows that everything is proceeding perfectly according to his plan.

And now he's on. This is the moment he's been savoring for days: The Order. First, he sets the menu down. Who needs a superfluous piece of paper when you practically invented the cuisine (in your dormroom). Marcus then asks the waitress about her personal favorites in the restaurants. When she replies that everything is "really good" but she especially "prefers the eel and octopus" he gives the knowing answer that he "always enjoys the eel cuts" from this restaurant but can only savor the octopus with heavy-salt soysauce and his "doctor advised against" excess sodium. Sadly, he must "opt for low-sodium" soysauce and, therefore, couldn't "do justice to the octopus".

[Here he steals a smug glance at his friends who hide behind recurrent sips from water glasses that have skyrocketed in appeal. He interprets that as tacit fawning over his exhibition of expertise. He proceeds.]

Tonight, he declares, he will only dine on nigiri and carefully selects each of the following (all japanese terms have been translated into english, but Marcus has capitalized upon his two quarters of high-school japanese and the 'Japan in World War II' history class he took last year to deconstruct the Japanese language and reassemble it into something resembling an eastern-flavored spanish): salmon roe, spanish mackerel, halibut, two abalones and, of course, sea eel (through notable stealth, he managed to fetch the menu again). Actually, "since everyone else seems to think it a good idea", he decides that a tuna roll is necessary so "he doesn't feel out of place" but, if it's not too much trouble, could he ask for brown rice on the roll, because he heard "that was how it was traditionally served." Although the waitress is covertly drilling a hole through his appalling head with her flashing eyes, her face is serene and she offers a polite smile to the group, and another polite nod to Marcus as she departs. Marcus was too busy to notice her eyes.

His entire 'presentation' proceeds at a decibel-level just above arena rock and just below a jet engine from 15-feet.

Marcus basks in the glory of his victory. His friends sip the last of their water and start crunching ice. You, seated two booths away from Marcus, try to calm your fury with warm sake and continue the conversation you forgot you were having. That conversation, my friend, is gone forever.