You are currently browsing posts tagged with Sushi
I recently had sushi in Little Tokyo with a
longtime friend frenemy person I know, who was in LA from NY for one night. After a few tantalizing rounds of chef’s choice, we started to gaze at the specials. Aloud, pained, I lamented the listing for toro sashimi–which I love almost as much as football–on the board, having not ordered the fatty belly of the endangered bluefin for almost two years. We quickly, maybe even passionately chatted about the awful projections that the world stands to be bluefin-free by the next U.S. presidential election.
She sighed. And then brightly ordered the toro.
I tried not to judge. I tried not to preach. It’s not my duty. I merely looked at her quizzically.
“Jesus, Diana, it’s not like I invented toro or anything,” she huffed. And I actually haven’t heard from her since that night.
But that moment has stuck with me. I find myself wondering why it’s so easy to dismiss the peril of the bluefin, to literally mouth the words “endangered” while allowing that endangered flesh to cross one’s lips (with some tart rice and a little bit of salt). I’m not angry at my friend–she’s certainly not alone. I just wonder.
Is it because bluefin are *just* fish? They’re cold, slick, emotionless–not cute, cuddly, loving, furry, and adorable. And although it’s a bummer to most when species are endangered and all… at the end of the day, we can’t really be expected to modify our behavior, nor bothered to deny our tastebuds and cravings, for a bunch of cold, dead fish. They’re just fish, right? Like the saying goes, there are plenty of fish in the sea. At least for the next fifty years.
It’s not like bluefin are pandas or anything. Then–THEN we’d have all the right conservation slogans, tees, and–er, sexy costumes. Pandas are endangered CUTE animals that we can all (save for a few dissenters) get behind. We dare not imagine a bunch of dead pandas on wooden pallets. It would hurt t0o much.
But in fact, that’s exactly what the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society wants you to do. They just launched this new campaign: “When you see tuna, think Panda.”
Filed under: Bluefin Tuna, Dead Panda Ads, Effective Ads, Endangered Bluefin, Endangered Species, Fish, Northern Bluefin Tuna, Operation Blue Rage, Pandas, Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, Sushi, Toro
After Floyd Mayweather said publicly via Ustream last week that rival boxer Manny Pacquiao was a “little yellow chump” and a “faggot,” that Pacquiao could “make me a shrimp tempura roll” and “make me a sushi roll and cook me some rice,” and that once Mayweather finally fought him and beat him, he was going to “cook him with some cats and dogs”–paging Morrissey!– Mayweather quickly issued an apology, claiming he “was just having fun,” “It’s all love,” and he doesn’t have a “racist bone” in his body.
It’s all love: Mayweather in a sombrero and the colors of Mexico, before his 2007 Cinco de Mayo fight against Oscar de la Hoya
If we take Mayweather at his word, then we can only conclude:
- Mayweather thinks “little yellow chump” and “faggot” are terms of endearment
- Mayweather truly believes Manny Pacquiao moonlights as a Japanese chef
- Mayweather thinks eating cats and dogs, not to mention little yellow chumps, is normal
- Mayweather is very, very hungry
- Mayweather has a highly unique take on love
- Mayweather has not had an X-ray recently to monitor the presence of racist bones in his body
- Mayweather is a little bitch who’d rather trash Pacquiao behind a computer screen–[Perhaps you're more suited to blogging, Floyd? We're always looking for interns to make us sushi rolls, FYI.--Ed.]–than fight him in the ring
See the full video here:
Filed under: Boxing, Disgrasians of the Weak, Eating Dogs, Fightin' Words, Filipinos, Floyd Mayweather, Floyd Mayweather Jr., Floyd Mayweather Racist, Little Bitches, Manny Pacman Pacquiao, Manny Pacquiao, Oscar De La Hoya, Racist Rants, Sushi
Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting at a sushi bar, watching the chef work with his knife before me. He sliced two slim pieces of soft, red flesh and placed them gently on balls of warm sushi rice. He leaned over the bar and laid the two sushi pieces on the wooden platform in my reach, an inch away from a small pat of wasabi and wet pile of dusty-pink pickled ginger.
“This is whale,” he said, looking me in the eye. “No soy sauce.”
Taken aback, I said, “No. Thank you, no whale please.”
“Whale,” he said, now stern. “You eat it. Chef’s special Omakase.” He tightened the grip on his Shun knife.
“No. I can’t. I can’t,” I whimpered, overwhelmed suddenly by fear.
“EAT IT,” he said. And suddenly we were no longer at a sushi bar but in a cavernous black room, with him pinning me against a chair while shoving large, bloody pieces of whale meat into my mouth. “EEEEEEAT IIIIIT!”
