Selling my soul for sushi. Yup, that's what I'm doing.

You see, a few months ago, I had a falling out with the Master at my previous favorite sushi restaurant. You may recall that there is a sushi restaurant I used to frequent two big steps across the road from the Boobie Palace where I used to live. Alarmingly convenient. I went there with quite a few friends, and often on my own. It was kind of thrilling to navigate conversations entirely in Japanese, although I often lost the thread, and would get hopelessly lost, nodding and agreeing to God-knows-what. Typically the Mama (the Master's wife) and I would communicate in baby Japanese, big gestures and through other patrons of the shop who could translate a word here and there for me. But the Master himself speaks not a word of English, and doesn't like to slow down his speech or repeat himself, so I had to communicate with him mostly through feeling-- try and sense the gist of things, you know? It was between the Master and I that the most sense of friendship developed, though.
Anyway, one night in there with a girlfriend, I was exaggeratedly explaining my loveless plight, using my few words of Japanese to say I was on a "Boy Hunt" (gyakku nam) and I dramatically made my point by casting my eyes about the sushi bar with a hand shading my eyes like a scout on an expedition, calling out, "Iiiii Otoku? Iiiii Otoku?" (roughly, "nice guys, where are you?"). The Master and the Mama launched into an animated series of plans from which I could only catch bits-- they were going to set me up with a suitable man. It was going to cost me a lot of money. I started to choke on my ika. I was just messing around... I didn't want to actually go on a blind date, especially considering my piss-poor Japanese skills. But they pushed and pushed, and decided it wouldn't cost anything, and I eventually agreed to a Friday meeting. After leaving the restaurant feeling steamrollered, I realized I'd double-booked; I already had plans to go to an onsen with Miho and Kayo. Thank God.
I knew that backing out of the meeting was going to be a messy business, and terribly impolite, so I wasn't looking forward to it. I enlisted Bubu's help to write a letter of humble explanation and apology. I chose one of my favorite small framed artworks from my summer show and packaged it up. I took these things to the shop, and was met with icy disapproval. Although the Mama made happy sounds over my artwork, I was quite obviously a major disappointment to the Master-- being of samurai spirit, he took my word as my word, and was disgusted with my lack of honor. Folks-- backing out of an engagement here is not like it is back home! I left the shop feeling horribly cowed and shameful. I didn't ever want to go back. About a month ago, I finally found a new shop, closer to my new apartment, run by a couple about my parent's age and their handsome son; yay for me. Sushi deprivation problem solved.

Fast forward to today. I'm sleeping in late, sick from some bug I picked up from the sneezy kinders that I give constant high-fives to. My phone rings-- it's local, but it isn't a number I recognize, so I think maybe it's Satoshi, back from studying in Australia... Nope. It's the Master. I'm groggy and confused. Our conversation is 90% "huh? eeeh? wakarimashita? wakarimasen. I don't understand." Something about Today. Now. and then the magic word: maguro. My ears perk up. Tuna. Now? Well, I can't say no to that... and to be honest, despite the convenience of and the good view in the new shop, the Master's shop really is unbeatable. Especially his miso soup... slavering a little, I get dressed, hop on my bike, and ride the three blocks to the shop. I'm also tired of avoiding the shop; I pass it every day going to and from work, so I would invariably speed by, lest I see the Master or the Mama and revisit that shame. I wanted to forgive, and be forgiven.
I arrived to a warm welcome of "hisashi-buri!" (long time no see!) and good god, what a feast! It was just the Master and I, and he fed me as though I was stick-thin and starving. He showed me the place of honor over the door where they had hung my little painting. He talked incessantly, and I was able to catch enough to understand. (And I had wisely brought my dictionary for the first time ever.) It had been too long since I had come to the shop. He didn't want any bad feelings between us. (Here he poured enormous glasses of wickedly-strong shou-chu for the two of us; we clinked and said kampai, while my still-tender stomach flipped in terror). He felt that I had a good heart; I brought good feelings to the shop. My lunch was free; it was 'service'. Did I have free time tonight? Could I meet his friend? Oh god...

To be continued...