The nightmare, of course, stemmed from a week of reading about the recent bust of Santa Monica sushi resto The Hump, an eatery known for serving exotic sushi. The place was busted after two undercover females with a lipstick camera ordered the $600 Omakase menu and requested whale, then were awarded eight pieces. They pocketed samples of the meat and later had them analyzed, identifying the meat as that from the endangered sei whale.
LAT describes the resulting charge:
Named in the complaint, filed in U.S. District Court in Los Angeles, were Typhoon Restaurant Inc., owner of the Hump, and chef Kiyoshiro Yamamoto, 45, of Culver City.
Filed under: Busts, Charges, Endangered Species, Illegal Sale of Marine Mammal Products, Illegally Selling Whale Meat, Kiyoshiro Yamamoto, Los Angeles, Ocean Brethren, Omakase, Santa Monica, Sei Whale, Sushi, Sushi Chef, The Hump, This is Bullshit, Typhoon Restaurant Inc., Whale Meat, White Mercedes, WTF?
First, sushi and Chinese herbs tried to poison Jeremy Piven, forcing the Entourage actor to drop out of David Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow last December.
Oh, Asian Foods. Why do you hate the Pivert so?
Finally, someone has explained the difference between lesbian and bisexual women in an easy-to-comprehend way involving two of our favorite food groups, sushi and hot dogs:
There is nothing like sushi.
But hot dogs are less complicated.
Sushi, however, gets stale.
And hot dogs are more abundant than sushi.
New sushi is not all that different from old sushi.
Yet the author still prefers sushi-eaters.
When in the business of blogging (“business,” by the way), one often finds themself face-to-face with a photograph that simultaneously compels and stumps them.
Case in point, Katy Perry’s sushi outfit from Japan’s MTV Video Awards:
But I think it might just be the sweet shrimp at the crotch.
That just ain’t right. It ain’t.
So it is with deep love and admirasian that we salute Chef Masaharu Morimoto–famous for his brilliance at Matsuhisa’s Nobu and his own Morimoto restaurants, his presence on Iron Chef and Iron Chef America, his line of brews, fabulous cookbooks, and so much more.
Morimoto turned 54 this week, and we wish him the greatest of years! Here’s hoping he continues to bring tummy joy to the world for 54 more.
Eat that, Prez-haters!
[via LA Weekly]
Miley Cyrus took her fat face and creepy model boyfriend to Koi last night for some mediocre pseudo-sushi, apparently keeping her Blackberry close all night to Twitter constantly for her fans.
From Gossip Girls:
During the meal, Miss Cyrus let all of her Twitter fans know exactly how she was feeling, tweeting, “Eating sushi! Omgosh California Rolls are from heaven!!! Praise GOD!”
Now, that’s a tweet that we–had we been following the tween on Twitter–would have had to respectfully disagreet with via replytweet @mileycyrus (sorry, this is confusing for me twoo, I mean twoot, I mean–). Here’s the deal: California rolls are baaaarely sushi, and–as I learned from Jen after she did months of research with a multitude of our fine city’s famed sushi chefs– borne from Los Angeles and not “heaven.”
Miss Miley followed up her food epiphony with another insider nugget of info:
“My waiter at Koi looks like dude from HGTV! Is it weird if I ask for an autograph?”
Maybe we would just…say something…
@mileycyrus you aren’t talking about vern yip, are you?
@mileycyrus maybe he’z not asian, maybe just has a goofy face
@mileycyrus oh u must mean the other dude on hgtv, eric stromer? hot! http://tinyurl.com/blargh345
@mileycyrus u can make your face look thinner if u tilt it slightly
LEIGHTON: I know, right? I’m having so much trouble just eating these four pieces of sushi. I always treat myself once every two weeks to rice carbs.
BLAKE: Totally. Great job eating with those chopsticks, by the way! You look like a real pro.
LEIGHTON: Well, I’ve totally been to Tokyo before, once.
LEIGHTON: Yeah. Anyway, eating wasabi totally reminds me of that girl that used to always be around last season. She was hot. Wasn’t she Japanese or something?
BLAKE: Nan? I think she’s Chinese. She’s not on the show anymore.
LEIGHTON: Where did she go, anyway? And wasn’t there another girl here, too? A really tan girl?
BLAKE: Um, are you talking about Nicole? She’s black, Leighton.
LEIGHTON: Blake! You can’t call them that. You call them Afro-American, I think. Anyway, where did those girls go?
BLAKE: Um, CW had to fire them so Vanity Fair and New York Magazine would put us on the cover. I was in Josh Schwartz’s office when the network called. They kept making some joke about “models” and “minorities” and how magazines only get read by honkeys or something.
LEIGHTON: What’s a honkey?
BLAKE: Not sure.
BLAKE: I didn’t really think about it, and then we came back for this season, and there was that new Asian chick around, and for a minute I wondered where Nan and Nicole went, and then I kinda just forgot about the whole thing because I’ve got new boyfriend issues and stuff.
LEIGHTON: Penn’s hot.
BLAKE: Yeah, he’s amazing.
LEIGHTON: That’s so weird! We should totally call up those girls and see if they wanna grab Coffee Bean sometime or something.
BLAKE: Yeah, I’m sure they’re not busy or anything! (Laughs)
BLAKE: What kind of sushi is that, anyway?
LEIGHTON: California rolls.
An oil reproduction of Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers”?
An all-sushi reproduction of the same painting?
Anyone that knows me or Jen also knows of my our ridiculously deep and loyal devotion to the understated hole-in-the-strip-mall sushi mecca, Katsu-Ya (the original) of Studio City, CA. Because the room seats only about 6 and a half people, you typically spend about 45 minutes waiting in the crowded front area of the tiny room, killing a bottle of Sapporo on the indoor steps as if you were at a college apartment party, or shivering outside while eying the goods at the neighboring pet store and Domino’s Pizza. But after you finally take a seat, the superior gifts that arrive on your table make it all worth the wait, the dinky ambience, the hour in line, the fact that the waitress hit you with the Specials menu easel. Katsu-Ya is a bit like heaven. I was bummed when new, chic, Katsu-Yas started popping up all around town. Philippe Starck designed each to feel more like lounges than restaurants. Still, it meant that Jen and I could get salmon sashimi with caviar or baked crab rolls within 10 minutes regardless of where in Los Angeles we were, and even if that meant dining while surrounded by fish novices, that was a good thing.
Anyone that knows me or Jen also knows of my our ridiculously deep and loyal devotion to the understated hole-in-the-strip-mall sushi mecca, Katsu-Ya (the original) of Studio City, CA. Because the room seats only about 6 and a half people, you typically spend about 45 minutes waiting in the crowded front area of the tiny room, killing a bottle of Sapporo on the indoor steps as if you were at a college apartment party, or shivering outside while eying the goods at the neighboring pet store and Domino’s Pizza. But after you finally take a seat, the superior gifts that arrive on your table make it all worth the wait, the dinky ambience, the hour in line, the fact that the waitress hit you with the Specials menu easel. Katsu-Ya is a bit like heaven.
I was bummed when new, chic, Katsu-Yas started popping up all around town. Philippe Starck designed each to feel more like lounges than restaurants. Still, it meant that Jen and I could get salmon sashimi with caviar or baked crab rolls within 10 minutes regardless of where in Los Angeles we were, and even if that meant dining while surrounded by fish novices, that was a good thing.
Last night, because I couldn’t get the idea of a baked crab roll out of my head, I suggested Katsu-Ya in Hollywood for a post-debate nosh. Being the giving woman that I am, I skipped up ahead with one person in tow to get the party a table. I walked up to the doorman. (A doorman at Katsu-Ya? Only in Hollywood.) How long would the wait be for a table?
Nothing til’ 11pm, said the doorman.
Errrr-okay, I responded, and began making my way in to give the hostess my name.
Nope, said the doorman, don’t put your name down, just um, come back then.
(What? Guess Hollywood kicks ass but won’t take names.)
At this point, the rest of my friends walked up, the party total now at eight. One is an actor, and said to the doorman with a grin, can we get a table in there?
Of course sir, said the stupid fat ugly mean awful not-Asian doorman, right this way. He proceeded to lead the party in, setting us up for non-sake drinks in a room filled with candelabras before taking us to a private table loaded up with Omakase.
(I hate that doorman. I hate Hollywood.)
My pal R.J. leaned over to me as we were seated in the private room by a bunch of young, blonde waiters: “Hoooo boy. Katsuya didn’t know they were dealing with DISGRASIAN!”
He was right. I started to formulate the scathing words that I would share with my faithful readers in mere hours. How disgusted I was with this plastic city and its ability to ruin wonderful understated things, its willingness to bastardize perfection by getting Philippe Starck to mount oversized photos of smeared geisha lips and playing loud acid jazz until midnight. In what world does a sushi empire say no to a fun, cuddly Asian sushiphile and yes to some guy that happens to be in movies sometimes?
Then I took a bite of a pristine soy paper crab roll, followed by a glug of cold booze, and forgot every word.
(We all become hypocrites in Hollywood.)